Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Kip Grady, Carter Vaughn, Eric Bennett, Greg Huff

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, No beta we die like scott's dignity, Hook-Up, Open Relationships, Polyamory

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Tearing Down Our Walls

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-24 Completed: 2026-04-01 Words: 116,915 Chapters: 10/10

The Hottest Cold War

Summary

Once is a mistake, twice is terrible judgment, three times is enemy action. After four times, it might just be something worse.

OR

What if Scott hooked up with Ilya during the summer of 2010 entirely by accident, then kept doing it on purpose.

Notes

For Internerdionality, who is, as always, the best kind of fandom friend and showed me the Scott/Ilya vision.

CW: Scott is 25 and Ilya is 19 when they first hook up. Scott doesn't know this, but it also doesn't stop him from doing it again once he does know.

I've gotten a lot of concerned comments about the end game for this story, particularly the potential pairing(s). If you're concerned and want to be spoiled, click the arrow.

SPOIL ME, DADDY

All three pairings will co-exist at the same time. It's not a perfect balance, but Scott and Ilya are still together while also pursuing their big love stories with Shane and Kip.

Chapter 1: The Captain and the Brat

The world had taken on the rot-honey stickiness of late August. Even at 2 AM, the humidity was unrelenting and during the day the blacktop shimmered with rising heat. Most people with any kind of sense and cash had fled the city for their second homes upstate or to the Hamptons. Some of them were on fantastic vacations, baking in gentler heat in more refined places.

Scott should be among them, in theory. He didn't have a second home, but he could certainly afford to be anywhere he wanted to be.

Where he wanted to be was in his own city, sweat dripping down his back, the thick odor of subway steam rising from hundreds of grates mixed with the spice and sauces of a dozen street carts. The perfume of a late drunk night on the fringes of bad decisions. Far too many tequila shots in and Scott was weaving through the Saturday night crowds with his skin buzzing. No one from his team was in town and tonight, after some significant pre-gaming to get himself in the right headspace, Scott was going to get himself laid.

To that end, he had pulled on a white tank top and tight jeans and hoped the rest of his body would do the talking for him. Usually, he wouldn't risk hooking up in his own city. Usually it hadn't been seven months and change. All he wanted was the quick and dirty pleasure of a man's hands around him that wasn't going to end in the wrong kind of body slam.

There was a club with a mythically filthy backroom that he'd read about alone in the dark like someone might creep up and look over his shoulder. There was a very short line to get in tonight as if some dark force had offered its blessing to him. If he'd had to wait under the streetlights, he might've walked on and gone home to another empty jerk off session.

Instead, Scott showed his ID to a bouncer who's eyes slid off it and over Scott's chest instead. That was both flattering and an incredible relief. Inside, the place was heaving, the music a relentless thump that beat through his bones. Everything was dark, the bar itself lit in florescent blue LED strips and the dance floor a cacophony of quick strobes. What felt like hundreds of men writhed together, each one of them seemed far more free and happy than Scott.

Scott ordered another shot and threw it back before he could think about it too hard. The dance floor felt too risky even with the slosh of booze drowning out his anxious buzz. Lingering at the bar, Scott weighing his options. Backrooms were easier to slide into if you already had a partner in hand, he'd found.

It wasn't hard to find a particularly dark spot to linger, scanning over the crowd.

Maybe he would've stayed there for too long, only watching, and slipped away unfilled. He'd done that too many times before. Maybe he would've found someone in the crowd and had exactly what he'd come for. He'd done that a fair number of times too.

Instead, Scott made a massive mistake, the magnitude of which he could never have predicted. Because right beside him the darkness was the shape of an absolutely gorgeous man. Broad shoulders, cut jaw, tumble of curls that were already damp with exertion. Whatever shirt he'd come in was already tucked into his back pocket, the quick flashes of light describing a body that must've been carved from hours in the gym. The kind of body that Scott tried hard to never look at in his professional life.

He was allowed to look here. He could want here.

"Hey," Scott said, falling face first into years of aggravation without the slightest idea.

The man turned only enough to check him out. The darkness robbed Scott of the man's expression, but he didn't need to see it. A hand reached out to flick an errant strand of hair out of Scott's eyes. The casual propriety made Scott's mouth go dry. 

"You come here a lot?" Scott said, then winced at his stiltedness.

The other man snorted, hooked a finger into Scott's beltloop and tugged him a little closer. "Yes?"

"Yes," Scott said immediately and kissed him.

Stupid. Reckless.

In Scott's defense the man was stupidly hot and tasted like expensive liquor. He kissed like an act of war that Scott couldn't wait to wage. They stumbled together into the backroom. All of Scott's senses were flooded by lips, hands and satin skin. There were some horizontal surfaces in the murky shadows, but Scott let the man push him against the closest open span of wall instead. The music pulsed on, reverberating through his back to match the heartbeat that had jumped into his throat.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," Scott said insensibly into the clash of the kiss. In the daze of the moment, he found the rough part of him that craved these moments like he craved victory. "You'd be better looking on your knees."

The huff of indignation worried Scott for a moment, but then there was capitulation. Like liquid sex, the man dropped to his knees, his hands dragging over Scott's tank top the whole way down, shoving one underneath to caress over Scott's stomach as the other roughly undid his zipper.

"Fuck yeah," Scott muttered, reaching down, hovering his hand for a second. "Can I touch your hair? I won't pull."

The man froze, his fingers still on Scott's zipper. "Yes."

Was that an accent? Hard to tell. Scott sank his hand into damp curls, marveling at the new texture against his fingertips. It was startlingly soft, the spirals clinging to his fingers. Scott's jeans were yanked down a few critical inches unceremoniously, along with his underwear. Exposed to the air, there was little temperature difference, but for the slight stir of breath from those promising lips.

Looking down, all Scott could make out was a strong nose and brow. Then there was delicious heat and suction just where he wanted it most.

Fuck, no condom. Scott should've offered him a condom. Then again, there was a bowl of them by the doorway and the guy could've grabbed one.

All thought of safety dissolved. There was only the perfection of a blow job delivered with sloppy joyful interest. It was impossible to stop the praise bubbling up out of him, but hard to know if it reached his current blessed angel's ears over the pounding of the music. 

"So fucking good, you're amazing…fuck… so good…"

It wasn't creative, but Scott wasn't an artist or a poet. The delicate curls in his hand brushed over his palm, a tiny extra point of stimulation that made him flushed all over. When the telltale building of pleasure started to tighten in him, he reached down further to cup the man's cheek.

"I'm close."

And fuck if the guy didn't find a way to suck Scott's cock further down his throat. The hands that had been absent up to this point surged up to grasp Scott's hips as if he might try to run off. Scott covered one of them with his own in acceptance. There were callouses there too and that shouldn't be so hot that it pushed Scott over the edge. He tried hard not to thrust forward even as he came hard enough to rob him of breath for a second.

He watched in mesmerized lassitude as the man leaned back on his haunches, forcing Scott to release his hair. Making what might've been eye contact if they could properly see each other, the man wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. It was such a casual, easy gesture that Scott was almost jealous. To be so easy in this was all he wanted and couldn't have.

With both hands, Scott grabbed him and hauled him to his feet, crashing their mouths back together. It mashed his limp cock against denim which he could've done without, but it was worth it for the needy whine he caught between his lips. A tiny point of hardness pressed against Scott's chest, the sharp points of a cross hung around the man's neck. That shouldn't turn Scott on, but fuck if did anyway.

Without ceremony, Scott shoved his hand down between them, fumbling until he had the hot brand of a cock in his hand.

"Holy shit," he said as he palmed it. "You're huge."

"Yes," and yeah, that was some kind of accent. Heavy too.

"Mm, some guys get all the luck, huh? Great body, great cock, fucking fantastic mouth," Scott chased after that fantastic mouth again, pulling him back into a kiss as he started to jerk him off.

If the guy had planned to demand a blowjob in return, he didn't have any time, coming within a few strokes with a grunt. That was gratifying, if a little messy. Scott let him temporarily rest his forehead on Scott's shoulder.

"Too fast," came a mumble that Scott only barely made out.

Scott rubbed his back with his clean hand in what he hoped communicated pleased acceptance.

"It was hot. Like mindblowingly hot that you got off that much on it," Scott assured him.

A neutral grunt and then a push away, both of them fumbling with their pants. From his pocket, Scott pulled a few paper napkins shoved there after his rushed take out dinner.

"Here," he offered.

The napkin was plucked away and Scott cleaned off his hand before zipping back up. Less than 30 seconds later, they were both put to rights and staring at each other, only vague outlines in the dark.

"I have to-" Scott started.

"Go."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

Scott felt weirdly dismissed. Which should be fine. What did he care?

But something about it, that complete disaffection of that 'okay' compared to few other words the man had given him and Scott had a signal blaring in his brain. The one that had him check in on a guy's injury that he was trying to hide or the one that made sure he found the player that took losses extra hard before he turned a bad night into a worse one. 

"Hey, come here first," Scott coaxed and when he reached for him, there was no attempt at escape though the body was stiff in his arms.

Gently, Scott kissed him again. Mouth, cheek, neck. Nothing that was a prelude to round two. Just the quiet acknowledgement that maybe this was rushed and anonymous, but not bad. Not dirty or wrong. He had no idea if that came across. He wasn't even sure he believed himself, but he wanted to, very badly.

Maybe it did translate because the stiffness drained away and he had an armful of pliant warmth pressed against him, sticking them together in some places.

"Thank you," Scott said sincerely against plush lips. "You were amazing."

"Americans," the word was not a compliment in his ear, but it was followed by a last soft kiss and then a second pulling away.

Scott let him go. "We are the worst, I'm sure. Good night."

Was that a smile? Scott hoped it was a smile. Hard to tell as the face retreated away into the gloom.

With the removal of company, Scott was once more deeply aware that he was in dangerous territory, now without the shield of another person. There was a promising sliver of light on the other end of the room and sure enough, when he pursued it, he found a propped exit into a narrow alley. He walked down it with his head down, ignoring the couplings that had spilled out in every direction, the voices of men pursuing their pleasure trailing after him long after he broke away from the club.

In the safety of his silent apartment, Scott striped out of his clothes and throwing them into the hamper. He fell naked into bed, then stared up at the ceiling, sobering up with disappointing rapidity.

Going over the events, he could see a dozen potential slip ups. Places he'd taken too much risk. He couldn't bring himself to care. Palming his cock, he thought about the brush of curls and the rough catch of callouses. It was easy to get a second orgasm out of the experience which was promising. Scott lived off these encounters for months, revisiting the details until they grew watery and indistinct around the edges. They had to hold up to a little scrutiny. 

By October, the new season was in full swing and the club memory had taken on the mystical energy of his best hook ups, set in a shrine and only taken down when he was alone. 

"Hey, did you see they put their rookie on first line for the second period?" Carter asked him with a frown. "Seems a little early for it."

"Which rookie?" Scott asked absently, trying to crack a knuckle on his left thumb. He'd broken it at sixteen and sometimes it got annoyingly stiff.

"Rozanov," Carter said.

"He's not any rookie, he was the first draft pick in his year," Scott reminded him. "I think we tried to get him."

"Yeah? Too bad," Carter muttered.

Both of them very purposely did not look at their rookie. The kid has supposedly been a phenom. This was Scott's seventh season and Carter's sixth. They'd both developed a sense of who was going to make it and who was going to disappear next season into the open arms of another team or worse, faded obscurity.

"I heard Rozanov is crazy good," Huff said from Scott's other side. "He scored his first league goal already. First game they put him in."

"Hunter did that too his rookie year," Carter said loyally.

"Yeah, so it can't be that impressive," Huff teased.

Scott snorted, "How long did it take you again?"

"Hey, I'm not supposed to knock 'em in," Huff protested. 

"Oh?" Eric asked, looking around Carter to pin Huff with a look. "So that means you're not going to wander away from me tonight?" 

"I'd miss you too much, man! I'll be right by your side! We can have two goalies, right?" 

The first period went like a practice exercise, all of New York moving in a unit and Boston falling over themselves. The kind of game that could make players a little too comfortable. 

"Look alive, boys," Scott ordered as they readied themselves for second period. 

There was only an 'A' on Scott's jersey, but their current captain was a veteran counting down to the end of the season. Everyone knew he was ready to retire and the coaches had intimated that Scott's time was coming. The team readily listened to him and responded to him like it was already a done deal. Scott tried not to assume anything or overstep, but he couldn't deny he was eager for it.

That Admirals deserved a captain that was paying attention and actually watched out for them.

Every time Scott went over the boards gave him a small thrill. Especially at home with a packed crowd. He glided out and readied himself to face off.

"Do not cry when I score goal," a Russian voice cracked through the air. "Embarrassing for you, yes?"

A rookie would want to start off with a ballsy chirp. Scott rolled his eyes and got into position. Looked up.

He knew that face. Rozanov's eyes went wide like he recognized him too. Where did Scott know him from? Had they met at one of those events where you shook too many hands?

"You wish, brat," Scott snapped back.

Confusion passed over Rozanov's face. He couldn't be surprised that Scott had retorted, could he?

The puck dropped and Scott was positive he had his stick on it, but before he could smack it, it was gone and so was Rozanov. Fuck. Scott took off after him. The rookie was as fast as promised, making a perfect pass, before anyone could close with him. Too bad for him that Boston was awful and no one picked it up.

The fury that passed over Rozanov's face was quickly shut down and he was off again. Apparently determined that if no one was going to help then he'd get the job done himself. Damn if the he didn't do it too. The goal was so pretty that Scott had to stop himself from going over and congratulating him. Even Eric looked mildly impressed and Eric usually didn't do facial expressions during a game. 

"Damn," Carter said, coming to a stop next to Scott. "Uh, is Boston going to be good now? I'm not sure I'm prepared for that."

"They have one good player," Scott scoffed. "I wouldn't start worrying yet."

The Admirals won handily, proving Scott right, but it was a much harder battle than usual. Rozanov might be only one man, but he was an army into and of himself. He stampeded through lines, shot with deadly accuracy and had the razor focus of the best kind of players.

As they all went down the handshake line, Scott kept things polite as usual. None of the Boston players gave him any grief and Hartigan even winked at him, "Meet for a drink after? Already texted Vaughny."

"Maybe," Scott said.

They'd tucked Rozanov near the end, the rookie's grim face clearly amusing some of Scott's teammates as they brightly congratulated him on a good game.

"You were impressive out there," Scott said sincerely, taking Rozanov's hand.

Under Rozanov's helmet, a single curl licked across his forehead and finally recognition fully hit. Scott's ears started ringing and his blood went cold. Oh. Shit. 

"Yes," Rozanov said with a sudden smirk. He'd seen that the penny had dropped. "I was."

The post-game machine had Scott lined up to process. An hour later, he was spat clean, interviewed and exhausted into the parking garage.

"It'll be fun!" Carter said. "Come on, Hunter, I know you've missed Harty since the trade."

"Did I?" Scott asked wryly, but he let Carter load him into a car.

The bar was one of those upscale places pretending to be a dive bar that Scott loathed. The pool tables were crowded and the music was terrible. Hartigan had brought a few Boston guys along and Carter had hauled Eric and Huff with them too. It should've been a disaster, but they were all experienced enough to shove aside animosity in favor of getting tipsy and trading information.

"Hey, look who made it!" Hartigan cried after the second round. "I thought you were too cool for us, rookie."

"Interviews," Rozanov said, appearing in Scott's peripheral vision like a black-clad harbinger of a heart attack. "What is good here?"

"This isn't Russia, kid, you can't drink here," Hartigan reminded him. "Have a soda."

The slapped look of offense on Rozanov's face would've been funny if it didn't send Scott spiraling into hell. The domination on the ice had almost made Scott forget that Rozanov was a rookie.  How young was he? How had he even gotten into that club? Fake ID?

Rozanov was suddenly in Scott's space, leaning past him to get the bartender's attention.

"Nineteen," Rozanov said. "Drink since I was fourteen. Your country is very stupid."

"Fuck," Scott whispered. "You're a kid."

The look that Rozanov gave him was a thousand years old. Tired and knowing and kind of fucking tragic actually.

"No," Rozanov said firmly. "Fully adult." 

He ordered a tonic and lime, still practically in Scott's lap. Drink procured, he leaned beside Scott against the bar, half-responding to the conversation, but attention wandering around the room. .

To Scott's chagrin, Rozanov was even more beautiful in the tacky terrible lighting of the bar. The dramatic bone structure of his face didn't need shadows to be enthralling. His curls, artfully styled and dry this time, glinted gold and when his smile flashed, Scott wanted to taste it again.

He was nineteen, Scott reminded himself. Nineteen and a rookie for another team. Scott had never even entertained a passing thought about fucking another player. A single hour in a locker room was enough to cure anyone of such a dangerous consideration.

But Rozanov was something else. Potent. Beautiful. And already a known quantity to some extent.  No. Nope. Absolutely not. 

"Smile, Scotty," Carter said, smacking him on the shoulder. "We won, remember?"

Scott laughed, "I remember. You want another?"

"If you're offering."

Beside him, Rozanov smiled too, a lazy edged thing. He knew where Scott's mind had wandered. Fuck.

At least they would both keep quiet. Scott didn't even need to ask to know that. Mutually assured destruction was convenient.

The loose party of guys wound up gathering around a pool table after an hour and Scott took that as he cue to leave. He'd never cared for pool or the way the bets started to raise to dizzying heights when everyone had been drinking. Eric had already left. Being a non-drinker at a bar with a wife waiting at home meant Eric was always the first to leave. Scott was always second, quick to part when the booze started to flow.

"Aw, Scotty," Carter protested. "Who will blow luck on my stick?"

"Shut up, Vaughny," Scott laughed gave him a manly side hug. "You'll live.'

He walked out alone, but when he hit the sidewalk, Rozanov was somehow beside him.

"We talk," Rozanov said heavily.

"There's nothing to say," Scott said, hoping that sounded reassuring instead of cruel. "I get it."

Rozanov nodded once tightly, but he didn't move away either.

"Is the hotel far?" Scott asked. "I can walk you."

"No help needed," Rozanov said. "Am fine to walk."

"Okay, but if you did want to talk, trust me no one is listening out here this time of night."

"Not outside," Rozanov said firmly.

Scott sighed and considered his options. New York was full of hotels and cash still talked.

"Come on."

Dipping into the first place they came across, Scott left Rozanov on the sidewalk. He paid in cash and offered over a credit card with an alias on it. His first agent had gotten it for him as a 'just in case' measure. A way to disappear into a building or restaurant when the paps were hungry for anything. Scott had probably accepted it a little too readily. 

He signaled to Rozanov through the glass then went deeper in, ducking around the corner of a hallway. It was almost silent at this hour in a hotel, the elevator appearing the instant it was summoned. The room was at the end of the hall and every silent hurried step toward it made Scott's breathing louder in his ears.

The door swung open and Scott stepped inside, Rozanov on his heels.

"Okay, what did you-"

The kiss crashed against Scott's lips before he fully processed how deep into his personal space Rozanov was. Out of sheer desire not to fall over, Scott put his arms around him, steadying them both. Rozanov still kissed like a battle, but Scott was in no mood to be conquered.

Bringing up a hand, he grabbed Rozanov's jaw and held him back a few inches. Enough to look him the eyes.

"I brought you up here because it seemed like you had something to say."

Rozanov rolled his eyes. "Liar."

"I did," Scott said. "I'm not fucking you."

"I do not want fucking," Rozanov said, his hands fisting into Scott's shirt. "Want your mouth on my dick."

"Splitting hairs there."

Rozanov frowned, then shook his head. Shit. In the bar, Rozanov had hid it better, but his English might not be strong enough for idioms. Before Scott could come up with a way to explain it, he was being roughly kissed again and then lips were trailing down his neck.

Fuck it. Scott had paid for the room and maybe this was what he'd meant to do all along. They really could've talked anywhere. Rozanov was young, but he knew his own mind. Apologizing to his morals, Scott shoved back on Rozanov, pushing him toward the bed.

"Lay down," Scott said, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt.

Rozanov stayed standing. It was something in the cock of his hip or the curl of his lips that seemed to radiate challenge. It shouldn't make Scott want to to meet it. Sex for Scott was usually fun, if illicit. He liked his partner to have a good time, to keep it light if he had enough chance to set a mood.

The club had been unusual. Fast, but still not…this.

Tossing aside his shirt, Scott eyed Rozanov slowly. Rozanov gave him an unimpressed look. In a second, Scott got his foot behind Rozanov and gave a sharp shove against that impressive chest, tripping him back onto the bed and following him down.

A sharp Russian word pierced the air, Rozanov's eyes wide and his grin gone a little manic.

"You really are a brat," Scott said, caging him in between his arms. "Gorgeous fucking one too."

"What is brat?" Rozanov asked.

The confusion at the face off made sense now.

"A kid that likes to be a pain in the ass."

"Not a kid," Rozanov said, but his eyes were bright with humor now, not upset. "You say 'brat' like it is good thing."

Scott blinked, then found himself smiling back. "I hang out with hockey players. I like annoying assholes."

Rozanov must've approved of that thought because he leaned up and started kissing open mouthed over Scott's shoulder. There was no way he was new to all this, his certainty and confidence the mark of experience, not just cockiness. When had he gotten started? Earlier than Scott, certainly, who managed his first awkward fumble at twenty. 

There was only one drink in Scott tonight, but he felt even further gone this time around. They grappled with each other a little, rolling over and over in the bed. They were fairly well-matched in strength and it was heady to get hauled around a little. Naked at last, Scott put a hand on the center of Rozanov's chest, his thumb and forefinger making a picture frame for the intricate cross that hung around Rozanov's neck.

Scott probably should suggest condoms again, but he didn't have one and Rozanov probably kept one in his wallet where it was quickly rendered useless.

Obviously they could've just not done anything, but Scott had blown past that possibility a half hour ago.

"STIs?" Scott asked. Rozanov looked at him blankly. "Have you been tested for like..herpes and stuff recently?"

The cloud passed and Rozanov nodded once. "Yes, pre-season physical. All negative. No one since then."

"Good. Me too."

Hopefully Rozanov wasn't a liar. They needed to have a little trust between them if they were doing this so Scott would extend it there. Besides, Rozanov's cock was a thing of beauty and Scott wanted it in his mouth almost as much as he wanted Rozanov to suck him off again. Moving down the bed he dragged his hands down Rozanov's impressive torso and mouthed over one sharp hipbone.

"You really are gorgeous," Scott said.

"Okay," Rozanov said as if utterly bored by the idea.

"And a brat," Scott laughed and indulged himself by biting one strong thigh. Not hard, but enough to be a warning. "Be good."

"I am very good," Rozanov said quickly. "You are only too slow."

"You gotta learn to savor it," Scott scolded, but he was done waiting around too.

He got his hand around the base of Rozanov's cock and took the plump head into his mouth. Scott groaned around it. The satin softness pulled over steel would never stop being wondrous to Scott. It was a constant source of agony how much he liked cock and how little time he could allow himself with it.

They had hours now though. Maybe Rozanov had a curfew actually, but if he wasn't worried about it then Scott certainly wasn't going to worry for him. Scott was going to focus on how much of this fucking monster he could reasonably get in his mouth, his hand wrapping around the rest of it, quickly getting spit slick as Rozanov's breathing went ragged and his hands gripped Scott's shoulders like he was trying to make permanent dents.

That was the kind of reaction that gave a man some encouragement. Scott picked up speed, letting the head of Rozanov's stupidly hot prick hit the back of his throat. A hand went into his hair, attempting to pull him off and Scott smacked it away. If Rozanov had swallowed, then Scott would too. Though he pulled up a little concentrating on the head so when Rozanov did come, Scott didn't choke on it.

He watched Rozanov's face, those tempting lips parting in ecstasy, and pretty blue eyes locked onto Scott's face like he was trying memorize him. Scott held him between lips, until there was the slightest shiver. He pulled off, a last glancing kiss to the softening head as climbed back up the bed, keeping Rozanov between his arms.

"Not bad," Rozanov said coolly. As if he wasn't panting like he'd run a marathon.

"Shut up," Scott laughed and nipped at Rozanov's jaw. "You think you're really cute, don't you?"

"Not cute," Rozanov snapped.

"Adorable," Scott grinned and bent his attention to the long pale neck, kissing it just lightly enough to earn another shiver. "Sweet, even."

"No," Rozanov growled.

Scott paused. "No to the biting or to me teasing you?"

"Teasing," Rozanov said petulantly. "Biting is good. No spots though, yes?"

"Hickeys," Scott supplied. 

"Hickeys," Rozanov repeated like the word tasted bad.

"Thought you were enjoying the teasing," Scott said as he went on exploring. Rozanov's pecs were fascinating territory. "You like to dish it out, but you can't take it, huh?"

"Lies," Rozanov said, pushing at Scott and after a moment of trying to wrestle, Scott allowed himself to be rolled onto his back. "I can take. Can I fuck you?"

"Not this time," Scott said, then winced. Fuck. He was already admitting to a next time. "Anyway, what if I wanted to fuck you?"

The flicker in Rozanov's expression was fast, but the lights were bright and Scott was at close range.

"I-"

"Hey," Scott said, lowering his voice, keeping things soft. He rubbed a hand over Rozanov's arm. "It's fine. I like both. We only do what we both want to do. Okay?"

"Okay," Rozanov said, staring at him like he was trying to crack a code. "What do you want?"

"Right now or in life?" Scott asked, unable to help grinning up at him. He was even cuter when he was confused. 

This was a very stupid situation and a terrible idea, but Scott was already in it and he was going to enjoy it before the weight of potential consequences crushed him in the morning.

"From me," Rozanov supplied.

"Oh," Scott considered that. "Coming would be good. It doesn't have to be fancy. I like your hands."

"My hands. Not my mouth?"

"I like your mouth a lot," Scott assured him. "But I have a thing about callouses."

"What is?" Rozanov demanded.

So Scott reached up and deliberately rubbed the rough one on his thumb over Rozanov's bottom lip. His breath caught. Pretty.

"Those. Rough places on your hands from doing the hard work."

"I have these. Many, " Rozanov said. "You like?"

"A lot," Scott confirmed.

They both watched as Rozanov got his hand around Scott's straining cock. Rozanov had good hands in general, big and long-fingered. Watching one wrap around his cock was almost as good as the feeling. A few dry tugs though and Scott was already considering the merits of getting up to scour the bathroom for one of those stupid small bottles of lotion.

Which was when Rozanov let go, brought his hand to his mouth and spit on it. Fuck. Right. Fucking dirtbag teenager. Scott was in hell. But hell felt like a warm, beautifully wet hand around him and his head fell back against the mattress.

"Kiss me," Scott demanded.

"No," Rozanov said with that shit eating grin.

Scott reached up, got a hand around the back of Rozanov's neck and squeezed. "Now, or I walk."

Hard to say if it was the empty threat or the hand on his neck, but Rozanov was there in a heartbeat, kissing Scott like he could learn English by sucking on his tongue. His hand moved with a sure rhythm over Scott's dick, thumb cheekily rubbing over the sensitive spot right under the head until Scott was halfway to delirious.

"C'mon," he moaned into Rozanov's mouth and reached up to caress him, tweaking a little at one nipple experimentally.

"Fuck, Hunter," Rozanov gasped into his mouth. Winner, winner.

Scott worried Rozanov's bottom lip between his teeth in response. Talented fingers danced, teased and pulled and Scott's hips rocked into every stroke with furious desire and he came with a deep broken groan, striping over Rozanov's fist and his own stomach.

For a moment Rozanov hovered like he might leave, so Scott got an arm around his waist and pulled him down. He buried his face in those lovely curls, letting them tickle his nose.

"Thank you," Scott said.

"You say this last time," Rozanov groaned. "Why?"

"Because I liked it. You were good to me. I'm grateful. Thank you. It's normal."

"Wrong," Rozanov muttered into Scott's chest, but he didn't try to fight off his hold.

"Right," Scott argued and played his fingers over strong broad shoulders. "Listen, we don't have to meet up again, but it's…I don't know. Stupid, but also a lot smarter than me randomly meeting guys and hoping they don't recognize me."

"Very stupid," Rozanov said. "But yes. I want this."

"I'll give you my number."

"What if people see?" Rozanov asked.

"Different names in the phone. Most of the guys have girls in a few cities. They get having a sometimes person you don't put in your phone with a name. We'll do it after we shower. Come on."

Rozanov rolled off of him, watching as Scott got to his feet and walked toward the bathroom.

"Are you coming or what?" Scott demanded when he noticed he'd reached the door alone.

"Is it big enough?"

Scott dropped his eyes to Rozanov's limp dick which still looked fairly impressive. "Yeah, I think it'll fit both of us and that thing if you have to bring it with you."

Rozanov blinked then laughed, a real laugh. It transformed his face and he was somehow even better looking like that. It didn't take much more to coax him under the pathetic water pressure of the shower. At least it was hot and in the steam, Scott kissed Rosanov lazily, reaching for the tiny soap bar and getting up a lather to rub over Rosanov's chest.

"Not dirty," Rozanov said.

"Shut up, I want to touch you." 

All the fight went out of Rozanov at once and he stood there docile as Scott sank down to do a very thorough job, lingering on those powerful legs. It would be something to get fucked by him. Would he be good at it? So far he was unfairly good at everything else. When Scott stood up, Rozanov wordlessly took the soap from him and went to work returning the favor.

"God, you're smooth," Scott laughed quietly as Rozanov trailed his fingers from Scott's knee to his hip in a silent question. "Yeah, see when you shower together, you can get in another round."

The slow smile that spread over Rozanov's lips was far too appealing.

They rutted together under the shower's gentle pattern, Rozanov's hand big enough to hold them both together while Scott touched him everywhere else.

All told, it was one of the hottest hours of Scott's life. Even if it did end with them both redressing hurriedly, Rozanov checking the time on his phone with a wince.

"You don't actually have to give me your number." Scott said. "But I'd like it."

"What will you call me?" Rozanov asked, looking at him from under blond lashes like a lion waiting for it's prey to falter.

"Boston Hottie," Scott said without pause.

"Hottie," Rozanov repeated, then laughed again. Scott wanted to make him do that more. It looked like Rozanov needed it. "Yes. I like this."

"Shocking," Scott grinned. "You like compliments. You are hot. Gorgeous. A little mean though."

"You like mean," Rozanov determined.

"Yeah, within reason. Don't push it, brat."

"I will still be mean on ice," Rozanov warned. "This is how I play."

"Oh, believe me, I could tell. Just remember if we're meeting up after, you still have to look me in the eye."

Rozanov did just that, and they stared at each other for a weighted moment.

It was too much like a plan to keep this going, probably. It was too much, almost certainly. It was a fucking terrible idea, definitely.

"You will be 'Thank You New York', " Rozanov declared.

"See mine was nice, you dick," Scott snorted.

"You are nice. Me? Not. See?"

"I see," Scott said. "Fine, whatever, it's your phone."

Rozanov left first and Scott lingered on the mussed bed for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling. He was fucked out and he waited for the usual emptiness to pool in. The reminder that these tiny sips were all he could have from the overflowing cup of want that was always just out of reach.

Except it didn't come. It was entirely possible that Rozanov would change his mind and lose Scott's number. Maybe he was smarter than Scott and could see the dangers in the waters without giving in to the siren song of temptation anyway.

But even the small hope that they would meet again and do this was enough to keep the usual emotional dullness from rolling in.

"You are an idiot," he told himself. It didn't help. 

Two Months Later, Day Before Next Boston Vs New York Game

NYTY: Yes or no?

BH: Yes

NYTY: I can get a room somewhere.

BH: My apartment.

NYTY: That safe?

BH: Private

NYTY: It better be. Good luck tonight

BH: We do not need luck to beat you.

NYTY: Sure, get cocky, but bad brats get spanked.

Chapter 2: Walls and Doors

"Nice place," Scott said when Rozanov opened the door. "Did I break anything?"

"Too weak to break me," Rozanov sniffed, ushering him in. "Light touch."

"Uh huh," Scott said, and slid his hands over Rozonov's chest as he stepped inside, pressing only a little to see the wince. "I bruised you, but good."

There were only two other doors out in the hallway and Scott would bet good money that the neighbors had learned to ignore Rozanov's rowdy guests. He wasn't surprised that the door got quickly shut behind him anyway.

"A small little nothing," Rozanov contended. "A tap."

"They ice you?" Scott checked. "You didn't run out before someone looked at this did you? I'm not resuscitating you if you have a broken rib that stabs you in the lung."

Rozanov groaned and walked away from him, so Scott trailed after. It was a nice place, big windows with spectacular views. Everything was new, no doubt a rental picked up when Rozanov joined the Raiders. There were very few personal touches: a muted patterned blanket tossed on the couch, a ceramic bowl on the counter filled with apples, and a single photo frame on a side table. Not a home yet.

"They poke and give me ice and pat on the head," Rozanov said, turning to face Scott. He eyed him hungrily. "Will you do same? Because I can go find someone else to blow me."

"Whine, whine, whine," Scott said, walking slowly toward him. "I thought I missed you, but now I'm reconsidering."

"Miss me? From one night?" Rozanov scoffed. "I did not even think about you."

"No?" Scott took another step forward and Rozanov watched him with a smirk. "So then I should leave?"

"You are already here. It would be waste to go."

"Mhm," Scott said, giving Rozanov a slow once over, "I thought you wanted to fuck me. Change your mind, brat?"

"No," Rozanov said sullenly, "you want to go again too."

"I do," Scott smiled at him. "C'mere."

"No, you come here," Rozanov demanded.

Scott lifted his eyebrows. "You're in a mood. How about this? I'm going to go find your bedroom and take off my clothes. You show up when you're ready to play nice."

Walking around a stunned Rozanov, Scott pulled off his shirt as he went, mostly because he could. Usually, his hookups were too rushed for him to do anything fun like this. It was making Scott far too giddy. He heard Rozanov follow after him, a rumble of annoyed Russian sliding into a whine as Scott found the bedroom and skimmed off his pants.

He turned and Rozanov was right in his face. The storm cloud had cleared from his brow and he leaned in slower as if uncertain of his welcome. Scott reached up and cupped his cheek, then met him halfway to kiss him slow and heated. The hard taut lines of Rozanov went silky and pliable under Scott's hands as he caressed his sides.

"You were on fire tonight," Scott said, rucking up the bottom of Rozanov's tank top. "Playing against you is exhausting."

"Maybe time to retire," Rozanov said, but his attention wasn't in it. He was moving to mouth at Scott's neck.

"Makes it fun," Scott said, cupping the back of Rozanov's head. "Chasing you around reminds me of why I love the game."

"You only caught me once," Rozanov said with a hint of triumph. "Too slow."

With a grin, Scott, very gently, swatted Rozanov's plump ass. "Just take the compliment."

"You hit me," Rozanov said pulling back, eyes wide and affronted. As if Scott hadn't slammed into him so hard into the boards two hours ago that he'd heard the wind get knocked out of his lungs.

"Spanked. Bad or good?"

The way Rozanov's eyes darted around considering that, he might as well have been doing calculus. "I can take hits."

"You can," Scott agreed and kissed him again with heat. "You don't have to here."

"I like…I like when you say it, maybe. Not do?" Rozanov floated, tense again. Waiting for Scott to do what? Make fun? Push his limits?

"Yeah? I can do that," Scott confirmed and then shoved at Rozanov's shirt again. "I like teasing you."

It went up and over in a second, revealing that gorgeous broad chest with a good patch of red, the bruising already starting to develop in the center. Scott gently stroked the skin around the red patch.

"Do not make big thing," Rozanov said as if bored and not at all like he was staring at Scott's hands touching him slow and gentle.

"Kind of like I got to give you a hickey after all," Scott said, looking at Rozanov's face under his lashes. "It'll look like a sunset for a bit."

"Yes, they do that," Rozanov said, bewildered. "Sex now, yes?"

"Slow it down. We've got time," Scott said softly, but he gave in, stepping closer, their chests touching. "Gonna treat you so good, you'll forget to insult me for ten whole minutes."

"No. Not possible," Rozanov contested, but he was smiling and Scott was learning to like the taste of his crooked grin. He reached for Rozanov's pants and undid them, drawing them down his long legs as Scott sank to his knees.

"Wait," Rozonov said. "I had others. Women, and….one other man. Condom?"

"Yes," Scott said, giving Rozanov's thigh an approving squeeze. "You have?"

They re-arranged themselves, Scott rolling a condom onto Rozanov as he sat on the edge of the bed. Scott snagged a pillow shoving it under his knees.

"Bad bones?" Rozanov asked.

"You never used one before? Amateur," Scott sniped back.

"No! I am pro at this."

The condom wasn't ideal. Already Scott missed the skin slick taste of him, but like hell was he explaining to his doctor that he needed a prescription. Instead, Scott relished the heat of it all and familiar weight against his tongue. Rozanov got his hand into Scott's hair, those long agile fingers running through it over and over without pulling.

Sweet guy when you let him be. When he let himself be.

Scott pulled off reluctantly. "Think you can get it up again if you come now?"

The look he got was poisonous. "Yes."

"Good to hear," Scott said.

Then he set himself the task of taking Rozanov apart. He got a hand on his balls, rolling them in his palm while his other hand was free to roam. When he reached Rozanov's chest, he lost wandering privileges as Rozanov seized his hand and proceeded to suck Scott's fingers into his mouth with more than hint of teeth.

Sexy feral bastard.

It did push Scott to take more of Rozanov's cock into his mouth, so his tactics were sound. Scott swallowed down around him and it was something to feel Rozanov's muffled groans around his captured fingers. A minute later and there went those stuttering hips. The condom did make it easier to keep sucking Rozanov through it, without worrying about choking. Scott didn't release him until Rozanov made a discomforted little whine about.

"See?" Scott sat back on his heels. "I wasn't rushing because my knees didn't hurt."

"Shut up," Rozanov grumbled, clearly too fucked out to properly fight about it. "You talk too much."

"I was just quiet for five whole minutes in a row," Scott pointed out.

He eased the condom off for him and tossed it in the wastebasket that had the right amount of tissue in it for a nineteen year old with his own place. No matter how much ass Rozanov was getting, it wasn't hard to imagine him in this big impersonal bed all on his own.

"Lay down. My ribs hurt looking at you," Scott said.

It was a testament to what a good orgasm could do for you that Rozanov only scooted backwards and flopped dramatically against his remaining pillows with only a, "Happy now?"

"Very," Scott said, getting to his feet. "Tap water okay here or do you have it filtered somewhere?"

"What?" Rozanov asked.

"I need water. Can I get it from the sink or your fridge?"

"Sink has…thing on it."

"You want?"

"If you are getting? Yes."

The kitchen cabinets were neatly kept, lines of glasses not hard to find. The tap did have a filter on it. What did Rozanov sound like in his own language? Smart, Scott guessed. That brain was always working, calculating. And despite the barrier, Rozanov managed to make and land jokes which took some serious work.

Filling the glasses, Scott carried them back in. Rozanov had re-arranged himself, one arm behind his head, showing off incredibly strong arms and giving the impression of a spoiled prince.

"Here," Scott handed him a glass and down half of his own in a few swallows. "You like Boston?"

"Is okay," Rozanov said. "Better than New York."

"You want to start that fight? This has been your city for ten seconds." The grin told Scott everything he needed to know about that. "Okay, we can fight about the sky being blue and the grass being green if you want, brat. I like both, for the record."

"Even in bed?" Rozanov asked. "You say you like both there too."

"With anal, yes," Scott said, gulped down the rest of his water and set down the glass. He sat down on the bed next to Rozanov, facing him. It was a good view, man knew his angles. "I only like men."

Scott wasn't sure he'd said that out loud before to anyone. It had come out confidently enough, but now that he'd said it, something shifted a little. Settled. Like he'd been waiting for a pile of books to fall off a shelf onto him and instead they'd found a new order all on their own and stood upright and defiant before him.

Unaware of any of this, Rozanov announced, "I like both."

"Bisexual," Scott supplied for him.

"Bisexual," Rozanov repeated, practically tongue fucking the word. "Yes. This."

"Why not just stick to women then? Wouldn't that be easier?"

"You want to leave?" Rozanov asked him, his jaw instantly tighter.

"No," Scott rolled his eyes. "Calm down. I'm just asking."

"I like both," Rozanov repeated. "I want to like both."

"Yeah? I get that," Scott said. "Lucky me then."

"Yes, very lucky."

It wasn't a chore to dip down to kiss him again. Maybe Scott misread people sometimes, but it didn't take a mastermind to see physical touch did a lot more to reassure Rozanov than words. Those strong arms wrapped around Scott and they were rolling, Scott pinned beneath him.

"How do you like it?" Rozanov asked, even as he nipped at Scott's neck, making it a little hard to concentrate.

"Been awhile. Takes more time than I usually have."

"Tonight, you have time." Clever fingers tripping their way down Scott's spine. "I make you like it."

Scott already liked it, but Rozanov enjoyed living up to his brags too.

"Show me what you've got then."

What Rozanov had was patience now that that he'd gotten off once. Those clever, invasive digits slid into Scott like they knew exactly how to find every interesting part of him. With his face planted against the sheets, Scott could've imagined anyone opening him up, replaced the sullen wary eyes with something more friendly.

He didn't.

"Lay back down and let me do the work," Scott said instead when he felt loose and ready, humming with want. "Don't fuck your ribs."

"I can do it," Rozanov growled.

With a put upon sigh, Scott bucked up hard, making contact with Rozanov's stomach, using the momentary surprise to get out from under him, wrap his legs around his waist and wrestle him down to the mattress. Seated above him, Scott could take in Rozanov's defiantly set jaw and the soft plea of his eyes. Angles and contradictions. Scott stroked his jaw, thumb in the soft divot under his chin.

"You're strong and tough as hell," Scott said softly. "I know that. You know that. This isn't an arena, no one's watching."

"I know this," Rozanov muttered.

"Then relax, brat, and let me do it."

There was no response which was its own reply. Rozanov put the condom on himself this time while Scott made it difficult for him by scattering open mouthed kisses over his chest until he found one pale nipple to worry between his teeth. The bitten off moan shot through Scott's veins.

Was this what it was always like when you slept with someone a few times? Knowledge building and preferences learned? This was an unfortunate thing to figure out at this point in the game. Scott had always liked pleasing people. It had made him easy to coach, and he'd gotten his fair share of flack for being the golden boy, the rule follower, and the brown noser. It had taken time to learn how to make his instructors proud and also be appealing to his peers.

These days,Scott had that balance in his work life and with his friends on the team. But his life outside of hockey was a profound silence. A private existence, unwitnessed. The tree in the forest, fallen without a sound.

Rozanov was loud.

"I want," Rozanov growled. "Now."

"No," Scott said leisurely and worked his way back up to Rozanov's lips. "Kiss me first."

If annoyance had a taste, Scott's mouth was full of it. He buried his fingers into Rozanov's silky curls and fed on it. In his own time, Scott reached down and guided the head of Rozanov's cock to his hole. He sat up leisurely as if it was nothing to start taking him in, instead of the kind of stretch people paid good money for to get in silicon form.

"Fuck," Rozanov murmured, his eyes glued to the spot where his cock was slowly disappearing into Scott. His thumbs made circles over Scott's hips, gentle now that he was distracted.

"Yeah," Scott breathed out, the stretch of it the good sort of uncomfortable, the kind that pushed him on to do better, be better. "Fuck…Rozanov…Roz…"

That must be what his teammates called him, the chopped of last name a go-to and far easier to say when Scott was taking what might be the biggest cock he'd ever let inside him. There was no force, the tug of gravity enough for both of them. The burn was incredible and then the tight unyielding press against his prostate a bright burst of electric pleasure. When Scott's ass finally met Rozanov's thighs, he was prickling with sweat and hard as a rock himself.

"Can I?" Rozanov asked, running his hands greedily up Scott's sides, grabbing at his chest, his waist, anywhere he could reach. He might the most tactile person Scott had ever had sex with.

"Wait," Scott said and Rozanov went still like a snake in the grass for the mouse to get too close, eyes glittering with hunger. Fuck that was hot. It would be nice to say that Scott made him wait a long time, but he was hungry too. As soon as his body relaxed a fraction, he grinned. "Go."

From stillness to explosive motion, Rozanov found purchase around Scott's waist, holding him in place as he drew him up and than pulled him back down with punishing force. It shoved a deep grunt out of Scott.

"Build to it, brat," he gritted out. "Slow first, then fast. Who have you been fucking? Cement walls?"

"You cannot take it?" Rozanov challenged.

"No," Scott said simply. "I can't. Not without feeling like I was fucked by a power drill tomorrow. Go slow then you can pound the shit out of me if you want."

The cowed injured look, there for only a moment than gone again, tugged at Scott. Maybe he wasn't the only one that liked to make people feel good. Cupping Rozanov's cheek, Scott managed to lean down to kiss him without jarring them both. It was hard in that position, but Rozanov was talented. He pushed up his hips with calculated languidness.

"Like that?" he asked against Scott's lips.

"Just like that," Scott murmured. "Fuck, you feel good in me."

That coaxed back a smile and with renewed determination, Rozanov set about fucking Scott with deliberate slowness, the syrupy movements building into a vibration under Scott's skin. Scott sat back up and threw back his head a little, rolling his hips into it. Only when he knew he was getting closer did he give a nod.

Rozanov didn't need more of a signal. He must've been on the razor edge himself. The punishingly hard fuck he'd tried to start before returned, but now Scott met him thrust for thrust. Getting a hand on his own cock and Scott stroked himself in time, coming with a spine wrenching spasm. The clutch of his body must've been maddening because Scott was flat on his back, legs bent at an improbable angle a second later, two hundred pounds of Russian menace grinding into him with a soul deep groan. Scott swept his hands clumsily over Rozanov's back for the last few artless thrusts until he could feel him tense and come with a shudder.

"There he is," Scott said senselessly, legs falling useless and noodly to the mattress as Rozanov became a weighted blanket top of him. Petting him was nicely grounding and Scott played with his curls and traced the lines of shoulders without intention.

"Did I hurt you?" Rozanov asked and for once there was not a lick of prodding in it. Only raw concern.

"No," Scott said, dropping a kiss in those curls. "You're good. That was fucking great."

Smugness radiated off in every direction and Rozanov arched a little into Scott's touch. Taking it as his due. Maybe he really was a spoiled prince. If not by nature or nurture, then at least tonight, with Scott.

"Shower?" Rozanov asked.

"Yeah."

And a lesson had been learned from last time because Rozanov got up and casually offered Scott a hand out of bed, leading him into the en suite. The shower was glass. Of course it was. Everything in the apartment was exposed, a scream to be noticed despite it's remoteness from the street below. It was big though and the water pressure was excellent. The tile wasn't even cold when Rozanov crowded him against it.

"Three times?" Scott asked, impressed despite himself when he felt the twitch of heat against his thigh.

"As many times as I want," Rozanov said.

"Oh yeah, a real sex machine, huh?" Scott laughed. "What do they feed you in Russia?"

"Talent," Rozanov said and licked water off Scott's shoulder which shouldn't be hot. It was anyway.

All told, Scott got out of the shower drained of any remaining energy, thirsty and starving.

"You go now?" Rozanov asked, warmth sapped from his face.

"That's just rude," Scott said. "You're gonna run me that ragged and not even feed me before kicking me out? Who raised you?"

Rozanov opened his mouth, then shut it. Angry for a second, but also chastened, apparently. Good.

"I do not cook for you."

"Who asked you to? You don't have snacks?"

"I have many snacks. I buy them for me."

"Great, learn to share. Do you not have nursery school in Russia?"

Snatching up his water glass from the side table, Scott headed to the kitchen. As if being held at gunpoint, Rozanov produced a bowl of cut strawberries from the fridge.

"You eat bread?"

A valid question, all things considered. At home, Scott stuck to a single slice of whole wheat studded with seeds, but he was already badgering the guy into feeding him, he wasn't going to get picky.

"Yeah, a little bit is good."

Rozanov had a dark brown bread that he slathered in butter and shoved at Scott while making some for himself. It was proved to be a very good rye which Scott appreciated and they ate in relative silence. After, Scott downed a second glass of water and then glanced a kiss off Rozanov's cheek before he could clock him coming in for the kill.

"Thank you."

"Ech," Rozanov said.

"The phrase you're looking for is 'You're welcome'."

"You are not welcome any more. You go," Rozanov said.

"It's amazing anyone has sex with you twice."

"You are on three," he was reminded very smugly.

"Yeah, because I'm the kind of guy that signs up to be beaten up professionally."

Rozanov raised his eyebrows. "Because you are bad at your job. Should not happen to you so much." 

"Fuck off," Scott laughed. "I'm not the one with bruises today. Ice those again when I leave, okay?"

"Go away," the demand was more of an annoyed groan this time, so Scott winked at him and headed for the door.

"You think we'll see each other at All Stars?"

"I will be there," Rozanov said without a lick of doubt. "I will text you about it while you sit at home and cry."

"They already called me in to captain," Scott told him merrily. "Have a good night!"

He closed the door before Rozanov could throw any last bits of asshole-ry at him. Scott hit the streets whistling.

Six weeks later, The All Stars Game

NYTY: Everyone will be drunk as skunks if you want to swing by after the game.

BH: No I see someone else tonight

NYTY: Ok then, see you on the ice

There was a certain joy to an All Stars week. In theory, Scott understood why so many guys hated it. They had nice things like wives, girlfriends, mistresses and kids that they wanted to be with. For Scott, it was a paradise of low pressure fun hockey and a bunch of guys he knew well enough to have a drink with at night. If he could've found a way to get laid, it might've been perfect.

Especially since Rozanov was everywhere.

Like a curly-haired sociopathic bumble bee, Rozanov charged from group to group, spreading irritation and laughter. A rookie in this space was already interesting, usually provoking a mix of protectiveness and ill-concealed desire to torment oozing off the veterans. Rozanov charged through all of that, his bravado and slapdash charismatic English gaining him seats at bars, in conversations, and even at Scott's own poker table. Usually the provenance of Scott, Eric, Carter and Huff at home, only Scott had been picked this year. He made do with a motley collection of guys from a mix of teams.

"Deal me in," Rozanov demanded, landing in the seat beside Scott in a haze of cigarette smoke and cologne.

"Show us the color of your money," Tots from Vancouver said.

With a flourish, Rozanov produced a handful of twenties from a gold money clip like a gangster. For this group that was good enough and Rozanov was given his cards. Under the table, his knee touched Scott's in a way that could be accidental. It didn't move though and Scott didn't shove it away. No one could see and it was the kind of thing no one would take note of anyway.

Instead of the winking asshole, Rozanov went calm and cool as a lake in the winter. His brow cleared and he said little as the other guys got louder. With shit hands, he lost the first two rounds and then he pulled a straight and chips were shoveled his way.

Then he won again and again. His knee pressed against Scott's and his face giving nothing away.

"That's crazy luck," someone grumbled and Scott discretely elbowed Rozanov, When he got a quick side glance, Scott shook his head once tightly.

The next hand went to Tots and Rozanov yawned, throwing down his cards. "Pay me now. I have to get rest so I look good when I win everything tomorrow."

"What a fucking prick," Tots said when Rozanov was out of hearing distance.

"A winning one," Scott said ruefully. "I could do with half his luck."

"It'd take some of the talent. That shit is wasted on rookies. Have you seen that Hollander kid?"

Scott had.

Carved from the same tree as Rozanov, but with a different knife, Hollander had sprung into the league with guileless eyes and the kind of view of the game that made him look psychic. Where Rozanov was speed, strength, and spite, Hollander was strategy, power and focus. Scott had watched the first Boston vs Montreal game practically holding his breath the whole time. The two of them pitted against each other were the kind of things public relations teams creamed their jeans over. Vicious, equally matched and leaving everyone else in the dust.

Yet in person, off the ice, Hollander was a twitchy thing. At the required social mixers, he clung to his soda and stayed under the protective wing of his mother. The same age as Rozanov, but he came off as years younger. Or maybe it was just Rozanov's world weariness that made him seem older.

Sitting beside Hollander in the box the next day, Scott watched all that anxiety ebb away. Hollander monitored the ice like a military man about to invade unfamiliar terrain.

"Hunter," Rozanov skated out. "Goodbye to your record, yes?"

"Bring it, rookie," Scott said blandly and turned his attention to Jacobson next to him as if he wouldn't even watch.

He did watch. Rozanov shook himself once, got into position and snatched the record without hesitation. Applause rained down on him as he punched the air in triumph. Sailing back to his box, Rozanov was the picture of angelic joy with a wink just for Scott. What an awful brat. That shouldn't be attractive. 

Then Hollander, blank-faced and silent, sliced over the ice, took a moment to steady himself and stole the record for himself as if Rozanov had only been setting the stage for his victory.

"Good work," Scott said, bringing Hollander in to tap their helmets together.

It was good work. Scott had been proud of that record, but those things only existed to be broken. Just as he'd claimed it from Laurens himself once upon a time. The sting lessened as Jacobsen brought him back into a rousing round of shit talking an shared ex-coach.

Until the black blur meant Rozanov was in front of their box again. But he wasn't there to bother Scott apparently. Instead, he was leaning in to Hollander.

Tilted forward and away from him, Scott had no hope of reading Hollander's face and the crowd was too loud for him to make out whatever Rozanov said to him. Something very short. Pointed.

Then Rozanov's eyes darted to Scott.

"Hunter. Broken records not good for your skin. You are one foot in grave today."

"Yeah," Scott gave him an unimpressed look, "still leaves me one to break off in your ass. Keep it moving, rookie."

A pleased chuckle trailed Rozanov toward the center of the ice. Hollander tracked him and then leaned back, mouth pursed like he was trying to repress a smile. Suspicion curled in Scott's stomach.

A few women and one man. Rozanov couldn't be that stupid, could he? Could Hollander? All people talked about was how smart a player Hollander was, but that didn't always translate to real life brains.

No, Scott told himself. There was no way. They couldn't both be that stupid.

Though Rozanov was certainly that kind of impulsive.

"Thanks for making sure he didn't hold my record for more than a minute," Scott said, studying Hollander's face. "Was he bothering you?"

"No," Hollander said flatly, his eyes darting off to the side. "Just shit talking."

"He's an asshole, right?"

"I mean, yeah," tiny nervous laugh, "basically."

Fuck Scott's entire fucking life. Hollander? Fresh faced, twitchy, hockey genius…okay. Actually that made a good amount of sense. Getting under Hollander's skin probably got Rozanov off like the Fourth of July. How had that even happened? When could it have happened? They lived an entire country apart from each other.

Scott considered leaving the conversation there.

He didn't have any claim to Rozanov. Didn't even want one. The man was a bundle of issues thinly wrapped in bravado. Maybe making time with the rigidly polite Hollander would be good for him.

That didn't mean Scott wanted to hear it.

"Lucky me,' Scott said, a joke and hopefully a warning Hollander would hear, "I'm in the room next door to him in the hotel."

An ignored warning if it had been heard at all. Scott did hear them. Not the sex. Rozanov wasn't that loud in Scott's experience and Hollander apparently was good at keeping things down, but their conversation made it through. The words were lost, of course, but it was impossible not to recognize Rozanov's staccato delivery and Hollander's stilted returns.

In the dark, Scott considered his options. Tell Rozanov that he knew or not? Did Rozanov want him to know? It seemed like not, despite his daring little delivery of information to Hollander on the ice. If he wanted Scott to know, he would have made it more obnoxious, more obvious.

It was a secret Scott could keep. It was bizarrely comforting to know that they weren't alone. Intellectually, Scott knew there were other closeted players out there, but how could one find them? They were all hiding so hard, they had became invisible to each other too. Except Rozanov, who apparently scented Hollander out like at truffle pig.

So Scott would keep it to himself. Keep it secret. He heard a door open and close, the wall shaking slightly with it. Tracking footsteps, Scott waited until the soft 'ding' of the elevator sounded. Then he reached for his phone.

He would be good, but that didn't mean he couldn't have a little fun.

NYTY: Hope your hot date went well. You know where to find me if you struck out.

BH: You want to lick your broken record off me?

NYTY: I'd have to go find Hollander for that.

BH: Good luck. Already tucked in for the night with his night light probably.

NYTY: You never know. It's always the quiet ones.

BH: Always them what?

NYTY: The ones that have a wild side. I bet he bites.

There was a long pause and Scott grinned to himself. Not nice, maybe. But a little bit fun.

BH: What do you need him to bite you for? I will come bite you.

NYTY: So your plans did fall through?

BH: No. Very busy. Too busy to bite loser of record.

NYTY: So busy you have time to text with me? Sounds like a real fun night. Come by or don't.

Teasing accomplished, Scott plugged his phone into his travel charger and decided to responsibly go to sleep. Every night, he played a very bad game with himself where he tried to fall asleep by simply laying down and closing his eyes, a normal thing that normal people did. And within a half hour he would generally give up and put on a podcast, turn on a small light, run through some yoga breathing Eric had taught him, and do whatever other arcane rituals his brain decided it needed that night before he finally passed out.

Before he could decide what to listen to, there was a knock on his door. Probably a drunk player looking for the wrong room. With a sigh, Scott got to his feet and reluctantly looked through the peephole.

Rozanov.

What the fuck.

Scott opened the door and Rozanov side stepped around him, pressing it closed.

"I thought you were busy," Scott said.

I thought you already got laid tonight, you insatiable fucking weirdo.

"The room on other side of me plays music so loud, I can hear it in my bones," Rozanov said. "I need to sleep, last night I was up late too.'

"Okay. You know you can make a noise complaint, right?"

"They are my teammates. Bad look, yes? And I am rookie, even if I am better than them so they will not listen to me. Only get louder."

That was probably true, unfortunately.

"You want me to go complain?" Scott asked. "No one will care if I do it."

"I almost ask this," Rozanov admitted. "But they will know anyway. Then I think, Hunter is known for saving stupid rookies from drunk mistakes."

"Once or twice," Scott admitted. "Are you a stupid rookie tonight?"

"Smart one, who knows when to be stupid," Rozanov countered. "If anyone sees. My flight is early. Maybe no one notices anyway. No story to tell."

"What do I get out of this charade and possible scandal?"

"Sex," Rozanov said. "In the morning, not now."

"No," Scott said. "I don't do sex for favors. Fuck it, just…get in bed and you better not snore."

The expression that flashed over Rozanov's face was gone before Scott could interpret it. "I will say I slept on floor."

The thing of it was that Scott had been around for a while. If he told people that a drunk rookie had curled up a the foot of his bed like a dog after breaking curfew, everyone would nod along. Hell, if Rozanov and Hollander got along in the public eye at all, they probably could've sold a similar story.

It was risky, but Rozanov looked tired and Scott…

Scott liked him. The record-stealing, spoiled-prince bastard. It wasn't a good idea to like him. The mangy stray dog quality of Rozanov shouldn't appeal and he was very likely to bite the hand that fed him.

When Scott liked someone, they got whatever they needed from him. He'd been lucky to mostly have the kind of friends who didn't need much. Carter liked validation and the occasional bro-y hug. A hang out once a month somewhere that was generally fun anyway. Eric liked to talk about things that went over Scott's head, but appreciated someone even trying to listen about his art and history passions. Huff mostly wanted someone to care about any other sport on their days off and Scott had gained a passing amount of basketball and baseball knowledge for him.

Easy. Low maintenance.

Everything about Rozanov screamed high maintenance.

"Everyone knows you drink like a fish. You can tell them the truth. You were tired and a little drunk, the music was too loud and you started knocking on doors to find someone else to bunk with. I was the first taker."

"Because you like to suck my dick?" Rozanov asked, already shimmying out of his clothes.

"Because no one should have to get on a flight on no sleep, land and go to practice. That's a special hell."

"How do you know I have practice?"

"That's what they did to me after my rookie All Stars. I broke a record. It's considered obnoxious. So you get punished with more."

"Always more," Rozanov agreed. He got to his underwear, thumbs hooking into the band before giving Scott another look.

With his own underwear still firmly in place, Scott got back into bed. It would probably be rough falling asleep with someone else beside him. He hadn't done that since- maybe ever?  Not as an adult anyway. Probably he had fallen asleep in his parents' bed at some point as a kid. Didn't everyone?

If Rozanov had any further hangups about it, he didn't show them. He kept his underwear on, put his phone on the bedside table and left his clothes in a heap by the front door. Scott flicked the lamp off again.

The bed was quickly substantially warmer, Rozanov throwing off heat like a furnace. He apparently slept flat on his back, already taking up too much space. With a sigh, Scott curled up on his side and tried to work out how he could subtly listen to something without Rozanov overhearing it and giving him shit about it.

Scott fell asleep thinking about it.

An alarm went off too early and Scott groaned into his pillow. A heavy weight lifted from around his waist and the sound cut off. The mattress shuddered a little then lifted. The bathroom door opened a second later. Scott work up enough to realize he was listening to Rozanov take an impressively long and loud piss. A flush, the sink turning on and some scrubbing taking place.

A shadow re-entered the room, walking on surprisingly light feet.

"Good morning," Scott mumbled as the shadow pulled on its clothes.

"Shh," Rozanov said.

"You shh," Scott yawned.

"You argue so much."

"Uh huh," Scott glanced at the clock and pushed himself upward. He only had fifteen minutes until his own alarm sounded. He ran idly through the calendar as Rozanov pulled his shoes back on. "You go back home for the holidays?"

"Not enough time."

"What do you do instead?"

"Always a party. Something. You have big family thing?"

"You usually don't go that low, so I'm going to give you some grace and assume you don't know," Scott said, very much awake now.

"Know what?" Rozanov froze.

"There's no family. My parents died when I was twelve."

The silence was thick. "Twelve."

"Drunk driver. I work with a charity. It's a whole thing. Gets talked about more than I'd like, but I can do good with it, so I try. Anyway. I shouldn't have asked. You have a plane to catch."

"My mother," Rozanov started, then stopped.

"I'm sorry."

"Yes. Everyone says this. It does not help, does it?"

"No," Scott agreed heavily.

The shadow moved again. Rozanov sat beside Scott on the bed. "American holiday is not mine anyway. What do you do?"

"Not much. I go to things in the run up. Parties. Friends' houses. But I spend the day by myself."

"Fucking would be better than alone," Rozanov said like this was a strictly practical thought.

"It would. Travel is a nightmare on Christmas though." 

"Day before. Stay over. You are not terrible to sleep with."

"You don't suck either," Scott allowed.

The alarm beeped again and Rozanov made a tight annoyed noise. "Must go now."

"Okay. Text me if you get spotted, so I'm ready with the story."

A nod and then Rozanov started to get up. He stopped halfway, then turned and glanced a kiss off Scott's cheek.

"Thank you," he whispered and then he was gone all at once, the door shutting behind him.

Touching the spot on his cheek, Scott closed his eyes.

Fuck.

A Half Hour Later

BH: No one in the hall.

NYTY: OK. Safe flight.

A Week Later

BH: When are you coming? 23? 24?

NYTY: Who said I was coming there? I came to you last time.

BH: For game.

NYTY: So? We're going to Boston again in two weeks. You don't play us here until March. It's your turn. Is this like the sharing again? You don't know how to take turns either?

BH: Mr. Fairness

NYTY: How else should we choose?

BH: Whoever has most goals by 21st.

NYTY: No.

BH: Because you know I will have more.

NYTY: Yes. I'm not delusional, I'm not catching up with you in the next three weeks. Hollander might.

BH: He will not.

NYTY: If he does, you come here.

BH: I look forward to fucking you in my bed again.

Chapter 3: Holly and the Driving Rain

"You sure you don't want to come by?" Carter asked, sitting down in front of his locker to pull on his sneakers.

"Thanks, but last year your aunt tried to get me under the mistletoe with your cousin every half hour on the half hour," Scott reminded him.

"She thinks it's a crime that no one has locked you down yet," Carter laughed. "I get it though. She's after my ass too, but at least she can't try to hook me up with Bonnie without it being a crime."

"How about we catch drinks on the 27th?"

"Yeah, that'd be good," Carter nudged him with his shoulder. "You got something to do though, right? On the day? You won't be alone?"

"I do," Scott said and it was a relief not to lie.

There wasn't anything in Carter that suggested he'd be an asshole about Scott's sexual preferences. Since Carter joined the Admirals, he had made it his business to befriend Scott like someone had given him an assignment. When Scott had asked about it once in the middle of a drunken haze, Carter had given him a long unusually solemn look and said, "First day of training camp, you showed me a trick shot and told me if anyone ever fucked with me to tell you and you'd deck them. No one ever did shit like that for me before on a team."

"That's normal stuff," Scott had said. "You watch out for the new guy."

"That's only true in your head," Carter had sighed and topped off Scott's drink. "Especially when the new guy isn't white."

Intellectually, Scott understood that was true, but he spent so much time concerned about hiding his identity that he had missed things about people who had to wear them openly. Once Carter brought it to his attention, Scott made it his business to focus on it and hadn't liked what he found. He went about correcting it with a lot of 'I don't get that joke, what do you mean?' conversations and more than once in the clear understanding that if it happened again, someone's nose was getting broken and Scott didn't particularly care whose.

These days, the Admiral locker room wasn't respectful by any means, but the guys generally knew you shut up about a lot of things if Hunter was in the room and by extension, one of his inner circle. That made them worlds better than most.

So Scott might be able to tell Carter. He might. He didn't. It was too much to imagine someone in the room knowing. Like he'd be wearing a sign on his forehead that the others could too quickly read.

"Anyone I know?" Carter asked, blissfully unaware of Scott ticking over the reasons to keep lying to the person he was probably closest to in the world. "Or do you have a charity thing?"

"Just a thing for people without plans," Scott said which had all the benefit of being true. "Keep each other company, you know."

"Okay, be mysterious," Carter rolled his eyes. "If you're having a sneaky Christmas hookup, you can just say that. Is she hot?"

"Would I have a sneaky Christmas hookup with someone I thought wasn't hot?" Scott asked.

"Damn!" Carter grinned at him. "I didn't think you'd confirm. Good for you. Something serious?"

"Not even a little. But we're having a good time."

"That's all most of us want, right? I'm glad you've got plans. I worry."

"Worry about yourself," Scott said. "How long has it been since Heather?"

"Shut up, man," Carter groaned. "She still calls me sometimes."

"Heather?" Eric guessed, emerging from the showers with what seemed like forty towels on him.

"Are you a mummy?" Scott asked.

"The hot water turned off mid-shower," Eric said flatly. "I'm freezing to death. Do you think maintenance is trying to kill me in particular?"

That distraction gave Scott cover from any further holiday conversation. They only had a few days off and everyone cleared out to make the most of them as soon as they got the go ahead. On the way home, Scott dipped into a grocery store and loaded up on provisions.

For the past month, Scott had watched every Metros game, usually recorded thanks to clashing schedules. He'd always liked following other teams, but he'd had a vested interest this time. Cheering on Hollander was a satisfying pastime. His team was starting to coalesce around him, the same way Boston was starting to get with the program around Rozanov.

The Metros setting Hollander up for more success meant he'd started racking up goals. Scott never had to do the math himself, all the commentators couldn't wait to update the audience on the goal competition. Last night, Scott had jumped off the coach in triumph as Hollander sunk one deep into the net.

NYTH: I'll buy you a train ticket.

BH: This is not fair. He has extra game, plays one more than me.

NYTH: You agreed to the terms. You back out of bets now too?

BH: No train. I drive.

NYTH: You're going to drive here from Boston during Christmas week? Your funeral. Hope you have a long playlist to listen to.

BH: Fly then.

NYTH: For sure no one will notice you in two busy airports. You can get a private car on the train. I'll spring for Acela. Three and a half hours and then I'll send a car service to get you from the station.

BH: I am fancy mistress now.

NYTH: I'd need to be married for you to be a mistress.

BH: What is name for man who spends too much money on hot young woman so she fucks him?

NYTH: I'm not teaching you that one.

BH: I will ask someone else then.

NYTH: Enjoy that conversation. When do you want to get here?

BH: I have meeting morning of 23. Afternoon is good.

NYTH: Ok, let me see what we can do.

Getting tickets at the last minute on Christmas week was nearly impossible, but Scott had a lot of money that he rarely spent and a lot of patience with being on hold. Now all he had to do was stock up on food and wonder what the fuck he was going to do with a randy Rozanov for at least two and a half days locked up in his apartment. Aside from the obvious.

Hence the grocery store. Scott's usual shopping habits were scatter shot during the season. He kept his freezer stocked so there was always something to thaw out when he got back from away games. Some of the other single guys had services that did things for them, but Scott liked to cook when he had time. Off season he even got a little creative.

Today, he went in with a list and started filling a cart like he was a bear readying for hibernation. The quick glimpse into Rozanov's fridge hadn't told him much about his preferences, so Scott went broad. He figured anything they didn't polish off, he could manage later by himself.

The cashier rang him up, scanning over the enormously full cart judgmentally, but stayed silent. Scott loved New York.

Getting everything up to his apartment in one trip was a very stupid thing to attempt, but Scott was pleased to manage in anyway. Squaring everything away, Scott turned on the basketball game and started cooking.

Scott never bothered with a tree. Who would be it be for? But he did string a single line of white fairy lights over his windows and on a whim, he turned them on early. Maybe it wasn't a wonderland of celebration, but with the food smells it did make things at least a little festive.

Dinner taken care of and chopping done for a few other meals, Scott cleaned the kitchen back to its usual spotless condition before taking another shower. He couldn't exactly do thorough prep in the locker room showers. Wouldn't that be a conversation starter?

He didn't worry about his outfit or even bother styling his hair. If Rozanov had a problem with his plain pajama bottoms and t-shirt, he could remove them.

That left him about ten minutes to have the edges of repressed anxiety start to seep in. What the fuck was he doing? Why had he even thought for a second this was good idea? They could barely stand each other for two hours at a go and Scott was going to let Rozanov into his apartment for sixty of them?

What would they even say to each other? What if they were so thoroughly sick of each other by tomorrow morning that they had to figure out how to get Rozanov back to Boston on Christmas Eve? What if Scott murdered him out of sheer frustration? He didn't have anywhere to hide a body.

The buzzer sounded and Scott's heart almost broke out of his chest.

"Fuck," he laughed at himself. "Good start."

He checked the grainy camera to see Rozanov, beanie pulled low over his brow and a bag over his shoulder. Any college-aged guy waiting impatiently for a hookup. What a disaster. Scott hit the button and the elevator slid open.

It would probably be better to pretend he was busy with something when Rozanov arrived, so Scott went to the kitchen island and then…just stood there. The second half of the idea never came to him, so the elevator door opened to him staring into space, contemplating all his terrible life choices.

"Hello," Rozanov said and the word was so tense that Scott found new air to breathe.

If Rozanov was nervous than Scott could deal with all this. If he'd been calm, that would've been a death knell to Scott's central nervous system.

"Hey," Scott said. "You can put your bag in the bedroom if you want. It's through there."

The gesture toward the other end of the apartment was aborted as Rozanov surged at him. A split second later, Scott was being pressed against the island, an absurd amount of talented Russian idiot holding him in place. The kiss was challenging, desperate and probably trying to cover for the tension in every one of Rozanov's muscles.

Scott kissed him back and got his hands between Rozanov's coat and hoodie, rubbing over the soft cotton.

"Hey," Scott said when their lips parted. "Good ride in?"

"Was okay. Your country is ugly from train," Rozanov said.

"Uh huh. But you weren't sitting in a car for eight hours."

"I like driving. But I also like having sugar daddy," the words were delivered with that flirtatious purr only Rozanov could manage, so it took a second for them sink in.

"No," Scott said firmly.

"Yes," Rozanov shrugged off his coat and pulled off his hat in one elegant movement, letting them spill onto the floor, then followed them down, his hands sweeping over Scott's chest, stomach and thighs. "You take such good care of me, yes? Now I take care of you."

"That's not-" Scott started, but Rozanov's clever fingers were already on him, pulling down his loose bottoms and making a pleased sound when he discovered Scott hadn't bothered with underwear.

"Excited to see me?" Rozanov asked with that cocky crooked grin.

"Yes," Scott admitted

That actually froze Rozanov for two whole seconds. Scott might as well have knocked him out for how stunned he looked. Before Scott could soften the blow with a joke, Rozanov went back into action, taking a folded up piece of paper out of his hoodie pocket and holding up to Scott with an expectant look.

"I have to read that right now?" Scott asked, taking it.

"Take you two seconds unless you are very slow reader. Are you?"

Ignoring that, Scott unfolded it and found medical test results. An STI panel. Negative all across the board. Rozanov had circled the date (December 19) and drawn a winky face emoji next to it.

"So no condoms?" Rozanov asked hopefully, apparently happy to linger on his knees. Scott's betraying cock twitched in interest.

"You don't know what I have," Scott pointed out.

"Have you fucked anyone since me?" Rozanov put so much skepticism in the question that Scott wanted to lie out of sheer spite.

"No," he admitted. Instead of teasing, Rozanov's licked his lips, face all anticipation. Goddammit. Scott's head was wired wrong. "Yeah, fine, no condoms."

The instant payoff of Rozanov diving in like someone might time him made Scott impossibly harder inside the silky heat of his mouth. Scott clutched at the counter behind him, watching Rozanov's lips flush pink around him and his eyelids grow heavy as he concentrated on his task. Had Rozanov been thinking about this all through his journey or was that all or nothing switch always waiting to be flipped?

"Yeah, fuck, just like that," Scott groaned as Rozanov settled into a demanding pace, riding it out, pleasure building until he had to say, "Fuck…okay, okay. I don't want to come in the kitchen."

Rozanov pulled off, a single gossamer string of saliva connecting the head of Scott's cock to his mouth. "Why?"

"There's no way that's sanitary," Scott said.

"What is this?" Rozanov sighed.

"Not clean for food."

"You eat food off floor?" Rozanov lifted his eyebrows. "Like dog?"

"One of us is on the floor right now, buddy, and it ain't me."

"You will be soon," Rozanov said with an unfortunately well-deserved certainty. "I will not spit come on your floor. Sink is right there."

"You swallow," Scott pointed out.

"Yes, sometimes. So what are we stopping about?"

That was an excellent point, but Scott still didn't like it. "We have days. Enough time to lay down about it."

The sound Rozanov made was so derogatory that it was comic. By sheer will, Scott repressed a laugh.

"Fine," Rozanov stood planted his shoulder against Scott's chest and then picked him clean off the floor.

"Put me down!" Scott ordered, not daring to flail in case Rozanov decided it would be funnier to drop him.

"No," Rozanov said and walked through the living room to dump Scott on the couch like a sack of potatoes, his pants still pooled around his ankles. "Better?"

"What the fuck," Scott breathed out. "Did you practice that?"

"No," the smugness was back. But fuck it. Let him be smug. Scott was a little lightheaded.

It only got worse as Rozanov shucked off his own clothes, crawled over Scott's legs and settled back in to sucking his cock like the whole thing had been a minor inconvenience. Maybe it had. Scott lasted a minute and a half after all that and before Rozanov could gloat, Scott got his hand into his curls, a leg around his waist and flipped them over, pinning Rozanov down with his knees on either side of his chest.

"Hello," Rozanov grinned up at him.

"Hi," Scott smiled back at him, loose-limbed and relaxed now. "You know what I've always wanted to try?"

"Mm, being good at hockey?" Rozanov suggested.

"I'm sitting on your chest," Scott pointed out. "Not your best moment to mouth off."

Strong hands cupped Scott's ass, massaging in a way that sent pings of pleasure through a lot of Scott's nerve endings, despite or maybe because of his recent orgasm.

"I do not know what you have not done."

"Never been eaten out," Scott said and had been aiming for casual, but he was hot all over just thinking about it. "Didn't seem like a one night stand thing. Are you into that or is it gross for you?"

Rozanov's fingers dug in a little more. "I eat pussy a lot. Never that…there was no time."

"No pressure. And hey, I know you only top, but even straight guys try a finger in the ass sometimes. I'll try it for you too, if you want."

There went Rozanov's 'doing calculus' face. "Not tonight."

"Nah. Figured take the edge off, then eat dinner. Watch something if you want. No idea what your usual schedule is, but during the season, I'm in bed by ten."

"Sometimes that early," Rozanov said, apparently entirely comfortable with having this conversation with Scott sitting on him. "Night before games. Not on days off. Then 3 or 4 in the morning."

"Have fun without me," Scott snorted. "I only see the dawn from the other side."

"Mm, maybe if you make me very tired." The massaging started again and it was very compelling. "I will try your old man sleep."

"Brat," Scott pulled out of his grip and eased down a little.

They had time and Rozanov's chest was worth exploring in the warm light of Scott's carefully chosen lamps. He should have turned on the fireplace. Rozanov would glow in firelight. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow.

They had time. And now that they were here together that didn't seem so daunting or frightening. It seemed like a gift.

Scott took his time giving head like he had nowhere else to be because he didn't. Rozanov's hand wandered, those callouses rough over Scott's shoulders and neck, and into his hair. It was lush to suck and lick without thinking about clearing out, making sure his face wasn't too closely scrutinized. Scott almost felt a pang of regret when Rozanov gave a choked warning. He pulled off and jerked him off through the end to give his throat a break.

Watching another man finish was always transfixing, the warm splash of come on Scott's hand and pearly droplets landing on Rozanov's stomach making Scott's mouth water.

"I am so gay," Scott said as Rozanov went boneless and soft under him.

"Is this news?"

"Not really, but also kind of. Here," Scott plucked a few tissues from the box on the coffee table. "You hungry?"

"Always."

Cooking with someone else around wasn't new. Scott had had the guys around every once and a while though they generally gravitated towards Greg's place. Carter's apartment was frankly a devastating wreck despite his very nice housekeeper and Eric lived on Long Island, a baffling and annoying choice.

When they did come to Scott's, they would usually hang out around the couch if Scott was making something. Sometimes they would tease him about how intense he was with the knife or shout out shitty advice. Except for Eric who cooked too. His advice was helpful and sometimes they swapped recipes. So Scott was okay with people around while he cooked in theory.

In practice, it was entirely different with Rozanov. For one thing, his attention never wavered off Scott as he parked himself on the other side of the island. He did have his phone out and he sent a few texts, but Scott was acutely aware that every time he moved from one task to the other, Rozanov was tracking him .

He also asked questions. Not even poking at Scott, just apparently curious.

"You crush the garlic first?"

"Makes it easier to peel," Scott said and showed him how the paper fell away.

"Why to do cut like this?" Mimicking the claw Scott had made of his left hand.

"It's safer. Keeps you from cutting off your fingertips."

The questions peppered over him and eventually, Scott had to ask, "Do you cook?"

"Yes, sometimes. But not like..." Rozanov waved at Scott's cutting board. "Whatever you are doing."

"I'm making Bolognese sauce, not doing rocket science."

"I do not make sauce then," Rozanov determined.

"What do you make?"

"Simple. Chicken, vegetable, potatoes. Plans from nutritionist that come with cards. You get these too?"

"Sure, when I was starting out. But I already knew how to cook. The school I went to was big on life skills and I didn't skip out on that stuff."

Rozanov nodded, "I learn a little from watching when I was a child. Now from TV too sometimes."

"Food Network?" Scott nodded. "Yeah, I watch it a lot to when my time zones are all screwed up."

The sigh Rozanov issued could've been measured on a seismic scale. "Fucking hate time zones."

"International ones are worse," Scott conceded, then pointed the tip of the knife at him. "C'mon, I'll show you how to do the claw thing with your hand."

"I can see," Rozanov said, but he got up anyway and came around the island.

He was a fast learner which wasn't particularly surprising, especially for a physical skill. Once Scott showed him how to dice properly, he whizzed through the onions and he took clear pleasure in slicing the garlic wafer thin which barely mattered for this recipe, but it was…

Nice. It was just nice to have him there, being a pest and also helping and the apartment filling with good smells as Scott browned the ground turkey and Rozanov hovered over the softening onions like they might burn to spite him.

Eating was almost besides the point afterwards though it was nice to watch Rozanov devour things appreciatively, even if he heaped an ungodly amount of Parmesan onto his plate.

"If you get hungry again later, there's a lot of precut fruit and things in the fridge. Help yourself, except for the mango. If you finish that off, I'm sending you out to buy more and I don't care who sees you."

"Oh?" Rozanov gave him a look. "You will send me out in the freezing cold to buy you out of season fruit?"

"Is it out of season? Looked pretty good," Scott considered. "But yes. Yes, I would. Accept a boundary. I believe in you."

Rozanov flipped him off which would've been more effective if he wasn't still hoovering down his second serving.

"This is no way to treat your sugar baby."

"Oh my god," Scott said around a mouthful of noodles. "Who did you even ask about that?"

"My coach."

"What?" Scott choked, started coughing and had to drink a lot of water to clear himself out.

"Your face," Rozanov said giddily. "Google, Hunter. Fucking breathe."

"Google," Scott repeated, still coughing a little. "I hate you."

"You are supposed to fall in love with me, buy me many pretty gifts and then be sad when I leave you for hotter man my own age. This is what the stories said."

"You read a romance novel or something?" Was Scott dying?

"No, porn stories."

"What's the difference?"

Rozanov seriously considered that. "How long they are."

"Okay," he resigned himself to knowing this about Rozanov. "I'm not buying you pretty things."

"Yes, I thought you might be bad at this too," Rozanov sighed. "I have terrible taste in sugar daddies."

"I will pay you to stop saying those words."

He probably shouldn't have admitted that because Rozanov's eyes lit up like a fucking Christmas tree that Scott didn't have. Apparently though, he decided to bide his time and returned his attention to eating instead of pushing Scott's sanity closer and closer to the edge of a cliff.

"I've got three games saved up to watch, but we could do a movie instead," Scott offered as he cleared the plates.

To his surprise, Rozanov intercepted and started scrapping their bowls into the trash and then going to rinse them off in the sink before setting them into the dishwasher. For a brief, insane, second, Scott considered protesting that he was a guest, but it was the first spontaneous act of manners that Scott had ever witnessed Rozanov pull off. He backed away and let it happen.

"Movie," Rozanov said. "No work on holidays. Not a hockey movie."

"Got a preference? We can see what's on demand, but I have a couple of DVDs from Netflix and a handful I bought, but haven't gotten around to. I keep a list so I don't get choice paralysis."

"What the fuck is that?" Rozanov asked as if the weight of not understanding was maybe crushing him a little.

"Too many choices so you can't choose anything," Scott said.

"Ah. Yes. This happens sometimes to me too. Does list help?"

"Sometimes."

He read Rozanov titles and they migrated from the clean enough kitchen back to the couch. Scott sat down like a normal person and Rozanov sort of melted artistically arranged his limbs in a way that could charitably be called sitting on the other side.

"Black Swan? Is that ballet movie?"

"Yeah, I heard some good things about the performances," Scott said. "Why?"

"I saw trailer. Very intense."

"Think it might get a few Oscars noms. Could be interesting?"

"Yes, fine." Rozanov said as if Scott had foisted it on him.

The performances were great. Scott winced as Nina pushed her body and mind to the breaking point. The hallucinations, the shrill fears cut through him. It only occurred to him halfway through that Rozanov had gone quiet. He had folded up one knee, wrapping his arm around it, watching with blank-faced intensity. So he wasn't a chatty movie watcher. Interesting.

Then Nina was committing her most horrible act and Rozanov inhaled sharply as if he'd felt it himself.

The movie faded out over the credits and Scott took a full breath for the first time in awhile himself.

"Jesus, that was intense," he said. "I can see why people were talking about it."

"Yes," Rozanov said vaguely. "Do you think it was real? Or did she really…"

"I don't know. I hope not. It's hard to imagine being so lost in something that you make up that level of delusion. That mother was a piece of work, huh?"

"She wanted too much. It kills her daughter and she does not even see," Rozanov agreed, then shook himself a little. "You want to go to bed after that?"

"Maybe not. Letterman should be on. Probably a re-run though."

"No talk shows. That is old man shit," Rozanov pulled a face.

"But the Food Network is fine?"

"It is useful at least."

Which was how Scott discovered the Rozanov loved Guy Fieri with a startling and earnestly sincere passion.

"This is good food," Rozanov insisted as Guy tackled a mound of meat and cheese that gave Scott heartburn to look at. "He understands."

"Understands what?"

"What it means to be alive."

"Okay then."

By the end of a second journey into greasetown, Scott started cracking yawns.

"I'm going to bed. Coming?"

"Soon," Rozanov's predatory snake look was back in action and Scott welcomed it.

Standing, Scott turned off the TV and headed for the bedroom with the slow saunter that he hoped would invite contact. At first there was no movement behind him and he thought he'd read things wrong, but then a sigh of cushions and those quiet bare feet. Scott almost made it to the bed before he was tackled down and he welcomed it.

Instead of wrestling or even pretending to fight him off, Scott got down to the business of at last rendering himself naked, the full press of warm skin pressed against him a fantastic reward for capitulation. His nose briefly smashed against Rozanov's shoulder and then more intentionally against his neck where he sucked a soft pink mark that would disappear as quickly as it had come while Rozanov dragged his fingertips over Scott's ribs.

Instead of the usual bullshit bodysprays the younger guys used, close up Rozanov smelled a little like woodsmoke and warm spices. The kind of cologne that Scott didn't the patience or interest to find for himself, but loved on other men.

"How do you still smell good after a train ride and cutting garlic?" he complained.

"I wash my hands," Rozanov said with a pleased smile. "You do not do this? Mr. Sanitary?"

"Shut up," Scott groaned. "Fuck me."

"No please? What happens to manners? Only good for you to lecture me about?"

Scott bit back an annoyed groan. "Fuck me. Please."

"Give me reason. Maybe I am tired."

Scott stared up at him, Rozanov stared back, apparently happy to wait for Scott to compel him.

"I prepped before you got here. I need a little more lube, it's been too long, but we can just go otherwise. If that's not compelling, that you're fuck out of luck."

"Really?" Rozanov asked.

"Yes, really."

"Maybe I fuck you then. Since you ask nicely. But…" Rozanov drifted off and Scott braced himself. "Next time, maybe do not do this?"

It took Scott a second to parse that and then he was smiling up at him like an idiot. "You like prepping me?"

The shrug filled in a lot of words. "I like all of it."

"Me too," Scott said and got a leg up over Rozanov's waist to draw him closer right where he wanted it. "But we've got time and they'll be another chance. C'mon, lube is on the side table."

As if to prove he'd retained things, Rozanov started off fucking Scott so slow and careful that it was maddening. He added a lot of lube to the situation and got Scott's legs up over his shoulders. Rozanov eased into Scott with a commanding hand on Scott's thigh and his head hanging low so he could watch their bodies join. He moved with glacier slowness, eyes narrowed as he focused on it.

Scott dug his hands into the duvet cover and let it happen. Let himself be broken open with the golden flash of Rozanov's cross hanging over him in a parody of a thousand church services. Maybe this was holy too. Fuck it. It was holy. Filthy maybe, but tinged with the sacredness of ritual and consideration. Scott gave himself up to another power for the first time in years, even if it was only another flesh and blood man.

When he bottomed out, Rozanov leaned down and kissed him, the cross dragging over Scott's chest in a small, pointed caress.

"You are so tight," Rozanov murmured. "Next time you let me lick you open."

"Yeah," Scott breathed out. "That was my idea, remember?"

"Yes," Rozanov sucked Scott's lower lip into his mouth and traced the tip of his tongue over it. "Very fucking hot."

And then he drew back only an inch or two and rocked back into Scott at just the right angle to catch his prostate. Scott threw back his head. "Fuck…"

"Mmmm, yes." Rozanov drew back a little.

With far too much confidence, Rozanov pinned Scott's shoulder down with one hand, got the other around the waist to hitch him up even further and fucked him with slow intensity until Scott was a mess. He panted and moaned, writhing without sensibility. Somewhere in there, he started begging though he couldn't say for what. Maybe he'd put words to his needs though because Roazanov wrapped one hand around his cock, those gorgeous callouses right where they needed to be.

The momentum built slowly, a corkscrew winding tighter and tighter inside of Scott until the pressure released all at once and he came in pulsing waves.

"So good at that," Scott murmured. "You're so fucking good at this. You can finish, if you want."

"I did," Rozanov said and ducked down to press a single kiss to Scott's chest before he pulled out slowly and rolled voer to lay beside him. "I do a few more so you come too."

"You stayed hard enough for that?"

"You did not need much." It wasn't teasing at all, factual and maybe a little pleased.

Scott rolled up onto his side, the quick tinge of an ache widening his grin. "Thank you."

"Ech," Rozanov wrinkled his nose, his pretty blue eyes sparkling a little. "You are predictable."

"Reliable things can be good," Scott said. "C'mon, my shower is pretty good."

That was an understatement. Scott had invested in his bathroom and at the first hint of the intensity of the water pressure, Rozanov made such a deep noise of pleasure that Scott glanced down to see if he was getting hard again.

"You can do this in apartment?"

"If you pay the plumber enough, you can do pretty much anything," Scott said amused.

"Forget bed. I sleep in here," Rozanov declared and rested his forehead on Scott's shoulder.

Rested a lot of weight on him. Enough that Scott's only recourse was to wrap his arms around him so they both didn't fall over. It wasn't a hug, exactly. But it wasn't not one either. So what. No one was watching, but them. Scott closed his eyes and nosed into Rozanov's curls, even more clingy than usual with droplets of water dotted through them like jewels.

"Do you like pancakes?"

"Yes," Rozanov said. "America is very good making sugar for every meal. I like this."

"I try to stick to oatmeal. but fuck it. It's the holidays."

"Party animal," Rozanov said dryly and Scott laughed.

He hugged him a little closer and Rozanov didn't try to get away.

In bed, they left room between them. Scott had agreed to a king-size when his interior designer suggested it so the room didn't feel 'cavernous' and the end result was that he usually felt lost on his own mattress. With someone else taking up the other side, it was a little better. Maybe because he'd come twice or maybe it was the unwinding of several days of nerves, but Scott dropped off almost instantly and remembered no dreams.

Scott always fell asleep on his side, but tended to wake on his back, so he wasn't surprised to open his eyes to the ceiling. He was a little surprised to have an arm over his chest and Rozanov's face smashed against his arm. The annoying fucker was a mouth breather, but it was kind of cute, especially with the first fingers of early morning light painting his eyelashes gold where they curved over his cheek.

His mole, stark and pointed, obnoxious as the rest of him made it impossible to pretend he was anyone else. And who else would he be? Scott couldn't imagine this working any other way. Asleep, Rozanov's face was still striking, but veered into the suggestion of sweetness.

One eye opened fractionally, a hint of that clear incisive blue then disappearing again. A moment. Then a lock up as Rozanov took stock of where he'd wound up. Taking pity, Scott shoved him over and dragged his morning wood over one firm thigh. It felt good enough that he did it again.

"You want something, Hunter?" Rozanov asked, eyes still closed. His lips were ticking up at the edges. "I should wake up?"

"I mean, you can just lay there if you want, I'm good this way," Scott said.

"Mm, no," Rozanov pulled Scott over him more completely and Scott went agreeably, the hot brand of Rozanov's cock against his own a much better delight. "Better."

It was better. Scott did most of the work, but it wasn't exactly hard to rut against Rozanov, in the warm slice of sun coming through the curtains. He concentrated on the long column of his neck, and then discovering exactly how long Rozanov liked having his nipples sucked (ten to fifteen seconds at a time max, but he definitely enjoyed it the whole time).

In the full light and in Scott's hand, Rozanov came with his eyebrows drawn together, mouth pinched up tight and then relaxed entirely, almost back into sleep. When Scott came all over his stomach, Rozanov ran a finger through the mess and stuck it in his mouth without opening his eyes, sucking the come off like it was honey.

"Fuck," Scott groaned. "I wish you weren't as hot as you thought you were."

"Mm, sucks to be you," Rozanov declared with a yawn. "What time is it?"

"Six."

"Bad hour," Rozanov declared and then apparently actually fell back asleep.

If it hadn't been in Scott's bed, he would've left him like that, but as it was, Scott perfunctorily wiped the rest of the come off Rozanov's stomach with tissues and then left him to it. A quick rinse and the unobserved joy of pissing in the shower later, Scott returned to the kitchen and quietly made pancake batter to set it in the fridge for when they were both up and ate a banana to stave off hunger.

Then Scott simply stood, in his kitchen, profoundly aware that he wasn't alone. At six am.

Maybe Rozanov would sleep for hours yet or be awake in twenty minutes, but either way, Scott knew there was company at hand and at no point today would he be alone. His whole job required being around big groups of people all the time, but this place, his home, had long been a quiet fortress. The place he was almost always alone.

Scott smiled down at the spotless marble counter top for a full minute. Normally he'd use the building's gym at this hour, but the thought simply didn't appeal. Instead, he got out his phone, stretched out on the couch and scrolled his feeds, not really letting anything settle in. Around seven, there was the sound of motion. The bathroom was put to use, then Rozanov ambled out in only the tiny underwear that barely contained him, took in Scott's sprawl and asked, "Coffee?"

"Oh, you want?"

"Yes." They stared at each other. Scott raised his eyebrows until Rozanov groaned and threw himself down over Scott's legs. "Coffee, please so I do not have enormous headache and forget not to bite you until you bleed."

"Wow," Scott said. "Motivating."

"Hunter," he whined. "Please."

"I can do espresso if you want," Scott relented. The whining was kind of awful and cute at the same time, especially paired with Rozanov sprawled over him. Like a German Shepard trying to be a lap dog.

"Yes, I want."

The machine was finicky, but Scott cajoled espressos for them as he heat up a pan on the stove. It was a little ridiculous how nice it was, piles of golden pancakes, mounded with berries, coffee and a sleepy head of tousled curls across the island. Scott didn't bother with syrup, but Rozanov drowned his in it. Everything smelled like coffee and sugar.

"These I like," Rozanov said earnestly.

"Yeah, I can tell," Scott laughed. "You've got a sweet tooth."

"Yes, the team tells me this. I drink too much Coke, they say."

"How much is too much?"

Rozanov shrugged. "Two, three cans before practice? I don't know. I like it more than energy drinks that taste like licking battery."

"I hate those too," Scott allowed. "Carter drinks Monster every morning and then he talks like he's being chased by a pack of wolves for two hours. Coke can't be that much better."

"I like it," Rozanov shrugged. "You have gym here?"

"Yeah, there's one in the building. But if you want a workout…"

"You want to fuck again?"

"Not yet. You're not exactly easy to take on."

"You are sore?" Rozanov asked, surveying him like he could see the damage through Scott's reinstated t-shirt and pajama pants.

"Little bit, yeah. Take it as compliment. But I'm sure we can figure something out."

They figured a few things out and then it was Scott's turn to take a nap. He woke to clean dishes and the sound of muffled Russian rising and falling in the other room. At least he hoped it was Russian and not English that Rozanov had finally stolen of his tongue and out of his brain completely.

Judging by the way Rozanov was pacing around the kitchen, gesturing with his free hand as he talked into the phone, whoever was on the other end was not making him very happy. When he caught Scott watching him, he slowed down, grimacing and said a few very crisp things before hanging up.

"Sorry, didn't mean to…" Scott trailed off. He was in his own home and it wasn't like he could understand anyway.

"Is fine. My brother."

"He sounds like a lot of fun," Scott said carefully.

"Yes. So much," Rozanov shook his head. "I want to watch Vancouver and Toronto."

"What happened to no work?"

"They say that someone lost teeth and I would like to see this now."

"Yeah, all right," Scott said. "I hope it was fucking Kent. I know he's in your rookie year-"

"No, I also hate him," Rozanov said with some surprise. "Why do you?"

"I heard him say some extremely shitty things in the only five minutes I ever met him. You?"

"Yes, like this," Rozanov grimaced. "I say many things, but not the kind of things he says."

"Yeah, you're a normal asshole, he's a fucking piece of shit."

"Take this back. I am not normal," Rozanov said as if Scott had insulted his homeland.

"I'm so sorry," Scott said. "You are an unusually big fucking asshole."

"Thank you," Rozanov's smile made a small reappearance.

The day just…went. It was a little weird not to leave the apartment, but otherwise, it was some sort of normal. The game was a good one. It was sadly not Kent who had gotten his clock cleaned, but it was one of his cronies, so that was okay. They made sandwiches for lunch and turned on Scott's oft forgotten about PlayStation and proved neither of them were much good at Street Fighter despite Rozanov's very impressive shit talking.

For a while, they did their own thing too. Scott broke out his laptop and made a few notes in his running document that he just called 'stuff'. It wasn't a journal if you didn't call it that. It was just a place where sometimes he wrote things. Most of them didn't make sense and he never ever re-read them.

Today, with the view of Rozanov scrolling through something on his phone over the top of his computer Scott wrote,

what if this is okay to have what then

He stared at the words for far too long, then saved the document and closed it. That was quite enough of that. Instead, he wrote holiday emails to a few of the guys on other teams that he liked enough to talk to at parties.

"I'm going to shower," he decided when that was done. "I feel rancid."

"Rancid," Rozanov repeated. "Is this like disgusting?"

"Yeah, but specifically with the idea of rotting too."

The wrinkled nose said a lot. "You like gross words."

"Mm, sometimes," Scott said.

Rozanov was waiting for him on the bed when he emerged. He'd done away with his underwear, the only piece of clothing he'd deemed to wear all day anyway.

"I want to try now," Rozanov said. "Let me? If you are not sore."

Scott was a little, but only enough to make it interesting.

"Yeah, all right. Kiss me first."

Winding up on his stomach was inevitable, but Rozanov kept his hand planted on Scott's back like he might try to get up. It was nice, especially as the vulnerability of the rest of it spiked icy-hot nerves through Scott's veins. On his knees, legs spread, open to inspection by a man that had no apparent physical shame.

Nimble fingers parted him further and Scott made a new kind of moan into his duvet cover. He really had to strip that off and put on the spare before they went to bed tonight. The brief detour of thought derailed, fell off the tracks and burst into flames as a tiny point of heat made contact with his hole.

Scott went utterly still. He barely breathed. Then that clever tongue flicked over him and he knew he was fucking doomed. Like he must've once done with hockey itself, Rozanov took to eating ass like a duck to water. The tip of his tongue circled and circled until Scott was dizzy with it, his breathing coming in sharp pants. Then he flattened his tongue against him and just licked which was maddening in a new way.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Scott swore his forehead pressed to his forearm for any kind of stability and sense.

That only egged Rozanov on. A few more laves of his tongue and then he was pushing in, the deftness of the intrusion melting Scott's spine. The remaining sensitivity from last night was only adding to things, the mere suggestion of more pooling heat in Scott's stomach and cock.

"More…please…"

And Rozanov delivered. He licked and thrust and his hands were everywhere now. Touching everything. Every inch of Scott hummed with blistering want and need.

"Fuck me," he pleaded. "I don't…I'm going to go fucking crazy if you don't."

That was all Rozanov needed. There was a clatter as the lube almost went to floor, barely saved and Scott couldn't even appreciate the deftness involved, too focused on what came after. Any nicety in Scott went out the window. As soon as Rozanov had slicked himself, Scott pointed and said, "Lay down."

Rozanov went down like a lightening-struck tree, watching with open-mouthed fuckstruck awe as Scott straddled him and took Rozanov's cock into him with the kind of determination that Scott usually only had on the ice. He got his hands on Rozanov's pecs for leverage, did a few experimental bounces, found the the one that made his entire body shudder and then it was off the the races.

Scott fucked himself on Rozanov like he was possessed by the devil to do so and he had absolutely no regrets. It helped that Rozanov started saying things in broken bits of Russian as he reached back to grab at Scott's waist and ass, kneading and encouraging him without trying to take over.

Scott took himself in hand only to have it batted away and Rozanov seized him again, his hand still lube slick and that was insanely hot. Scott made the mistake of looking down at the wrong moment. Their eyes caught and Scott got lost in icy blue as he came with something that might've been a whimper.

Rozanov stared up at him, grabbed Scott's hips and drove up into him one more time, only the expression on his face betraying that he was finishing so deep inside Scott that it felt like it hit the back of Scott's throat.

"That was…..," Scott sagged a little, but managed to keep holding himself up on his knees by sheer will. His breathing was a mess. "Incredible."

"I like this too," Rozanov said, his chest still heaving.

"Go brush your teeth so I can kiss you," Scott said, summoning his left leg to move and letting gravity do the rest as he crashed down to the mattress, barely missing crushing Rozanov's arm.

"No ass to mouth?" Rozanov asked with a slight pout.

"Are you out of your fucking mind? Go."

Just like he'd laid down, Rozanov obediently got up and disappeared into the bathroom. Surely the calm before the defiant storm, but Scott would take it. Especially when it meant he got kissed with a sharp spike of mint a few minutes later when everything was starting to feel a little weird and maybe wrong.

"You should try it," Scott said, nipping a little at Rozanov's neck out sheer bewildered affection. "We don't have to fuck about it. Could just be added fun for a handjob or something."

"Mm, no," Rozanov said. "Not now."

"Now?" Scott asked incredulously. "I'm not sure how I'm getting in the shower right now, let alone doing anything else. Not all of us are part-machine, holy shit."

"Shut up, Hunter," Rozanov said a little fondly.

"No."

"It would be best. You are saying very stupid shit," Rozanov advised. "I am all machine. Fuck machine."

"I did all the work, fuck machine, and that's not what I meant."

"I do some of the work," Rozanov said affronted. "I lick you so good, you go fucking crazy."

"Yeah, okay," Scott gave him another kiss for that. "Good work, brat. It was great. But no to the other part. I have a new rule."

"So many rules," Rozanov rolled onto his back. "You are tiring."

"Yeah, you're really being put through it," Scott scoffed. "New rule is no one calls me my last name after they've stuck their tongue in my ass."

"This is very specific," Rozanov said. "A rule just for me. Unfair."

And then the reality of what Scott said must've struck him because he went very still and quiet.

"Listen," Scott said, a little more softly. "I don't want anything from you, but what we're doing. It's just also kind of fucked to hear 'Hunter' during sex. It's like I'm in a locker room. All my actual friends call me Scott most of the time."

"We are not friends," Rozanov said and that might've hurt if Scott took him seriously. It was pretty hard to when they had spent all day enjoying each other's company in a pretty good paradoy of friendship.

"No? So…you do this with strangers a lot then?"

Rozanov shrugged. "I fuck a lot."

"No shit. You always stay the night, eat meals and watch movies too?"

"With Svetlana," the admittance came with a cost, Rozanov threw his arm over his face, cutting off any ability for Scott to make out his expression.

"Okay. Tell me about her." Silence. "Or not. Is she a friend?" Reluctantly, Rozanov nodded once. "That sounds like a first name. Svetlana. It's a beautiful name."

"She is very beautiful," Rozanov said and it came out tender. Soft. Not lustful.

"Okay. What does she call you?"

"No," Rozanov said.

"Okay," Scott said slowly. "You know, a startlingly fitting nickname for you, but if I call you that, you won't know when I'm also telling you to cut shit out."

The laugh was nice, it broke the moment a little and Rozanov dropped his arm. "Your name is terrible."

"Wow."

"You sound like sponge."

"That's Scotch, you dickhead," Scott groaned.

"Same thing."

"That's not fair, if I do that to your name, I'm being xenophobic or something. Look if this is that fucking painful for you, we can switch to endearments. What do you think? Want to be my muffin? Honey? Pussy cat? Oh! I know, how about-"

"None of this."

"I don't know. Now I'm thinking that you look like a sweetheart."

"This is insane. Ilya. I'm Ilya only."

"Ilya," Scott said with some satisfaction.

It took him hours to realize that he'd played himself. Rozanov was the obnoxious asshole that stole the puck from Scott with the kind of ease that made him feel like he was moving through molasses. Rozanov was full of piss and vinegar and had no manners.

Ilya helped make dinner and followed Scott around the apartment with a few feet of plausible deniability between them. Ilya very slowly and cautiously moved closer on the couch as they watched a much less upsetting film that night until Scott got annoyed, put a hand on the back of his neck and forced him to lay down over his lap so he could stop getting distracted by movement in his peripheral vision.

Once Ilya was down, it was comfortable to rest a hand on his side, Scott's fingers fitting between the grooves of his ribs.

"Are you allergic to shirts?" Scott asked during a lull in the action.

"You keep apartment very warm," Ilya said and he sounded drowsy. Comfortable.

Rozanov never seemed comfortable, always scanning the room, listening too closely, and ready with defensive quip at all times. But maybe Ilya could breathe easier. Scott kept his hand where it was and wondered at what point he would start taking this threat seriously. Possibly never, he decided. It was all temporary. A glossy warm bubble.

Outside, huge swaths of Manhattan were celebrating Christmas Eve. Other people had their families and friends. Thousands of little kids were staying up too late, eager for presents in the morning.

Usually that thought would reach Scott alone in bed and he'd think about every Christmas he could remember with his parents, the few fragmenting memories starting to come apart at the seams from too much handling.

Before he could process entirely what he was doing, he found himself rhythmically stroking the back of his hand over Ilya's shoulder and down his side to his waist then back up again. It was hypnotic and instead of fending him off, Ilya got a little heavier in his lap, his breathing slowing.

Neither of them fell asleep as the movie went on, but Scott didn't think he was alone in the peace he sank into.

It followed them to bed, separate sides and muttered good nights. A few minutes ticked by and Scott sighed heavily, reached behind him, found Ilya's hand over the comforter and tugged him.

"Say please," Ilya scolded.

"Please plaster yourself to me so I wake up sweaty and unable to breathe," Scott said. "I like the sensation of slowly dying first thing in the morning."

"You are very strange," Ilya said, put his arm around Scott's waist and hauled him across the mattress.

It was, undeniably, spooning. That was probably a sign of something. Scott didn't have time to think about it before sleep came for him.

It rained on Christmas. That seemed in keeping with almost everything else. They gave each other lazy blowjobs as a brisk wind sent thick spatters of water against the windows. They ate cinnamon buns that Scott was very glad he'd splurged on, despite the two day hazard to his carefully balanced diet. Watching Ilya lick sugar off his fingers with evidence of satisfaction was well worth it.

Listening to rain come down harder, Scott realized, "We could go outside."

"Hm?" Ilya's hand was creeping towards Scott's unfinished bun. Scott slapped at his fingers reflexively. "Ow. You said no hitting."

"For sex. I will smack you if you steal my food."

"Mm, but once I steal it, then it is my food."

"Still no, somehow. Imagine that," Scott shook his head.

"I would like to go outside," Ilya said. "I am starting to feel like…princess in tower with hair."

"Rapunzel?"

"Yes. This. But if someone sees?"

"It's pouring and cold as hell on Christmas Day.If we bundle up, hats, coats and just go for a walk, no one is going to notice."

Ilya frowned, gravitating to the windows, gazing down at the relatively empty streets below. It wasn't like Scott wanted to risk anything either, but if not now, when?

"Yes," Ilya decided.

So for the first time in over twenty-four hours, Ilya got reacquainted with a shirt and Scott remembered jeans existed. Reluctantly clothed, they added on coats and hats.

"You want a scarf?" Scott offered, dangling one in Admiral red out to him. Ilya batted it away with an eyeroll. "I have a black one somewhere if you must."

"I must," Ilya insisted.

Scott dug around and tossed it at him, then took the striped one he'd also uncovered for himself. No point in advertising himself when they were trying for stealth.

The elevator ride was fast and the parking garage was empty. On the street though, they both tensed and Scott almost regretted saying anything about leaving until the cold hit his face. The relief of fresh (ish, New York in the rain wasn't washed clean so much as stirred up with new and exciting weird smells) air was worth being a little paranoid.

Though if anyone could clock Ilya Rozanov in the mound of fabric next to Scott, then fair play to them really. The only visible part of his face were his eyes and the bridge of his nose. The rain was driving, finding every exposed nook, but Scott accepted the damp. He led Ilya around his neighborhood, not bothering to point anything out. It surely didn't matter to him where Scott bought emergency bagels on bad days or which tiny diner he went to when he really couldn't sleep and just needed to remember other people existed at fuckass hours of the morning.

The walk went long, neither of them talking much, the rain and wind making it unpleasant to chatter anyway. There were many unhappy dogs out with equally pissed off owners, many people going to jobs that didn't pause for holidays or were even more intense because of them. But it wasn't a time for lingering. No one was looking.

They were just two more people out too early on a shitty weather day that happened to be Christmas. It was miserable. Cold and wet.

Scott couldn't stop smiling under his increasingly damp scarf.

It was hard to tell if Ilya felt the same, but he didn't ask to go back either.

Eventually though, Scott had to admit his teeth were chattering and he steered them back. It only made sense to strip down and go straight into a hot shower. As they rubbed feeling back into each others hands, Scott was considering backing Ilya up against the wall when Ilya said,

"Maybe you could try. A little. I don't know. Seems like… too much."

"Too much what?" Scott asked, heart pounding in his ears all at once.

"I like being on top."

"So be on top," Scott shrugged. "Sit on my face. We'll see how it goes."

Ilya made a considering noise then asked, even more tentatively. "You are so scared sometimes. About things. Outside, I can see, you are looking and still scared. But not here. Why?"

"Because out there could could destroy everything. In here, the worst we can do is be a little embarrassed or something. It's not world ending in here."

With a nod, Ilya leaned in and kissed him. "I make your world end a little. I am very good."

"You're a smug brat is what you are."

The hesitancy came off Ilya in waves, so Scott guided him to the bed and went back to the tried and true: sucking his cock like it contained the antidote to poison. Only when Ilya was starting to breathe like he was gunning towards finishing did Scott pull off.

"Finish like this or try?" Scott checked.

"Try," Ilya confirmed, glassy eyed.

Situating himself on his back, Scott gave him a nod and tentatively, Ilya straddled his chest, facing away from him.

"I can still do this," Scott said and gave the spit slick gorgeous cock a stroke with his hand. "It'd be hot if you came on my chest."

As if he might give into that temptation, Ilya thrust into his hands a few times. But he collected himself and, moved up the critical few inches.

The ass presented to Scott was intimidatingly perfect. Scott felt pretty familiar with it now, having palmed it, kneaded it, and dug into the meat of it several dozen times in the last two days. At this visual range though, it was a new and humbling experience.

No time to admire it now. Hesitation would only give Ilya time to think too hard. Forget that Scott had never done this before either. He knew what he'd liked this morning and that plus hours of porn were going to have to be his guide.

Hands on that thick plush muscle was a good start. He had to move a little awkwardly a shoulder shuffle that he hope went unnoticed. Then there was really nothing to it except to move the few critical inches. Instead of the tease, he went for the flat of his tongue against the shadow of a ring that he could see under the looming bulk of Ilya above him. Less shocking maybe or at least ripping the bandaid off.

There was no command to stop, only that sharp inhalation like Ilya was watching that terrible stabbing at the end of the movie again, hand pressed to his own stomach. Not the most flattering thought, but Scott concentrated on overriding it. He drew back enough to tease with the point of his tongue, circling and registering the non-taste of it. Fresh from the shower, it was only more skin and the faint remains of soap for the moment.

And the feeling.

That was something else altogether. To have his hands on Ilya like this, to hold him, shaking a little under his touch, but leting him do this? That was incredible. Brain chemistry altering. And Scott was going to do his best to earn that sensation.

With more desire than finesse, Scott teased Ilya with the tip of his tongue over and over until ragged breathing turned into more sharp little gasps and then into swallowed moans. Only then did Scott try to push in a little, investigating a little further. Another bitten off moan. Then another.

It was blisteringly hot. Scott was so hard he could've driven nails, but he didn't give a shit right now. He was doing exactly what he wanted to be doing: tongue fucking Ilya Rozanov, who was starting to rock back into it like he might be enjoying himself.

Holy shit. What was Scott even doing right now? He was going to have to look Rozanov in the eye on the ice in two weeks and play like he'd never seen him fucked out and covered in come. How was he supposed to do that?

"Touch my cock," Ilya demanded.

And for once, Scott didn't bother arguing. It wasn't the best angle or comfortable, but having the familiar length against his palm was a balm against the newness of diving his tongue into a tight ring of muscle over and over. Ilya ground down against him after a few strokes, robbing Scott of the ability to breathe and came with with the loudest sound he'd made in bed yet, the kind of deep earthshaking moan that said 'yes yes yes yes'.

Before Scott could fully register he'd done that, he was looking at Ilya's freshly spit-shined asshole from a new angle as Scott's cock disappeared into Ilya's mouth. The last drop of come were still clinging to the tip of Ilya's dick. Watching Ilya's limp dick sway until that droplet fell and splattered on his chest made Scott come so hard, he was a little worried Ilya might drown.

"Fuck," Ilya wiped his mouth on the back of his arm and more fell than intentionally lay down beside Scott, pillowing his cheek on his thigh.

"Good?" Scott checked, reaching down to find Ilya's hand, giving it a quick squeeze before letting go.

"Terrible. I hate it," Ilya said roughly. "You can't tell?"

Scott laughed. Because what the fuck else could he do? "I thought it was hot as fuck."

With a huff, Ilya kissed Scott's thigh, an aimless messy attempt that mostly missed. Then Ilya looked up and out right giggled. It was adorable.

"What?"

"I get come in your hair somehow."

"Motherfucker!"

They showered again, they ate, they talked over a substantially shittier movie. They slept, bundled together without discussion. They fucked a last time, and then Scott made an egg and cheese sandwich, wrapping it in tinfoil, the sex robbing precious minutes off breakfast time before Ilya absolutely had to get down to the car to the train station.

"I take this," Ilya said, the black scarf in his hands.

"Fine," Scott said, taking it and slung it around Ilya's neck himself, tightening it and tucking it into his jacket. "I wasn't using it anyway. Merry Christmas."

Ilya came in close and kissed him, sliding a hand down the back of Scott's underwear to grab his ass.

"Merry Christmas, Hunter," Rozanov said, pulling away when the elevator dinged, all softness already wiped off his face.

It was a necessary, but painful reassertion of reality.

Scott had a chirp locked and loaded about Boston in two weeks.

He didn't say it. He couldn't. He just watched as the elevator doors swallowed Rozanov whole and carried him off.

In a daze, Scott moved around the apartment, setting things to right. Realigning the shoes by the door that had gotten kicked over, taking out the set of sheets in the dryer that could now be placed on the bed, the old ones stripped away and in the washing machine before he let himself think about it.

Inch by inch, Scott's home was wiped clean of evidence that anyone else had been here until only Scott remained.

Or so he thought until many hours later (he had gone out, he'd had to get out, so he ran errands like they mattered, like they were immediate), when he finally sat back down on the couch and spotted a patch of black fabric almost entirely under a cushion. He reached for it, wondering if Rozanov had left his underwear behind and how the hell Scott would return that.

Instead, he found a Boston Raiders t-shirt. Personalized with 'Rozanov' on the back over a proud '81'. It was neatly folded. Intentional.

"You fucking brat," Scott said with a huff of laughter.

He carried it into his bedroom and tucked it into the top drawer behind his underwear and socks without letting himself think about it too hard.

Two Weeks Later, Boston Vs. New York

NYTY: You owe me at least two orgasms after that.

BH: Losers do not get rewards. Come over and suck my dick, loser.

NYTY: I think one of my teeth is loose. You want me to break it off on your cock?

BH: Hands are good.

Six Weeks After that, New York vs. Boston

BH: Will you cook again?

NYTY: Are you going to call me old in front of my entire team again?

BH: Probably.

NYTY: You can reheat my leftover pizza if you're lucky and ask nicely enough.

BH: Sensitive about your birthday?

NYTY: No. It's not until next week anyway.

BH: I will get you nice gift. Long hard fuck.

NYTY: Gifts aren't meant to be for you too, brat.

BH: You will still say thank you.

One Month After That

NYTY: Hell yes! That was a beautiful goal. You probably won't see this until tomorrow, but what a game. You really made Kent eat shit. Enjoy the playoffs.

Three Hours After That

BH: What happened in yours? You forget which end to hold stick?

NYTY: Fuck off. Sometimes it just doesn't go the way you want. You learn to deal with it.

BH: So you are not upset?

NYTY: I'm furious, but this isn't about me. I was congratulating you.

BH: Tastes better when I know you are also angry at how shit you were.

NYTY: I hate you.

BH: 😘

Six Weeks After That

NYTY: Good luck tonight. I'll be in the audience.

BH: I do not need luck. I need to win.

NYTY: What for? I mean it's nice to win. It's a good looking award, but plenty of guys who win rookie of the year fizzle out.

BH: Most guys are not me. Do not be sad that you fizzle. I still think you are okay player.

NYTY: Never mind. I hope you fall off the stage and it goes viral.

As soon as the too smiley host announced Hollander's name, Scott had a feeling his night was going to go south. He applauded along with everyone else and listened to Hollander's stilted little speech. Everyone seemed genuinely happy for him, at least. There was no sign of Rozanov, who had been only a few tables away a minute ago, very dapper in his tuxedo.

"Let's get the rookies over here," Clement, a goalie that had been in New York when Scott was a rookie, declared. "Make them drink with us a little. I can get Lemaire, he's still crying into his girlfriend's fake tits. Hunter, you're always good at rounding up the kids, get the two fucking scary ones."

"On it," Scott said, mostly because he'd love to know where Rozanov was right now. Nowhere good, he suspected.

At least it was easy to find Hollander. He was hovering around the bar with a glass of pale bubbly like the rest of the party was there to eat him alive.

"That better just be ginger ale, rook," he joked.

Hollander took him deadly serious. He called him Mr. Hunter. How the fuck had Rozanov gotten him into bed? What had that even been like? Snake swallowing the mouse. And maybe Scott could take a lesson or two because he lured Hollander in with the offer, and then took a bite,

"Where's your boy, Rozanov?"

Watching Hollander twitch and stammer through an answer didn't give Scott any sense of victory. God help these two if anyone ever got Hollander alone in a room and asked him a single direct question. It would be over for them both. With no leads and no scanning of the room turning up Rozanov, Scott put his arm around Hollander and led him to his fate.

At least the kid could down a shot like he'd done it before. Scott didn't actually want to be standing there the first time Hollander got drunk. He had a feeling he'd accidentally been close by for at least one or two other firsts.

Three shots wasn't enough to take Scott out at the knees these days. He was only a little tipsy as he circulated, making nice with everyone, including Yuna Hollander, who seemed like a nice enough lady. A little intense. But fuck, Scott would give anything to have his mother here too. She would've liked Yuna, he bet.

Just as Scott was considering if he'd had enough to drink to deal with Crowell, he spotted Hollander walking, head down, jaw clenched, across the room. Quickly. Blinking a little to fast. Then he disappeared into the bathroom. Scott was moving before he could think too hard. He went in the opposite direction. Where Hollander had been, not where he was going. The rookie's mother was here, someone else could hug him and tuck him in.

The balcony entrance was tucked away, the kind of thing that invited bad behavior, so Scott was not surprised to find Rozanov leaning against the railing, smoking a cigarette, his face a blank slate. The closing shot of a spy film with Vegas fading out in the background.

Scott walked up and leaned next to him.

"No. Go away," Rozanov said.

Holding out his hand, Scott said, "Share."

"You don't smoke," Rozanov said.

"I do when I drink sometimes," Scott said though it had been a long time. "Please."

Reluctantly, Rozanov handed him the cigarette. Scott always held them in a pinch, a habit from the first one, given to him by another boy at school. The first boy he'd ever kissed, his first illicit stolen moment flavored in smoke and fear. He took a single drag, then passed it back to Rozanov.

"You come out here to smoke?" Rozanov asked doubtfully.

"Nope, I was looking for you. We were doing shots with all the rookies and somehow, Mr. I-Love-Free-Booze was missing."

"I can get drink myself."

"You don't actually care that much about losing to Hollander," Scott tested the waters.

The point of the cigarette flared orange. A warning sign. "What if I do? I care. I want to win. I know you forget how it feels, but it is good."

"You're in a dickish mood," Scott assessed. Talk like that wouldn't have run off Hollander though. The kid was twitchy, but not that kind of twitchy. He could take a chirp. "I remember. It felt amazing to win Rookie of the Year. Same thing happened to. I drank with some of older guys. Got wasted on tequila and almost didn't find my way to my hotel room. Threw up my toenails and almost overslept for my flight home. It was great."

"And then?" Rozanov asked.

Scott stared off over the neon assault. "And then nothing. Then life just keeps going on. On to the next goal."

"I want always to win," Rozanov said.

"You and me both," Scott frowned. "But you're not out here killing the night with a pack over not winning. You lose like you think it's hilarious most of the time. What's wrong?"

Rozanov jaw twitched. "I do not think losing is funny."

"I know."

"I am mad about losing. That is it"

"Okay. I think you're lying."

"Fuck you, Hunter," Rozanov snarled. "You do not know me because of-"

"I do, I think," Scott cut him off before he could say anything incriminating. "I know you enough. At least more than anyone else here and I'm the one asking. So tell me or don't, but don't step on my dick about it."

"I go home. Soon. Three days," Rozanov spat.

The brief conversation months ago, the staccato anger at his brother. His dead mother. Home was not a place Rozanov wanted to go, apparently. "Do you have to go?"

"Yes. Family. My life. It's there."

How long had Rozanov been here? Two years? Maybe less? Not even long enough to make his Boston apartment a home. There was still only one picture in the whole place as of Scott's last visit.

"Okay. What would make it easier?"

The stare he got was confused, then angry, then bone deep exhausted. "Nothing. Nothing you can do."

"How about if we make tonight not the night you smoked an entire pack of cigarettes on an ugly fucking balcony and made your tux reek forever."

"You are not worried they will see us here?" Rozanov sneered. "The great Scott Hunter on his knees?"

"I'm not sucking you off on a balcony," Scott rolled his eyes. "Come play poker with me. I'll let you use my money."

"Sugar daddy," Rozanov prodded.

"Sure, brat, for tonight. I'll bank roll you. 10k maximum."

"What?"

"You heard me. Let's go have some fucking fun."

It was fun. They picked up a few other guys and then lost them again just as quickly crossing the casino floor. Long enough for plausible deniability though. If anyone asked about that night, Hunter had adopted another rookie, even if it was that feral one, and taught him to play poker. Never mind that Rozanov kept pace with him from the jump. Never mind that Rozanov produced a very convincing fake ID before Scott could find a way to get him in.

They played for two hours hand after hand, dancing in circles more with each other than the strangers at the table. They didn't win big, but between the two of them, Scott didn't lose much off that initial investment and everything Rozanov won, Scott gave him to keep.

"But-"

"When you out earn me in a few years, you can sponsor my night," Scott said. "What hotel are you staying in?"

"This one."

"You want to walk me to mine? I'm at the Bellagio. Fountain view."

"People will see."

"They'll see us talking and walking. They'll see you coming back in the morning. I showed you around, you found a club, I lost you and went to bed. You made your own smokescreen with your reputation."

"Dangerous, Hunter," Rozanov said, eyes alight.

"It's not making out in public. It's a calculated risk."

One Scott was honestly still calculating right up until they stepped into his room, his nerves almost getting the better of him. It was stupid, impulsive, but even when he was considering backing down, all Scott could see was the pain gathered at the corners of Rozanov's lips as he brought a cigarette to them.

They stepped into the room, door barely closed behind them before they were kissing. Ilya was rough, and Scott gave it to him back. They used teeth and nails, grabbing and leaving the threat of marks though never hard enough for real ones. They fucked with lube and a condom Scott had tucked in his inside jacket pocket without letting himself think about why. Scott was bent over the bed, staring out of the uncovered windows onto the fountains, dormant at the moment, as Rozanov pounded into him like he had to prove something to the world by doing it.

The shower after was quiet. Scott washed Ilya like the first time and Ilya was docile under his hands. Bullying him back into bed was too easy, like he'd ghosted his own body. Yet, as soon as Scott lay down next to him, Ilya pulled him in and buried his face between Scott's shoulders.

"You'll be all right," Scott said without much hope that that was true, covering Ilya's hand on his chest with his own. "You can text me. If you want. I don't know if that would help or not."

Ilya said nothing, but there was a press of lips, only for a moment, the base of Scott's neck.

He was already gone when Scott woke up.

Scott's bowtie was missing. In it's place was a single poker chip and a cigarette.

Chapter 4: Cards and Charisma

Chapter Notes

August 2011

NYTY: Back yet?

Three Days Later

BH: Back now.

NYTY: Have a good summer?

BH: Did you?

NYTY: I got in some gym time.

BH: Water aerobics?

NYTY: How are you learning English because it feels like it's pretty much at random?

BH: I read about the elderly for you.

NYTY: I was going to say that I'll be in Boston over the weekend for a brand thing, but fuck it, I'll get a hotel room.

BH: get a nice one and maybe I will come see it

NYTY: You really don't want to share your snacks, do you? I made you whole meals.

BH: I want room service.

NYTY: you're a nightmare

BH: 😘

There was absolutely no need for Scott to splash out on a hotel room for a two-night stay. One of those nights would even be a wash, getting in late and falling right into bed. Yet, he didn't regret the room once he walked into it. He rarely bothered with niceties when he traveled for pleasure, more focused on getting a spot where he could easily slip away to the right kind of club to find the company he was aching for. It was what he usually did over the summer in between his obligations to team, personal marketing and fundraising for the school's scholarships.

He hadn't this summer. When Scott pulled up potential locales, none of it seemed that appealing. It wasn't like his thing with Rozanov was regular enough to replace it, but after Christmas, they'd managed three more nights, twice when they were playing each other and once when Rozanov was in New York as some extreme exercise in clubbing with a few other idiot rookies. He'd peeled off from the pack at 3am and Scott had welcomed him in despite desperately needing a good night's sleep.

Three times wasn't enough to erase a need to go abroad. It shouldn't be, but the idea of hunting for some random guy didn't fill him with the usual slurry of anticipation and dread. Instead, it made him tired.

So maybe that's why he'd picked the Emerald Suite which wasn't a penthouse, but did boast some spectacular views and a small fully stocked bar. The bathroom had the kind of tub that Scott might even fit into. He didn't bother looking around more than that, falling face first into bed, worn out from the drive.

A half hour later, he opened his podcast app and listened to three brothers give terrible advice while he counted his breathing. Then he did some yoga.

Then he looked at the time and did what he was probably always going to do if he was honest with himself.

NYTY: You up?

BH: It is 10. Everyone but you is up.

NYTY: I'm clearly awake.

BH: So?

NYTY: Do you want to be a little shit or do you want to get laid?

BH: Yes

NYTY: 1502

There was probably no good reason for Rozanov to be spotted in a hotel in his current hometown, but bypassing the front desk and zipping up to the room couldn't be that big a risk. Even if they did see him, it was unlikely they'd pair it with Scott's earlier check in.

Scott grimaced and scrubbed at his face. He was taking stupid risks. They had to figure out a better way. Not only for Scott now, but for Rozanov too. His career was so fresh the paint hadn't dried yet. Any whiff of something like this could stain him for a long time.

Working up to a really spectacular panic attack, Scott was stopped short by a knock on the door. It had only been ten minutes. He checked the peephole and there was Rozanov. There was a lot of Rozanov. Throwing open the door, Rozanov slipped inside with a toothy grin.

"Holy shit, did you forget the rest of your clothes?" Scott asked before he could stop himself, door slamming closed behind him, worry forgotten.

"You like?" Ilya laughed. "Your face. It is fucking hot outside. You want me in sweats?"

The tank top had arm holes that dipped down low enough that Scott could get a glimpse of the well-toned stomach from the side. The shorts were arguably normal length, but either Ilya had rolled the waistband or his legs were so stupidly long that they looked shorter. Even his socks were short, not even touching the knob of his ankle, just barely cresting over low slung fashionable sneakers.

"How did you get here so fast?"

"Are we asking questions or are we fucking?" Ilya asked.

"Why can't it be both?" Scott challenged, but he was already reaching for him.

"You get very nice room. Not a penthouse," Ilya observed as he let Scott wrap his arms around his waist. "I am not good enough sugar baby for top floor?"

"Every time you say those words, it's a little harder for me to get it up," Scott warned him, even as he indulged himself, running his hands up under the useless tank top, the flex of Ilya's muscle under his palms waking up every dormant desire.

Ilya's eyes dropped down between them where Scott's boxers were doing a terrible job of hiding his hard on. "Yes. Very bad, I can see. I think I can say five or six more times before is problem."

"Shut up, it's been a bit."

"Mm, that is sad for you. The women of Russia missed me very much."

"And the men?"

Ilya went a little still under his palms. "Not anymore. I trust one man there and he was old friend, gone now. "

Shit. Scott should probably google that. Was it just like here or was it something worse? The way Ilya said it, it sounded a little worse.

"Well, welcome back to the good ole U.S. of A. Want to suck some dick about it?"

The huff of near laughter relaxed him again and Ilya tilted his head to the bed. "Why don't you suck my dick?"

"Did you bring condoms?" Somehow out of those tiny shorts, a flash of gold. "Good. So did I. Where the hell is the rest of your stuff?"

"They are deep pockets. I think maybe you just like these," Ilya slid his hand hands over his thighs as he fell backwards on to the bed, legs spread.

"I like a lot of it," Scott said. "The mouth could use some work."

"You like my mouth too," Ilya stretched his arms over his head, tank top riding up to show off a strip of toned stomach. "Be mad over there, Hunter, or come over here and I make you very happy."

"Scott," he corrected.

"Daddy," Ilya said then made a face. "Ech. No. This I do not like. Much better in porn."

"You did that one to yourself," Scott tried not consider how that rang in his head. Bad and good all at once, a terrible cocktail he didn't need to drink. He moved to stand between those widespread knees, gazing down at the man in his temporary bed.

Ilya gave him a frank look right back, seemingly content to wait for whatever Scott was going to do next.

Scott leaned down, planing his hands on either side of Ilya's waist. "You want me to suck your cock?"

"Yes."

Scott held eye contact with him and waited. Ilya's eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. Every line of him indicated irritation on a soul deep level. It was great. Scott could've done it all day.

"Suck my cock, please, Scott."

"You got it, brat," Scott said and then closed the distance to kiss him.

It was late, the only points of light the side table lamp that Scott had turned on when he gave up on sleep and the bright flood from the open bathroom door. Ilya was made of angles and shadows. There was not much convincing needed for Scott to sink down off the side of the bed.

A pillow landed on the floor next to him. Ilya had barely moved, but Scott certainly hadn't been the one to grab it. He kissed the inside of Ilya's thigh as he folded it and settled down kneel.

"Thanks," he murmured and dragged the useless tiny shorts off. Something thunked as they hit the floor, so apparently Ilya could fit his phone in them.

He wasn't wearing underwear. Scott groaned and pressed another kiss to the startlingly soft skin of Ilya's inner thigh.

"You like this?" Ilya asked, propping his head up on his arm to look at him.

"You're a fucking danger to society," Scott said, grabbed a condom. "What were you going to do if you had to sit down?"

"They are long enough to hide this," Ilya snorted. "You are just horny."

Scott ran out of quips, rolling the condom onto Ilya. He filled his mouth with far better things.

How had he gone months without this? Next summer, he'd go away. It was ridiculous to deny himself this simple pleasure. With heavy-lidded pleasure, Scott took his time with it. Ilya's hand combed through his hair. At some point he sat up, forcing Scott to shift a little, but otherwise continue as Ilya hunched over him, stroking his shoulders and back, grabbing at his chest. He'd forgotten how tactile he was.

"I want to fuck you," Ilya said, digging his fingers into Scott's shoulders a little, not pushing him off, but making himself known.

Reluctantly, Scott pulled off of him. "And we were doing so well."

"Please," Ilya tacked on with a huff. "I want to make you come so hard you pass out, please. I want to make you scream so loud, they make noise complaint five floors up, please."

"When have you ever made me scream except in frustration?"

"Gives me goal then," Ilya said.

It was hard to deny that Scott maybe wanted to scream as Ilya fingered him open with deft precision as mouthed over Scott's spine. Or when Ilya sank into him inch by inch, speaking delicious filth right into Scott's ear. Or when Ilya picked up the pace and the bed shook with their joined efforts. Or as he came, shaking apart after only a few strokes from his own hand and Ilya muttered something soft in Russian before following him.

Scott didn't scream, but his body cooled and ticked like an engine of a race car finally back in the garage. Ilya landed beside him on the mattress, glowing a little in the soft light. He had lost the tank top at some point, down to only his gold cross.

"I'm glad you were free to come over tonight too. No big weekend plans?" Scott asked.

"No. I did not say when I would be back," Ilya said.

"We start up again in two weeks. You too?"

"Yes. I will go back sooner. I miss the ice."

"Me too," Scott breathed out. "And I like having it to myself a few times before everyone piles on."

"This is good too," Ilya said. "If you can get it."

"I can usually. No one is mad when you want more practice."

"Your ankle?"

Scott took a second, then recalled that he had tweaked it before the last time they'd seen each other months ago.

"Healed," he said. Ilya had remembered.

"Good. I want to beat you when you have no excuse for being so terrible."

"You're a piece of shit," Scott sighed. "We're not even playing each other until November and it wasn't even a sprain."

"Remember you say this when I put puck between your legs instead of something you'd like more."

"You really know how to make friends. You want to shower before we pass out or what?"

"You want me to stay?"

Scott stared at him and to his surprise, the question was genuine. Except for the terrible clubbing night when Ilya had had to stumble back out to return to his hotel before the rest of his drunk entourage realized he was missing, they'd both stayed the night. Though the clubbing night had been the last time.

"Why wouldn't I?" Scott asked bewildered.

"You did not mean to have me before and you have meeting," Ilya said reasonably. "You get up early for this, yes?"

"I mean, yeah, I can't sleep in with you, but the room is decent. Hang out, get room service. I'll be back in the afternoon. Or you can leave."

"If I leave in morning, people will wonder why I was here," Ilya pointed out.

Which was true. Shit. Scott sat up with a groan. "Fuck. I didn't mean to trap you here, sorry."

"You did not. I can go now, it's late, the clerk was reading book behind desk. No one will notice."

Scott could just let him go. Let him leave. But his mind was racing ahead of him. Originally, the plan had been for Ilya to come over tomorrow night when they would've had time. Not a rush job and a quick goodbye. Having him here two nights in a row would be tempting fate. Someone might notice. If the clerk was the same both nights.

If…

Fuck. Scott did have to go to a breakfast meeting with his agent. Early too. The idea of Ilya being here when he got back was far far too tempting. Too bad he couldn't just take him with him like an unruly piece of baggage. Hey Todd, look what I found.

Except. Wait.

"What is this face?" Ilya was still laying down, but he was watching Scott warily now. "You look like thinking hurts."

"Sometimes it does," Scott admitted. "Listen, who's your agent?"

"Why?" Ilya frowned. "What does this-"

"Are they good to you? Do you like them?"

"You can like agent?" Ilya asked with a wry smile. "I think they are there to not be liked, only make money."

"I like mine okay," Scott said. "And he landed me Underarmor."

"I know, you wear so much with this logo, you should get tattoo instead."

"If they thought they could get me to do it, they would," Scott snorted. "But I'm serious. Your agent is okay?"

"What is okay? I take a few pictures, give a few answers. There is money."

"There should probably be a shit ton of money. You're marketable."

"You want to sell me?"

It was starting to knit together in Scott's head now. It was a little insane. Certainly over the top. It made about three hundred assumptions, but it was doable, he though. Plausible.

"My guy has been with me for years," Scott said. "Todd Wheeler. I trust him. He's never done anything fishy with my money and I've heard a lot of horror stories to know that's not always true."

"Fishy."

"Some of them steal or lie. You know."

Ilya propped himself up on his elbows. "How do you know they do this?"

"Sometimes your accountant catches it, I guess, but I always run my own numbers too. It's not easy, but it's worth the time. Make sure the contracts I've signed match what winds up in my bank account."

"I am told to trust," Ilya said with a dollop of cynicism.

"Does your agent get you the contracts translated?" Scott asked, a prickle of real concern raising him from his ridiculous hypothetical.

"My agent is Russian. No need for translator," Ilya shrugged.

"But the contracts are in English."

"Yes? I can read English," the curl of anger was there as if Scott was questioning his proficiency, despite Ilya raising the specter of misunderstanding himself.

"Yeah, me too, but the way they write those things is hard for me and its my first language. I sit down with my lawyer every time."

"What do you want to say?" Ilya demanded. "That I don't know things? That I am in trouble?"

"No," Scott said. "I was going to suggest something stupid, but now I think it might be practical. Look, if you and me keep doing this, we need a better shield. We're already getting kind of sloppy."

"You are sloppy," Ilya said mutinously.

"You show up to my mess," Scott didn't get exasperated. He was too focused. "We already have the start of something. People saw us at the dinner. They know that you came out drinking with us after that first game. That we played poker together in Vegas. You said it yourself, I've got a reputation for helping rookies."

"I am not a rookie now." He had Ilya's attention though. He was sitting up, no longer affecting disinterest.

"One season doesn't teach you everything you need to know. What if we were friends though? It's not nuts, plenty of guys have friends on other teams. I do already. People get traded, you say hi at events. Meet up for drinks sometimes. You're already on my level as far as talent, no one would be surprised if I mentored you and that turned into friendship."

There went the calculus look. Ilya's eyes darted back and forth. "Friends do not sleep over each other's hotel rooms with one bed."

"Yeah, we'll still have to be careful. But think about it. I help you get new representation. We have the same agent. You get better deals out of it and now we have a cover story if we get seen out. We could have lunch together and even if someone takes a picture and slaps it up on social media, no one's first guess will be that we're fucking."

"This is crazy," Ilya said, staring at him. "What if we stop fucking?"

"Then we let the friendship fade. It happens. We're not reality TV stars, not everything needs a big dramatic story."

"They will chirp at us when we play against each other. "

"You plan on taking it easy on me?"

"I would rather chop off my own dick," Ilya said immediately.

"Yeah, same here. And you'll still talk shit like you were born to do it and I'll still try to go through you like you're a revolving door," Scott shrugged. "Friends can be competitive."

"No one will believe this. Good Boy Hunter and me," Ilya frowned.

"Why not? They'll think I'm a good influence on you and you're one on me. Everyone is always telling me I need to loosen up. You'll have a thousand opportunities to chirp about how even you can't get me to unwind."

"But I can," Ilya reminding him with the return of a sly smile.

"Yeah, well. That'll have to be between you and me."

"That is enough," Ilya decided. "What if I do not like your agent? What if I want to stay with mine?"

"Then you just come and get a free breakfast," Scott shrugged. "If you want."

"You want to do this tomorrow?" Ilya asked incredulously.

"The sooner the better. Once the season starts, we're going to be too busy to do spy vs. spy bullshit."

"You are bullshit," Ilya declared. "I'm going to shower."

Scott let him go since it had clearly not been an invitation. He texted Todd anyway.

SH: I've got a potential new client for you. Rising star. He's on the fence about switching representation, can I bring him to breakfast?

TW: Why the fuck not? It's on the agency anyway. Do I get a name?

SH: He's skittish, I'm working on it.

Ilya walked back into the room naked and damp. For once it didn't seem like a way to get Scott's attention, but as if he'd finished thinking and was ready to talk regardless of his state. He had his arms cross over his impressive chest as he stood at the foot of the bed.

"What if people talk? They think you are getting something from me for this. Older man. Younger man. They may think."

"Okay, they might," Scott frowned. "It scares me too, but then they sound like perverts."

"What do you mean?"

"Two men can't be friends? We work in the same field. I'm giving you advice. If they jump to us fucking, they sound like the ones with dirty minds, not us. We're not doing anything."

"We are doing many things."

"Yeah, you and I know that, no one else does. It's like… one of those snakes that eats it's own tale. The story feeds itself."

"You almost throw up when we go for a walk on empty street," Ilya pointed out.

"Yeah. But we'll have Todd there this morning. Who takes their agent on a date?"

"We do not date," Ilya said.

"Exactly."

They stared at each other. Ilya shifted his weight. "What if I say no?"

"Then we go back to sneaking around until one of us freaks out about it so much that we stop. Pretty even on odds on who," Scott said and it hurt, but it was true. He could see it coming like a taxi that gave no shits about a crosswalk. "Or worse."

The worse did not need to be explained.

"I do not want this," Ilya said. He ran his thumb over his chin. "The freaking out. I will not freak out. Russians do not do this."

"You freak out twice a day when we're together. You just do it quietly."

"No," Ilya said.

"Okay, sure, you're totally calm cool and collected about everything we do," Scott groaned. "You want a prize? Is that getting us anywhere? Get the fuck over yourself and actually think about this."

With a grimace, Ilya finally sat back down on the bed next to him. "So we are friends to them. To the world."

"Yeah. You'll have to suffer the indignity of people knowing you like me as a person," Scott said. "Can you do that?"

The pause was not flattering, but then Ilya groaned and dropped himself across Scott's lap like he had over Christmas. It was easy to drop his hand into the familiar grooves of Ilya's ribs.

"I do," Ilya said with a heaving sigh. "You are not terrible to be around."

"Wow," Scott grinned down at him. "Really? I want that on my tombstone."

"I will go eat breakfast with your agent," Ilya decided. "If I change my mind, I say that you gave me hard sell and I turned you down."

"And I'll say you were an obnoxious dickhead about it. Good?"

"Yes, fine."

They stayed like that for a bit, Scott stroking a hand down Ilya's side and Ilya's only sign of life the slight rise and fall of his chest.

Scott would like to stay there forever, captured in this moment where they were just being. It was peaceful. Simple. Just two animals taking comfort in each other.

Eventually, they made it under the covers, the side lamp turned off. Sleep came uneasily and Scott woke up a few times, found Ilya still there, sometimes asleep too, sometimes his eyes a slice of reflected bathroom lights. They didn't speak, just shifted, rearranging the ways they were locked together until they fell back to sleep.

"When are we going?" Ilya asked when they woke for the last time in a patch of sunlight.

"Soon. We have nine o'clock brunch reservations."

"Clothes," Ilya said. "I do not have time for apartment and back."

That was a slight problem. They weren't too far off from each other though. "You can wear mine."

"They will not fit," Ilya scoffed.

"You're two inches taller than me at best. I think it'll be fine."

Scott tended to overpack and he'd planned on two days of potentially meeting people anyway. It was summer, off-season and no one had ever called him a fashionista, so there was no reason anyone should notice the generic jeans and t-shirt combo weren't Ilya's own. Especially as Ilya pulled the jeans on and filled them a lot more successfully than Scott, the fucking asshole. The t-shirt was a good one, too expensive for a single simple item of clothing, a flattering emerald green. An impulse buy in some overpriced boutique that Carter had dragged him through.

It was much better on Ilya. Snug around his biceps and the unseamed neckline draping lovingly over his collarbones, the gold of his necklace a tantalizing promise.

"Yeah, it's fine," Scott said, struggling to suppress annoyance about how fine it was.

"Mm, I should have on better things," Ilya said, fussing with his hair in the mirror after stealing Scott's toothbrush to use like the beautiful monster he was. "To meet agent."

"Todd doesn't give a flying fuck. He's an old school kind of guy in a different way."

"So I should be what? Nice? Polite?" Ilya's lip curled.

"He won't be, you don't have to bother."

Scott had his slacks and a nicer shirt, but he felt a little lackluster next to Ilya. He really had something. Whatever that spark was. Maybe that's how he'd lived so long being such a prick.

"C'mon," Scott lifted his chin. "Might as well leave together. It'll look just as weird if we space it out."

They both regarded the door warily, but Ilya found some bravery first and threw it open, almost catching Scott in the face with it.

They crossed the threshold and went out into the world together again. Deprived of scarves and gloves and hats, they arrived into public unshielded.

The lobby wasn't busy. No one paid them any mind as they crossed it. They made it to the sidewalk and Scott breathed a little easier. Less weird to be out on the street together, a normal amount of space between them.

"We're only going a few blocks," Scott said.

Rozanov fell into step with him. "We should talk. Silent walking looks bad."

"I think I might throw up," Scott said as casually and conversationally as he could.

"Fuck, Hunter," Ilya said. "This is your idea."

"I know. I'm an idiot. Why are you listening to an idiot?"

"Good question," Ilya threw his hands up in the air. "But we are doing it now. Calm down. People will think I have a knife on you."

"I'd be the one with the knife," Scottt said.

"What? Why?" Ilya demanded.

"Come on. Of the two of us, I would not assume you were out to gut people. Punch maybe, not stab. Everyone says I'm too intense. That I might snap someday. Overheard that last one. They don't say it to my face."

Ilya paused and considered that. "On the ice, yes. Too much thinking."

"Yeah." Scott said dryly, "It's really held me back. I could've gone pro without that."

"Sometimes. Thinking, planning, sometimes you must do. Or you get in your head and do not come out."

"Thanks, coach," Scott sighed. "I definitely need to take advice from the guy who pokes every rage monster in the league to see what they'll do."

"I know what they will do," Rozanov said. "Make mistakes."

"Not always. I've seen you get your clock cleaned."

"Clock cleaned," Rozanov repeated. "This is punched?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" he asked exasperated.

"I- huh. I guess because clocks have faces. I don't know the cleaned part," Scott said. "Knocked the hands off it? That one probably hasn't aged well."

"I hate this language," Rozanov grumbled. "Always something else."

That's how they made it there. They talked and Scott tried not to scan the area like a malfunctioning robot. Someone might recognize them and take a picture. Slap it up on social media. But what was the story? Two hockey guys know each other? Who gave a shit, really?

Todd had already secured a table inside, even though it was lovely out. Despite the heat, Todd had on a turtleneck and a blazer. He always looked like he had stepped out from central casting as a talent agent in an 80s movie.

"There he is!" Todd said with a grin and then caught exactly who Scott had brought with him. "Scott. Babe. You are fantastic."

"Todd Wheeler, this is Ilya Rozanov," Scott said, some of the worst of the fear sloughing away by the near visible money signs flashing in Todd's eyes. "Rozanov, Todd Wheeler."

"Hello," Ilya said and let Todd shake his hand.

"You're with Shaposhnik," Todd said. "I know him. Guy is a tired old fuck."

"Is he?" Rozanov said, sitting down when Scott did.

"Sure. So am I, but I don't let that stop me from making sure my people get the best. Look at Scott. Underarmor, Gilette. Maybe some fucking coffee bean place if today goes okay."

Apparently Rozanov had not been ready for the hard sell. It was a little fun to watch him shift into his own business mode, which looked a lot like his poker mode. He asked Todd pointed questions as they were served coffee and omelettes. By the end of the meal, Rozanov was willingly showing Todd his latest contract with CCM.

"Okay, so it's not bad," Todd said.

"You think this is terrible," Rozanov determined.

"Scott, you bring me talented, good looking and smart? I love you," Todd said.

"This week," Scott said.

"My love is fickle," Todd agreed. "Rozanov, listen. You can stay with Shaposhnik. You'll be fine with him. He'll make you decent money."

"But you will do better?" Rozanov asked wryly.

"Infinitely. He doesn't know what to do with you. What do you want to sell? What gets you excited?"

"Cars," Rozanov said. "I like fast."

"Cars! Easy. Fast on the ice, fast on the streets. American or European?"

"I like both."

"Great. You like Ferrari?"

"Yes."

"I have ins there. I offered Scott to them, but he's too clean cut for their marketing people right now."

"Clean cut?" Scott's voice went up a little. "I play hockey."

"You look like you drive a Subaru, kid, this is life," Todd said.

The pure glee in Rozanov's eyes when Todd called Scott 'kid' was scary.

"A minivan, maybe," Rozanov offered.

"That's mean," Todd said, but did give Scott an appraising once over. "Yeah, put him in a cardigan and I could picture it."

"I do not," Scott protested weakly.

"It's not a bad thing. Makes you marketable. So's Rozanov, but it's a different market. You want cars, kid, we can do cars. Might take a few smaller things first. Play like you did last season this season and it'll help."

"I will not," Rozanov said, leaning in like he was confiding something in Todd. "I will be better."

"That's all I could ask for," Todd said. "Let me give you my number. You think on it, and any time you're ready to jump ship, you call me. Tomorrow, next month, next year, It doesn't expire."

"Thank you," Rozanov said.

Good boy.

Scott froze internally. If that had come out of his mouth…but it hadn't. It wouldn't. Not here and not even in the privacy of the hotel room later if they dared to go back. The possibility that Rozanov would tear Scott's throat out with his teeth if he tried was high.

Scott could become the subject of one of his favorite podcasts like that. Fun.

When Todd started making noise about being late to the meeting, Rozanov started to get up to leave.

"You might as well come with," Todd said. "I think it's worth seeing the reaction if I have you both with me. Good test run."

"You do not represent me," Rozanov frowned. "This would be…what?"

"Scott never has an entourage. You know how many people I sometimes have to cart around with some of you? I hate that shit when it's a crowd, but one other recognizable guy is practically tasteful and not a bad show of force. Scott, you good with him sitting in? Might be educational."

"Sure," Scott said as if he couldn't care less. As if this wasn't going exactly to plan and also so fucking terrifying he might lose the very nice food he'd just eaten in a public bathroom. "We'll just make it clear to them that nothing he says is my fault."

"Sure, sure like the disclaimers on DVDs about actor commentary," Todd nodded. "All right, let's roll out then."

Todd loved car services and they easily piled into the gigantic SUV as Todd started talking numbers. It wasn't Scott's natural habitat, the world of business and finance, but he'd never had the luxury of not knowing how to handle it. He had no parents to hold his hand when he'd started playing professional. While his teachers and coaches had always appreciated him, none of them had tried to step into that missing void, not even the ones he sort of wished would.

Whatever protective desires came instinctively with people, Scott never seemed to activate them. He wasn't sure why. He tried to be useful and kind, but maybe he was simply too intense and too proud.

Rozanov didn't get that side of people either, but he was off-putting on purpose, sharp in every direction. Right now though, he had subsided a little. Watchful, wary, but not mouthing off. He stayed like that through the entire brand meeting. Todd had been right that simply having Rozanov in the room made the coffee bean guys extremely excited. Their whole angle was extreme caffeine dose, something that Scott would struggle to pretend to like.

Rozanov downed his sample like it was a shot and then licked his lips. All the ostensibly straight sales bros in the room watched his tongue dart out like they wanted it in their mouths. Scott could sympathize, but it was kind of gross too. It didn't seem to bother Rozanov, he made eye contact with each of them, a knowing smirk gathering at one side of his lips.

By the time they left, Scott was definitely out of a deal and Todd was eyeing up Rozanov like he might try to eat him too.

"Tastes like shit," Rozanov declared when they were safely back in the car. "Who thinks this is good?"

"Are you the kind of guy who has morals about that or are you willing to slap your face on it anyway?" Todd asked like there was only one right answer.

Scott usually gave the wrong answer.

"Who fucking cares?" Rozanov said. Right answer. "They pay me good money, I will tell people it is God's piss."

"You have my number," Todd said, salivating. "Call me."

"Should I lose your number?" Scott wondered out loud.

"Scott, I love all my clients equally," Todd said vaguely. "I've got Eddie Bauer asking about you and sweaters. Hope you like cables."

"Sure," Scott sighed. At least he couldn't be morally opposed to a sweater.

Todd dropped them at the hotel with a last reminder to Rozanov to call and without asking if he should've left him somewhere else, already too preoccupied with whatever he was off to next.

"I should not come in," Rozanov decided, surveying how busy the street had gotten.

"Nope," Scott agreed. "Tonight is probably fucked too."

"Yes."

They stood next to each other, watching the traffic in the sun. Wild.

"Too bad. You didn't get your room service."

Rozanov gave him a sidelong glance, then gave a one shoulder shrug. "New York in six weeks. You make me pancakes, I forgive this."

"You're the worst," Scott declared and tried to repress the smile that was desperately trying to crawl over his face. "Deal."

He watched Rozanov walk away and then without any real plan, wandered back into the hotel. Suspicion sank in as he rode up the elevator and it was better to follow a hunch then sink into the maelstrom of what the fuck did I just do that lurked under the surface. Scott didn't know Boston that well, but he knew Rozanov's address and he had the hotel's and he had Google maps.

There was no way Rozanov had walked here in under ten minutes last night. Had he happened to be in the area? Scott had already told him which hotel he'd been staying in. But that didn't mean anything. It was a city, there were plenty of things to do on this street.

Except when Scott walked into his room, it was to the reminder of Rozanov's outfit because it was still in a puddle at the foot of the bed. Plucking up the barely existent tank top, Scott could all too easily imagine Rozanov at a bar down the street, biding his time, certain that Scott would not be able to wait another night. The wood smoke and spice cologne still clung to the fabric and Scott resisted smelling it closer. He plucked up the shorts too. They were absolutely too tiny for normal use, no matter how much shit Rozanov could fit in the pockets.

There was only one possible conclusion: Rozanov had put on a slutty little outfit and waited around for Scott to call him.

It was probably embarrassing how fast Scott sat down and jerked off to that thought, still fisting the tank top in his hand. Good thing no one else was here to see it and how fast he came.

It was only while he washed his hands that it occurred to Scott that Rozanov had done it again. Scott had his clothes and Rozanov had walked off with Scott's second favorite pair of jeans and one of his better t-shirts. Goddammit. He'd liked that shirt.

October 2011

NYTY: I'm here, just buzz when you get in.

November 2011

NYTY: Do you want to explain why there are pubes in my sink.

BH: No

NYTY: Too bad, start talking.

BH: You like it, you deal with how it happens.

NYTY: I don't like it enough for this. How do you have no chest hair and this much on your balls?

BH: I am itchy now.

NYTY: Good. Suffer.

BH: I have no food. Come here and feed me.

NYTY: Aren't you in Vancouver?

BH: Yes. Terrible hotel. Very boring. No one wants to go out and I am alone in this room.

NYTY: Tragic.

BH: If you do not feed me, then you can at least help the boring.

NYTY is video calling.

December 2011

NYTY: I can still come to yours. Seems fair.

BH: No. To you is fine. This is how we do this. You make sticky buns again.

NYTY: First off, I don't have to do shit. Second off, I didn't make those, I just reheated them.

BH: I like better when I think you make them like wife.

NYTY: That's sexist.

BH: I apologize to women. Not to you.

NYTY: When do you want to get here? I'll book the tickets.

BH: 23rd.

January 2012

BH: What is 'table this' mean when in meeting?

NYTY: That you don't want to talk about it anymore right now.

BH: Good. That is what I thought. I don't like this one.

NYTY: Do you like any American idioms?

BH: I like some American idiots enough to fold them in half and fuck them until they scream.

NYTY: I know you know what idioms are. We've talked about them before.

BH: You suck at sexting.

February 2012

NYTY: Okay, I worked it out. You're coming to poker night.

BH: Worked out what? Why?

NYTY: You did the two bar nights, the guys are used to you being around. I mentioned you might be around and Huff said you should come with.

BH: To play poker. With your boys.

NYTY: They've decided you're hilarious instead of awful. Try to keep that up. Don't fleece them, we play for chump change and they'll take it personally.

BH: I do not cheat.

NYTY: Who said you did? But I know you count cards.

BH: Lies.

It was very very weird to show up to poker night with Rozanov on his heels. Everyone else was already settled in when they arrived and greeted them with lazy interest.

"You want a beer, Rozanov?" Greg asked, already at the minifridge. "We've got Bud, Corona or Carter's gross IPAs that he buys off skeevy hipsters."

"Fuck off, Huff," Carter laughed. "Just because I have taste."

"I will try the IPA," Rozanov said and took the empty seat to Eric's left. It put him and Scott next to each, but with a very plausible distance between them. No knee touching tonight.

"A man of taste," Carter said and smacked Rozanov on the shoulder. "Nice to see you when you're not trying to slice through me. We're doing five-card draw tonight. Eric's turn to choose."

A beer landed in front of Rozanov and Scott accepted his Bud. If either of them had been expecting a more dramatic conversation, it never came. They had an easy rhythm, Scott, Carter, Greg and Eric. The kind of friendship that Scott had longed for as a kid. Simple camaraderie with some shit talking, which Rozanov indulged in with surprising caution.

But there was also Eric passing around his phone so they could see his newest art piece.

"What the fuck man, why does this look like balls?" Carter asked.

"Your balls are this round and smooth?" Rozanov asked. "Is this medical condition?"

"I can't help if I'm God's favorite," Carter said.

Greg bragged about his daughter getting the lead in her school play. Somehow that ended with Rozanov was being shown pictures of Greg's kids which he accepted and even said appropriately nice things about.

When Carter started talking about his latest on-and-off girlfriend, Eric almost restarted their usual argument that Greg always made worse and Scott had to play peacekeeper about.

"You like her or no?" Rozanov asked before Eric could open his mouth.

"Yeah, of course I like her," Carter frowned. "I don't mess around with girls I don't like."

"So what is problem? You like her when she is here, you are not sad when she is away?"

"Not really," Carter said.

"Then is perfect unless she wants something else."

They all sat in silence for a second. Then Huff said, "Damn, the kid has some wisdom. Must be from all the puck bunnies."

"I do not have puck bunnies," Rozanov said disdainfully. "I go to clubs like anyone else. I can't help being better looking and better at picking up your women than you."

"Two of us are literally married," Eric said with dry annoyance, but he wasn't picking at Carter anymore so that was fine.

"Yes. Congratulations. You want medal?" Rozanov set down his cards. "Three of a kind. Give me your money."

All told, Scott wasn't particularly surprised that when the evening was over, Carter declared, "Come around anytime, Roz. That was fun."

"Stop inviting people to my house," Greg said. "But yeah, it was nice to have some young blood at the table. You almost made Scott chill out."

"Almost," Eric snorted. "He still only had one beer."

"I'm standing right here," Scott reminded them. No one cared.

"I cannot do miracles," Rozanov said.

Then they went back to Scott's apartment and Ilya performed the miracle of making Scott come twice in under an hour. So probably the best poker night Scott had ever had, actually.

That visit left Scott lighter a mug of all things. He had no idea how Ilya had smuggled it out, the glossy black monstrosity with it's gold rim, a pretty big thing to hide even with a puffy winter coat. In it's place, he had left an Boston Raider's travel cup. It had been used too, a slight smell of sugary coffee sticking to it and the logo just starting to peel away from runs through the dishwasher.

There was no way Scott could travel with it or even let it be seen if one of the guys was over casually. It got banished to a back drawer. Mostly. Sometimes. When it needed to be. He liked slotting his mouth over the spot Ilya had and he knew in another state, his mug was being cradled in a broad calloused hand.

June 2012

NYTY: Almost. Good game.

BH: Almost is not good enough. I will have it next year.

NYTY: You'll have to come through me first.

BH: Yes. This is definitely hardest part.

NYTY: Fuck off. When do you leave?

BH: Next week.

NYTY: Ok, have a safe flight. Try not to irritate anyone into stabbing you.

September 2012

BH: It is so hot here. This is illegal.

NYTY: Welcome back, were you going to tell me you were home or what?

BH: Dear Mr. Fairness, I have returned to beat you at hockey and fuck you until you cry. -BH

NYTY: Eat a bag of dicks.

BH: I like them one at time. Especially the ones from street carts in NY. Make me a little sick, but worth it.

NYTY: I can't believe you're comparing me to street meat.

BH: You like it. Come over.

NYTY: You need better lines than that to get me drop everything and drive for hours.

BH: I will lick very nice vodka off your stomach.

NYTY: That's not the temptation you think it is.

BH: I will put it in freezer for you. Tongue fuck you after I drink it. Think how cold you will be inside.

NYTY: Goddamnit.

December 2012

NYTY: I'll be back on the 23rd around noon.

BH: Then I will have you on your back by three.

NYTY: What if I want to ride you?

BH: Good thing then we will have time for both.

It was only their third time doing this, but Scott had didn't even ask if Ilya wanted him to go to Boston. He just sent him the train tickets and got groceries delivered since he'd be cutting it close getting back from JFK as it was. Fall had been crazy, so they hadn't connected since Scott's very dumb round trip in September with the memorable vodka-soaked sheets.

He'd gone home smelling like a distillery, missing the belt he'd forgotten he'd worn in his shorts, and heavier a bar of candy that he'd needed an app to decode slipped into his pocket somehow. It turned out to be halva. He'd never eaten it before and the first bite was disconcerting. Crumbly and sweet with an odd after taste. It was gritty between his teeth then gone, dissolving. Not entirely sure he liked it, somehow Scott devoured the whole thing over the course of an hour through bemused nibbles, then looked it up online to find more.

Unusual, a little irritating, and addictive. Figured.

If there was some in his Christmas grocery order, then that was being a good host. Or something.

"It's snowing," Ilya declared as he stepped into Scott's apartment. "Only a little. Flurries. I like that one."

"Flurries?" Scott asked, watching him kick off his shoes, tumbling Scott's neatly lined up sneakers over. His coat went into the closet, hung up with his beanie and gloves shoved into the pockets.

Familiar. Easy.

"Yes. It sounds like what it is. This I like."

"It does kind of," Scott considered that. He was still putting the groceries away, the last of the dry goods filing neatly into his pantry. "How was the train?"

"I made friends with small sticky child. Ran off from her mama three times and tried all the doors until mine opened. Vanessa. Cute. I kept returning her, she keeps coming back."

"Sounds familiar," Scott grinned at him, getting the last box tucked away and the plastic bags piled inside another plastic bag under the sink. Then he gave Ilya his full attention, a long slow appraisal. "Hi."

"You are in good mood. Too good. This is bad for me," Ilya determined, but he got in close and accepted a long thorough kiss.

"I'm just glad to be home. It was a brutal two travel weeks. And I miss getting laid."

The traditional piece of paper emerged from Ilya's pockets. He had crudely folded it into an origami cock with square balls. Scott had his on the fridge and Ilya pretended to study it very closely as Scott slid arms around his waist and kissed his neck.

"You want something?" Ilya asked.

"No," Scott said, sliding his hands up under Ilya's hoodie and shirt to the familiar soft warmth of his skin beneath.

"Seems like maybe you do."

"You're reading into things again."

They fucked in the kitchen. Scott came on the floor. He didn't give a shit.

The fireplace was on, throwing shadows and light every which way. They had eaten gluttonously of each other and then of the Thai food Scott had delivered to the lobby. Ilya loved sour things and Scott could've predicted the way he squeeze the wedge of lime over lush noodles, peanuts and fat chunks of chicken. And the way he'd lick the remaining droplets off his fingers a first idly then salaciously when he caught Scott watching.

Ilya picked the movie, something flashy and loud that Scott's mind slid away from. Having Ilya spread over his thighs and his stomach full and the knowledge he had nowhere to be for days was the happiest he'd been in months. There was no other way around that.

He hoped that wasn't true for Ilya. It was a perverse thought, but a true one. He hoped that Ilya wasn't also living for these tiny bright gaps. There had been no sign of Hollander in Ilya's life recently, but Scott wasn't sure what that would even look like. There were signs of the women, in his social media and traces sometimes in the apartment. Scott had learned precious little about the mysterious Svetlana, but he knew she was still around.

It wasn't hard to see how happy he was on the ice at least. His team loved him. He played like a demon and rejoiced in his wins or scowled over his losess like one too. Scott was still happiest playing too, but he had never been as light on the ice as Ilya was.

"You are thinking very hard," Ilya said.

"You can't even see my face," Scott protested.

"You haven't complained about the plotholes," Ilya rolled onto his back to look up at him. "Are you fucked up from losing so much?"

"Yes," Scott said because he was. He'd had a strong start to the season and it was already going to shit. It felt like lately whenever he got his hands around his game, it got slippery and escaped him again.

"You should retire," Ilya said. "Very sad, but for the best."

"Shut the fuck up and watch your movie, brat," Scott sighed heavily. Usually Ilya laid off the old jokes when they were together like this.

Ilya poked him in the stomach. Scott grabbed his finger. He poked him with the other hand.

"Are you fucking five?" Scott groaned. "Quit it."

"No," Ilya wiggled one hand free and poked him again.

So that devolved into a slap fight, then blowjobs and the movie played on forgotten.

Over pancakes the next morning, they watched more flurries fly past the window. Nothing about the outside world appealed right now. Ilya was the pensive one now, his calculus look on as he dredged a forkful through a lake of syrup.

"I want something," he said eventually.

"Okay," Scott said. "You want to be more specific? Because you've got enough money to sugar yourself at this point."

"You cannot escape this," Ilya's lips turned up despite his otherwise serious expression. "You will eventually buy me pretty things."

"Why would I start now?" Scott asked skewered a slice of strawberry to pair with his own bite. "Ok, so not a thing. Sex stuff?"

"Yes," Ilya said. "I want you to fuck me."

Scott did not drop his fork. He did not choke on the strawberry. Instead, he chewed very mindfully, swallowed and took a sip of his coffee and then sputtered, "Are you sure?"

"I don't know if I will like it, but I want to try."

"If you don't like it, we'll stop," Scott promised with more sincerity that he usually liked to show Ilya if he could help it.

"I know," Ilya rolled his eyes. "If I say ow, you will trip over your dick to get bandage. It's fine. I know it's fine."

"You want to plan or just let it happen?" Scott checked.

Ilya shrugged. "If we wait, we will both be thinking of it."

"Nothing wrong with a little anticipation," Scott surveyed him.

"Finish breakfast, than fucking," Ilya said with a determined set to his jaw.

"Okay, I've got an idea."

The massage oil was from a gift basket. Scott got them from time to time, random generic gifts from corporations instead of people. The oil smelled good though, very herbal and green. He got Ilya on his bed and massaged his shoulders, following the line of his spine and pressing in. It was a rough guess of how people had made Scott feel good over the years. Physios, massage therapists, and one of the most beautiful men he'd ever been with on an island on the other side of the world.

Ilya went pliable under his hands, the lines of his face smoothing away. When he was as relaxed as Scott could get him, he urged him to roll over and used more of the oil on the already hard jut of Ilya's gorgeous cock.

"Why are you so fucking hot?" Scott asked him.

"Mm, luck and genetics," Ilya smiled lazily at him, rocking a little into Scott's fist.

"Neither of those are giving you this kind of muscle definition. I know you put the hours in."

Rimming had joined their repertoire on permanent rotation after the first time. They had even ventured into a tiny bit of fingering before. A single finger rubbing against Ilya's prostate during a leisurely blowjob had made him come so hard that he'd almost toppled over Scott entirely. So it wasn't anything earth shattering to kneel between his legs and slowly slide his finger into the ferocious grip of heat. His other hand thumbed over the thick vein on the side of Ilya's cock as familiar terrain as the walk to the bodega now.

"Yes," Ilya hissed out, grinding down a little as Scott found the sweet spot and pressed against it.

They never put on music to fuck. With the snow and the distance from the street, the only sounds aside from their breathing was quiet flicker of the fireplace and the hum of the fridge. Scott preferred that. The marble tranquility of their obscene church.

"I can stop whenever you want," Scott reminded him and Ilya threw an arm over his eyes.

"Shut up and do it," Ilya demanded.

The second finger was far harder to introduce. Ilya wilted a little in his hand, an unprecedented response.

"Do you know what I like about getting fucked?" Scott asked him.

"Coming so hard you almost black out on my dick?"

"That part is pretty good," Scott huffed. "But I like this part too. The giving over to it. Control is great. Who doesn't like being in control?"

"Lots of people," Ilya said. "Or there would be no one who let us."

"Good point," Scott said, keeping his voice low and steady, working all the way in to the first knuckle of both fingers. "But for a few minutes, when you're balls deep, I don't have to care about any of that. Especially when you're on top of me. I know you've got me and I can just let it all go. Be in the moment."

"Because I am fucking you too hard for you to think," Ilya said smugly.

"Yeah, exactly," Scott laughed. "I like that. It's great to not think for a few minutes. Whenever I top, it's different. I love it, but for other reasons. I get to do that for someone else while feeling amazing."

Two knuckles and Ilya was tense around him. Scott dropped his other hand to one strong thigh and dug in, rubbing his thumb in wide circles.

"I don't like laying back and you doing things to me," Ilya sighed and his arm dropped away. "Makes me feel…useless."

The admission fell between them and Scott had to reward that kind of honesty somehow. He leaned down and kissed him slowly. Thoroughly. "You're a lot of things. Useless isn't one of them. Right now, you're turning me on. You're listening to me. You're here. Very useful."

"Oh, very important. Being here." Ilya gave him a look.

"It is. To me." Scott said. "You want me to get sappy? Because I will."

"Do not," Ilya wrinkled his nose.

"We're being stupid," Scott realized and slowly withdrew his fingers. "You always do better on top. So be on top."

"For first time?" Ilya asked doubtfully.

"Sure, why not? I don't think there's a rulebook. No one ever gave me one anyway."

"You have so many rules anyway."

"Because you don't have enough," Scott said, wiping his hand on his discarded t-shirt before laying down beside him. "I have to have more so we average out."

"That is not true," Ilya turned on his side to face him, propping himself up on his elbow. "It is more fun to have less."

"Oh yeah? You're having fun out there?"

A shadow passed over Ilya's face and Scott wished he could bite the words back. He wanted to imagine Ilya having fun. Being the person that he showed the rest of the world most of the time. The hedonist who laughed at everything and dove headfirst into sensation.

It had been years. Scott knew none of that was true. Ilya indulged, certainly, but never as much as people around him might think. In groups, he might be at the center, yet he held himself a little wary and apart. He watched everything. His mind was always working.

And Ilya was, at his core, profoundly unhappy. Scott wished he didn't know that. He wished they weren't close because somehow, being together, eased that a little in both of them.

"All of it," Ilya said and it was nearly convincing.

Scott reached up and cupped Ilya's neck. "I can tell. Come down here, please."

It was easier to kiss than to talk. Scott went back to rubbing Ilya's back for a bit and when Ilya finally got close enough, ran his hands down that very grabbable ass and kneaded it like he was making bread. Digging in a little got Ilya where Scott wanted him, straddling Scott's waist in a position he was a little more used to.

There was the prince on his throne, lofty and remote, while still warm and present under Scott's wanting hands.

"I do not want more fingers," Ilya said.

"Okay," Scott said, tracing patterns over Ilya's thighs. "You can just go for it, but we need a lot more lube and you need to go slow though. Like you do for me. I know you're tough, but you're tight as a vise."

"I know about lube," Ilya said, grabbing for it and reaching down to slick it over Scott's cock with a steady hand. "I do this many times."

"Do you want to reinvent the wheel or do you want help?" Scott asked.

"Ech. Idioms," Ilya muttered like it was a terrible swear.

"You can get that one from context."

"I want to fuck, not think."

"Yeah, okay, brat, go ahead then," Scott challenged.

Ilya blew out a stream of air in pure irritation. Or nerves. Maybe both. Then the steely determination that sometimes appeared on the ice came to the surface. Scott didn't know that that was the best attitude for this moment, but trying to soothe Ilya any more would only irritate him.

Instead Scott waited him out, until with a last fortifying inhalation, Ilya took Scott's cock in hand like a shifter, aimed it and settled himself over it. The head of Scott's cock kissed the tight ring of muscle and the reality that Scott might actually get inside Ilya dazzled him a little.

Maybe Ilya had the same thought because they made eye contact for a moment and for the first time, Scott saw the faint pale pink of a blush rise up on Ilya's cheeks.

"Hey," Scott said. "If I can do it twice in a day, pretty sure you can manage at least once. Or are you not up to the challenge?"

"Fuck you," Ilya spat.

"Pretty sure it's the other way around right now, brat," Scott grinned at him as Ilya moved the critical last inch.

And then Scott was sinking into him, the bliss of penetration returning to him all at once. He had gone away over the summer, had found one of those precious safe-feeling nooks at the edges of the world. There had been a stunning man, older than Scott with a little gray at this temple. They had a fun night, but this hadn't been on the table.

It had been years since Scott had fucked someone. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it until this moment. And Ilya was ferociously beautiful doing it, eyes closing in concentration, brow furrowed, and the rest of him taut as as drum, every muscle on display. Scott ran his hands up and down his thighs.

"Gorgeous," Scott said because he was always allowed to tell Ilya he looked good. "So fucking beautiful like this. You good? Too much?"

Ilya shook his head, but he didn't move any further, his breathing a little shallow. The ugly part of Scott wanted to grab his hips and slam into him. He acknowledged it, then shoved it aside.

"The first time you do this," Ilya asked, not opening his eyes, not moving. "Did you like it?"

"I loved it," Scott said. "There was…you don't want to hear this right now."

"Yes," Ilya shifted, took a little more of Scott's cock, then inhaled sharply. His thighs were starting to tremble. "I do."

"The guy zeroed in on me at this club. I knew it was going to be him. He carried himself with this surety that I liked. I was nineteen or twenty, can't remember. I followed him home like an idiot, but I got lucky. We didn't know a word in each other's languages. I don't think he knew it was my first time."

"He was good to you?" Ilya asked, a curl of heat there. Turned on or jealous? Scott got his hand on Ilya's cock which had definitely lost interest. He stroked him slowly root to tip.

"He was great, fantastic kisser, kept talking to me even though I had no idea what he was saying. As soon as he was balls deep, I knew I wanted to do it again and again. I'd had a few guys already. Knew that I liked to be on top, but I didn't know what they were getting out of it until I tried it. That what you have on your mind?"

"Little bit," Ilya bit his bottom lip, gravity having taken over some, bringing them closer.

Scott was glad he'd been distracted talking. This was maddening in the best way and he could already feel how hard he was going to have to fight off coming too soon.

"You're really fucking good at fucking me too, if I haven't told you that enough," Scott said. Might as well compliment his way through this. "I don't know who else you're nailing, but I appreciate them helping you hone your skills."

"No other men," Ilya said and then made a short bitten off moan as he finally bottomed out. Scott sucked in air and closed his eyes, trying to memorize the sensation of Ilya tight around him in case in never happened again.

Then his words caught up with him.

"You're not? What happened to that 'one guy' you blew me off for? Gone?" Scott should abosutly not be asking about Hollander, but it was helping him not shoot off immediately.

"Not yet."

Not yet. Hollander was holding out this long? What the fuck was wrong with him? Was he also strictly only a top? Did they just posture at each other in bed as combative there as they were on the ice?

Whatever. Fuck Hollander. Scott was the one with a lapful of trembling Russia right now.

"Are you good?" Scott checked in, giving Ilya's cock another thorough tug. It was at half-mast again, starting to take an interest."

"No," Ilya breathed out. "And you are not even that big."

"Hey now," Scott protested. "Not all of us are slinging porn star cock, but I'm average."

"You do not feel average right now."

"You feel fucking amazing for what it's worth," Scott praised. "Tight, hot, and the view is pretty spectacular."

"I know," Ilya gave him a cool look which would've worked if he wasn't even more flushed than before.

"You don't have to move, but I think you might have a better time if you did," Scott offered.

With a huff of annoyance, Ilya more shifted than rose, a slight movement that made his eyes narrow. "You like this?"

"I'd like it more if you were getting off on it too. Just…hold on."

Getting his feet planted against the mattress, knees bent without jarring Ilya too much was a feat. But Scott was a very good athlete, he could manage. With that leverage in place, he got his hands around Ilya's waist and pulled out a half inch before easing back in. Ilya swallowed thickly. Better, not good enough. Scott shifted and tried again. Eyelids fluttered a little, a twitch of the lips. One more time.

"Fuck!" Ilya said, eyes flying open. "Do that again."

Scott didn't make him say please. He didn't speed up or try for full strokes. Short slow shallow thrusts finally got the nerves and pain cleared off Ilya's face entirely. The usually restless hands swung back into motion and Scott's chest was massaged and groped. Ilya's dick was proudly hard and leaking a little.

The world was alive in sound. Breath and the smack of skin on skin, filling the room. Scott dripped praise out with every stroke. Ilya was beautiful and perfect and lovely and wanted. He was making Scott feel so good. It helped, but there needed to be something else too. They weren't all the way to right yet.

"Do you want to try a different position?" Scott asked.

"You want me to lay down on my back and take it," Ilya accused as if Scott had an evil scheme.

"I want you to know exactly how good I can make you feel like this, so maybe, some day, you'll let me do this again."

Ilya's nostrils flared, but then he gave a short nod. Pulling out with care, Scott got his hands around Ilya and coaxed him onto his back. The body Ilya had sculpted was flexible in certain directions, but he clearly hadn't been prepared for this kind of folding up, and he was instantly nervy again.

Scott was over him now and he could kiss Ilya over and over as he lined himself back up and pushed back in. He'd dearly love to watch that happen, the way Ilya was always hungry for the sight, but it mattered more that Ilya could feel how much Scott wanted him, how desired he was. How useful, maybe.

"Ready?" Scott checked.

"Yes," Ilya murmured.

There were memories that you knew would stay forever ingrained in you as you were making them. Scott would never forget the way Ilya clutched at him as he started moving again. The trust and hope in his eyes as Scott said, "I have you, okay? I've got you."

Ilya offered no argument, only the harshness of his breathing picking up speed.

The dangers had all been signposted. The point of no return so far back that Scott couldn't recall what it had been. Ilya had already made a home in Scott's chest, stealing his way there with light fingers and a shitty little smirk. He was curled there, safe near Scott's heart. All of that had already been true before. This only made it too obvious to ignore.

"So good for me," Scott praised as Ilya rocked against him. "Go on and touch your cock, sweetheart, I want to watch you come while I fuck you."

Ilya obeyed, a mouthed 'what the fuck' his only protest.

"Faster," Ilya demanded at some point, pupils blown and sweat gathering at the hollow of his throat.

"No," Scott said and kissed him. "Take what I give you and say thank you, sweetheart."

The noise Ilya made at that was familiar. The grunt of completion, the harbinger of his orgasm. He'd barely touched himself.

As much as it pained him to stop, Scott withdrew, leaving the mindbending heat of Ilya's body to survey him. Ilya's hole was pink and puffy, his stomach striped with come and he was flushed from chest to cheek.

"Why do you call me this?" the question was tinged in fear.

Scott kissed Ilya's knee, his own desire still loud in his ears. "You were being sweet for me. You were being very good."

Ilya threw both hands over his face, scrubbing vigorously. "Scott."

"Ilya."

"I make you come now."

And before Scott could protest, Ilya was putting all his intimate knowledge of Scott to work by giving him the kind of handjob that every high school boy wished a handjob would feel like. Scott came hard and fast, only adding to the mess they'd made of Ilya's body.

"Fuck," Scott breathed out. "Did you hate it?"

"Yes," Ilya rolled his eyes. "It was terrible."

"Real answer, please."

With a sigh, Ilya sat up, wincing a little uncomfortably. He leaned in and kissed Scott once, warm and slow.

"Thank you," he said against Scott's lips.

"You're welcome," Scott said reverently. "Thank you too."

Ilya dropped his forehead to Scott's shoulder with a put upon groan. "Stop this."

"Don't think I will, sweetheart," Scott put a kiss amid the tumble of curls. "C'mon, let me get you clean."

They were tender with each other in the shower. Careful too. Like they held something new and delicate in their hands that might shatter.

"I don't..."Ilya started than trailed off as Scott regarded him under the pounding water. "I like you. But I don't- you know this."

"I know. Same," Scott said. "You're probably my best friend at this point. Isn't that fucking strange?"

Ilya stared at him and then he laughed. "Yes. It is strange for both of us. I fuck both of my best friends. What do you think this means?"

"That we're both lucky to have you." Scott said.

"No more of this," Ilya grumbled at him. "No more sappy. It's bad for my teeth."

"You prefer to be my brat than my good boy?" Scott asked and then wondered if he could spontaneously invent time travel. How had that come out of him?

Ilya stared at him and then said something sharp in Russian.

"Bad? Yep. Awful. Sorry."

"Shut up," Ilya snapped. "Fuck, you are so sorry all the time. I like both, maybe. Brat more. But sometimes."

"Sometimes?" Scott studied him. "You're sure?"

"Sometimes," Ilya confirmed with a hint of a smile. "But not when I am an asshole. You must mean it."

"I can do that," Scott said. "Hell, you may never hear it again if that's the qualification."

That was all they said on the matter. The rest of Christmas went like the last two years. Food, bad TV, Scott getting fucked enough times that he was almost sick of it by the end (not possible). But it was different too. The ground had shifted, settling in a new configuration. Ilya kissed Scott goodbye on the morning of the twenty-sixth for long enough that it was a hazard to Scott's breathing.

"Sweetheart," Scott whispered in his ear and let him take that with him for the long ride home.

Along with Scott's aftershave. A green glass bottle of cologne sat in it's place, not a word of English on it. Scott gave it an experimental spritz and then had to carry on the rest of his day, catching the edge of Ilya's scent on his wrist as if some part of him remained behind, whispering in Scott's ear in return.

February 2013

NYTY: How'd the shoot go?

BH: They let me drive for real. Closed course.

NYTY: Terrifying. How fast did you go?

BH: Only 140. Too many watch dogs.

NYTY: When does the spread come out?

BH: July. I will autograph for you. Frame it for your wall.

NYTY: I'll trade you the Eddie Baur one. I look like a fucking tool.

BH: Screwdriver.

NYTY: I walked into that one.

May 2013

BH: That was very bad luck.

NYTY: We played bad, not bad luck.

BH: Not this time. I watched. You were good. Ish. Do not let it go to your head.

NYTY: Don't worry, I won't.

Two Weeks Later

NYTY: Next year, maybe.

BH: Fuck next year. I wanted this year.

NYTY: Don't we all. When are you leaving?

BH: June 15.

NYTY: Nothing doing this weekend. Want me to come up?

BH: Yes

October 2013

NYTY: I think I just met the hottest man I've ever seen.

BH: Looking at pictures of me again?

NYTY: Shut up. I think I've got a crush. I haven't had a crush since I was 19.

BH: Keep going like this and I will fuck someone else.

NYTY: What else is new? Can I tell you about this guy, or what?

BH: Only if you also make me come. 

Boston Hottie Called. Call lasted: 45 minutes, 12 seconds.

Chapter End Notes

I've gotten some concerned comments about the pairing tags, so I have added end spoilers to the beginning author's notes with a little drop down arrow. I'm so happy to have you here, thank you for reading!

Chapter 5: Blueberries and Vodka

October 2013- Two Weeks Later

BH: Have you fucked him yet?

NYTY: It's just smoothies. He's working. I can't ask out a guy who's working. I can't ask out a guy! In broad daylight! What if he's not even into guys? What if he's an influencer and he posts about it?

BH: You are so embarrassing.

NYTY: Tell me again how long its taken for you to score with your mystery man?

BH: Different situation. Very different. And we have fucked around before.

NYTY: I don't care how you dice it, a week is nothing on two years.

BH: If you knew how beautiful this man was, you would understand.

NYTY: I think smoothie guy is actually a model. Do they let models make smoothies?

BH: Your crush is crushing brain you cannot afford to lose. Please fuck this man before you are only caveman talking.

NYTY: I am trying. Sort of.

BH: Try harder. No. Wait. Don't. You look like sad dog when you try too hard.

NYTY: You're not helpful. I got you in bed!

BH: By accident. Mostly you look at me and I take pity on your ridiculous face.

NYTY: You came on to me.

BH: Not true. You looked at me with tongue hanging out first.

NYTY: This is a very stupid argument. I'm going to go for a run.

BH: Say hello to your smoothie man for me. Do not talk about murder!

One Hour Later

NYTY: Read that one too late. Talked about murder a lot. It worked out though. He basically told me he was into guys and he's coming to my game tonight. You don't think anyone will notice him using my seats, right? He's bringing a friend.

BH: Should be fine. I give my seats away to random people all the time and no one cares.

NYTY: You do?

BH: Sometimes I do not have cash for tips.

NYTY: Your mind is a strange place.

Scott woke up with the bizarre feeling that all was right with the world. All had never been right in his world since he was twelve. It was like he had been at sea for years chasing whales or something and then arrived on solid land to find he'd forgotten how to walk on it.

The blender went off and the space next to him in bed was still warm. Kip had gotten back in bed with him last night. They had made out for long syrupy minutes and fallen asleep in each other's arms.

Scott got out of bed and went out to the kitchen. Kip glanced up at him nervously, still deliciously shirtless. It was ridiculous how good looking he was, in an adorably compact way. Like whoever had made him realized they'd gone over board in every department so at the last minute deprived him of height to try to even the scales. Instead, it made him charmingly adorable on top of hot as hell.

"I thought I'd make you your smoothie since it's still your game day. Dumb idea, I know-"

Kip was small enough that Scott could easily scoop him up.

So much of Kip was easy. His smile, his flirtations, the way he tilted his face up for kissing in a silent question.

"Can I fuck you?" Scott asked, breathlessly overwhelmed by him.

"Yes," Kip said eagerly and it was like cool water washing over him. Instant permission.

The fucking was so easy too, Kip spread out for him like warm butter over bread. The give and take was so natural, so fluid. It was amazing to top again with someone who only asked for more and told him exactly how to to make them feel even better.

"I love being really full," Kip purred in his ear. "Give me three fingers, yours are so big, it feels amazing."

Scott would've torn out his heart and given it to him right then. Maybe he did. It was hard to tell between all the other fluids. Everything was slick with sweat and lube, the thick scent of sex that lingered from the night before grew only heavier. Long liquid minutes later, Kip was on his stomach, teeth sunk into his lower lip as he moaned wantonly against every thrust. The surround sound of that moment would feature largely in Scott's bedtime thoughts for months to come.

They showered together, still giddy and laughing, until they washed up on the somber shores of Scott's kitchen island, regarding each other once more across a counter. A little more naked. A little more torn open. At least on Scott's end.

"I should go," Kip said.

He should. Kip should get out of here with his frank sexuality and shining honest eyes. He should take his phenomenal ass and furry chest straight out the door and into the arms of someone less thoroughly fucked up than Scott.

But Scott desperately wanted him to stay. He gathered his thoughts for a long few beats. Kip gave him an increasingly worried look.

"I'd like if you stayed."

"For how long?" Kip asked, wariness rightfully kicking in and nervously joked: "Forever?"

Scott grimaced and looked into the glass with it's tiny berry particles and banana. An ordinary drink. It didn't even taste that great, but Scott loved it fiercely now. It had become inextricably mixed with winning and flirtation.

What Scott wanted to do was crack his chest open for Kip. Invite him inside it and keep him there for as long as Kip would consent to stay trapped behind his ribs.

That was probably too much for a first date.

"I've been told I'm too intense my whole life," Scott said. "But can I tell you a few things and you can make your own choices about what comes next?"

"Yeah, okay," Kip said, tension easing a little. "Bodies under the floorboards?"

"I wouldn't keep them here. The smell alone would be a dead give away," Scott said reflexively then winced. "Jesus fucking Christ, too many late night crime shows. Sorry."

"No, it's okay," Kip laughed. "I'm beginning to sense that's how you flirt and I'm kind of into it. Not sure what that says about me."

"That you're perfect," Scott blurted. Wow. Wow. This was really going great. "Listen, I can't be- I can't come out. There's a lot of things, a lot of people that need me to be a certain way. It would break a lot of things."

"Yeah," Kip said, tense all over again. "I get that. I won't tell anyone, I promise."

"No, I didn't think you would. I like you. I really really like you. And before I met you, I figured that I could get by with other things. I've got a friend, he's closeted too, needs to be even more than I do. We hook up a few times a year, but it's not like…it's not this. Whatever I think we could be."

Kip's expression changed, but Scott couldn't read it. Yet. He hoped he could have Kip long enough to learn to read his face.

"What do you think we could be?" Kip asked.

"I don't know. I don't have anything good to offer you. No life outside of here. But I have me if that's of any use to you. I like you so much. Please…just stay. Be here when I get home from practice?"

This is what I've got to offer and let's face it, it sucks was not exactly the marketing pitch of the year. The wealth was there, obvious in the huge space in a city short on it. If Kip stayed for the money, Scott could live with that. If Kip stayed because the sex was good and it felt a little naughty to be with a closeted guy, Scott could live with that too. If Kip stayed out of pity, Scott would hate it, but he'd accept it.

Stay, he willed.

Kip looked down at the counter, then came around it and took Scott's face in his hands. He searched Scott's eyes and kissed him.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?"

"Okay. I'll stay."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Kip smiled at him. "I really like you too. We'll figure it out."

Scott flew through practice. He was faster than he'd been in months, accurate. Focused. Carter picked up on it, grinning wide with every clean sharp smack of the puck against their sticks. Bracing himself for interrogation, he only got a hard slap on the shoulder.

"I don't know what you've been up to the past few weeks, but keep doing it."

"I'm trying," Scott laughed. "I really am."

The entire way home, Scott was buzzing under his skin. What if Kip had left? Scott could hardly blame him. He would've cut and run too. Maybe that was for the best. Acid churned in his stomach. The elevator took a thousand years.

The door opened and Kip was on his couch, wearing glasses, a book in his lap. Scott stayed there for several impossibly long heartbeats. It was the picture of home, this cozy sexy man curled up on Scott's couch. He barrelled over him, Kip tossing his book aside at the last moment with a laugh, accepting him into his arms.

And he just stayed and stayed as if he'd always been there.

It was a miracle how Kip was so suddenly everywhere in Scott's life: his books piling up on the coffee table, glasses often left on top of them; leftovers in the fridge from meals they made together; permanently indented pillow on the bed; more bottles in the shower and cluttering up the sink; and most critically the idle fun conversation that banished the terrible constant silence.

Kip told Scott about beautiful things, opening windows to worlds he'd never seen. Not only about his passions, though hearing Kip's rant about Picasso had sent Scott into hysterics, but the life of someone who was simply himself. When Kip talked about his exes, it was with an eyeroll and 'Dad told me he was a putz' or 'He made me go see his improv group every week and I'd have to compliment him a lot or he'd be a bastard the rest of the night'. His friends were an eclectic group, all in different stages of their careers and romantic prospects. Kip described their antics with fond irritation and told stories about the kinds of places Scott had never dared to tread: queer spaces, art spaces, public libraries giving lectures on the intersection of them both and parties in packed apartments scented with weed and expectations of quick, fun sex.

It was like talking to someone who lived on planet Earth while Scott was orbiting Mars.

Even watching TV with Kip could be a revelation.

"God, the queerbaiting is exhausting," Kip would say with the grunt of annoyance.

"What's that?" Scott asked.

"Ugh, okay," Kip sat up, getting one foot under the other thigh. "So like, it's when these big studios know they have an audience that wants a gay relationship to happen between two main characters and they really play into in advertising and marketing, but in the actual show or movie or whatever, it never happens. Sometimes they'll even joke about it or have a near miss or something, just to hammer it home."

"They're doing that on purpose?" Scott demanded. "I thought I was losing my mind."

"I mean not all the time, but yes, babe. You are noticing a real thing they are often doing on purpose."

"Fuck," Scott said, slumping backwards. "Why?"

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news: they want our money and not us."

After only a month, Scott was sure he could not go back to a Kip-less world. He woke up excited about the day even when he didn't have a game.

November 2013

BH: Friday, yes or no?

NYTY: What's Friday?

BH: I have some boring fucking meeting with Todd in the afternoon at his office. Then I am free.

NYTY: My friend is staying with me that night.

BH: Fine. We go out then. Have dinner with him.

It was a good thing Scott was home because he pressed Ilya's contact to call before he could think about it.

"Oh my god, Hunter," Rozanov said instead of hello. "I feel you freak out from another state. Breathe or you will pass out."

"Are you fucking with me right now?" Scott demanded.

"This is your plan!" Rozanov reminded him. "We are all friendly friends now, so we can go out, yes? I am in town, we get food. There is a third man with us that is my age. They will think he is my friend. Who cares?"

"Kip will know."

"Know what?"

"I told him I hooked up with another closeted guy sometimes. He's not an idiot, Roz. He'll put two and two together even if I don't tell him," Scott said. "And I would tell him. I'd have to."

"Why?" Rozanov groaned.

"Because we're dating pretty seriously and it'd be fucked up to have him eat dinner with a guy that I fuck sometimes and not tell him that. Are you for real right now? Please tell me you understand that."

Rozanov went quiet. "Yes. Fine. You trust him with you. Do you trust him with me?"

The question was heavy. Scott did trust Kip with himself. He didn't really have a good reason to, beyond that it felt right. Kip was a good person, who understood the stakes. He wasn't a blurter or even much of a gossip. He told Scott about the comings and goings of his friends, but never salaciously. Just like they were people Scott would meet some day and might want to know more about.

But Rozanov was something else. Another branch out. Another risk. Scott usually wanted to wrap him up in cotton and shove him under the bed to begin with.

Did Scott even want them to meet? What would that be like? What if one of them offended the other? What would he do with that?

"I trust him," Scott said carefully. "But I'd have to talk to him about it first. Where would we even meet?"

"A restaurant," Rozanov said, exasperated. "You want to eat at food cart? I will tell him about your street meat, but he probably already knows."

A dinner out. With Kip. Somewhere public and obvious. It was everything Scott wanted to give him and couldn't. It wouldn't really be a date with Rozanov along. But it would be something. It'd be real. A signal. You didn't introduce your best friend to a rando guy you were fucking.

"You really want to just meet him?" Scott asked quietly. "Cause I don't think I can take you back here for sex right after. I'm not even sure- I don't know."

Rozanov blew out a stream of air, the sound foaming up in Scott's ear. "I want to meet your silly named boyfriend. Maybe I will steal him if he is as hot as you say he is."

"Fuck you, we haven't even said boyfriends yet," Scott laughed and it broke some of the rising tension in him. "Not the time, brat. "

"When is the time? If you are so nervous, you tell him to leave you at home and I will take him out for date."

"Sure, you would," Scott rolled his eyes. "Okay. Let me…wow. I have no idea how to open that conversation."

"Boyfriend Kip, I would like you to meet Boston Hottie. Should go over well," Rozanov chuckled. "Maybe…maybe don't tell him my name yet."

Scott frowned, rolling that over. "Wait…in case you no show?" Rozanov was silent. "Yeah, I get it. Okay. I think he'll understand it if you can't, sweetheart."

"You will call me sweetheart in front of your boyfriend?" The teasing note was a little strained.

"I guess we'll find out," Scott winced. "Please tell me this isn't the worst idea we've ever had?"

"It is really only latest in very many of them," Rozanov offered instead.

"Good point. Okay. I'll text you. Have a good game tonight."

"Playing Nashville with their injured goalie. It will be a bloodbath."

That left Scott with an hour to kill before Kip got back from work. He considered his options and finally retrieved his laptop. He opened his 'stuff' file.

He wrote: fuck fuck fuck such a bad idea not sure if it's more terrifying if they get along or if they hate each other what am i doing what am i doing maybe i should just quit everything move to another country and change my name i could burn the building down for the insurance money

Then he saved and closed it out. If anyone ever found the doc, it could probably be evidence used against him in a court of law. The idea of getting up and doing literally anything paralyzed him, so Scott observed his ceiling and counted his breaths.

The elevator opened.

"Hey, babe," Kip said. "How was practice?"

"Fine," Scott said. "Did Erin show up on time today for you?"

"Barely," Kip scoffed. "I don't even know why a smoothie shop stays open past five, but at least I didn't have to do closing anymore."

"No more mopping," Scott said.

"Yep!" Kip said. "You want to do the leftovers from Wednesday for dinner? We really have to eat them today or toss them."

Why couldn't this last forever? A golden pocket of domesticity and affection untouched by the rest of the world.

"Yeah," he said. "Sounds good."

Kip leaned over the back of the couch and gave him a once over. "Uh, any reason you look like I shot your dog instead of offered you some decent chicken and rice?"

"I have to ask you something and I don't know how to do it," Scott said, looking up at him plaintively.

"Is it a sex thing, an emotions thing, a medical thing or a break up thing?" Kip asked.

"Uh…none of the above?" Scott frowned. "We're not breaking up. Are we?"

"You started this conversation," Kip said. "So no. Not on my end."

"The guy I told you about. You know, my friend?"

"Your mysterious fuck buddy that I feel like kind of lives here?"

That stopped Scott in his tracks. "Excuse me?"

With a sigh, Kip went over the top of the couch and settled in next to Scott. "Look, I wasn't trying to snoop, but I do spend a lot of time alone here."

"Fuck," Scott determined and dropped his face into his hands. "You looked in the drawer."

"Yeah, about that. It's starting to give Beauty and the Beast vibes, babe. I mean you didn't tell me not to look, I guess, but it's all very rose hidden in the east wing or whatever."

"I wasn't hiding it," Scott protested. "I just didn't point it out."

"This is a one bedroom. A very nice, very large one bedroom. There's only so many places to hide things," Kip said reasonably. "And I was just trying to put your practice clothes away to be helpful."

"You probably shouldn't touch those. Even fresh out of the laundry, I'm pretty sure they count as a bio-hazard," Scott said automatically, then honed in. "So. You found a few things."

"Yeah. I mean, do you want me to pretend I don't know who they add up to?"

"You know?" Scott asked, his voice rocketing up an entire octave.

"I have a pretty good guess," Kip frowned. "Boston Raider's shirt, bottle of cologne with Cyrillic on it, some really deep v-neck t-shirts. It might've been harder if I hadn't been watching a lot of hockey and hockey commentary recently. He really left his mark all over here, huh?"

Was that what Rozanov had been trying to do? Leave his mark? To who? He couldn't have known Kip would be here to find it.

"There's more. That's just what I couldn't have out if people came over," Scott admitted.

"Oh, really?" Kip asked dryly. "So you mean that Boston Raiders travel mug shoved behind the bleach wasn't a hate buy? And the very fancy sunglasses you wear sometimes that don't match anything else you own weren't a random gift?"

"He stole my mine," Scott grumbled. "He doesn't live here. Not even close. It comes out to maybe eight or nine nights a year."

"Good to know because I keep waiting to walk in here one day and find him."

"It's not like that," Scott protested. "Anyway, I wouldn't give him the security codes. He'd take the furniture."

"Doesn't he also have money? I mean, not that I know who this Russian Boston Hottie affiliated with the Raiders is. I know nothing."

"You know about 'BH'? Did you look in my phone?" Scott frowned.

"No, babe, you text right next to me sometimes and I, in fact, have eyes," Kip said. "Look, I get that you two are a big secret for very obvious reasons, but you kind of let me in here and I think maybe aren't nearly as good at keeping secrets in your own home as you are from the rest of the world."

Because no one had paid attention in his home before. It had been safe to stretch out here, strange, naked, and fully himself entirely alone. And maybe with Ilya. Eight or nine times a year.

Now with Kip too. Who Scott had forgotten to hide from.

"He wants to meet you," Scott said because frankly that was less hard than whatever else he might've said next. Something treacherous and sticky and too much.

"He does?" Kip asked. "Why?"

"Possibly to steal you too," he said, then shook his head. "No, god. I mean he said that, but he was definitely joking. Probably. Shit."

That startled a laugh out of Kip. "Okay. I mean weird play to tell you about it. Why does he really want to meet me?"

"I actually don't know. He's in town on Friday, asked if we could hook up. I said no because you'd be here and he said we could all go out to dinner. People know we're friends and then you'd be another friend. It's his logic not mine."

"Wow," Kip said softly. "He set up a way for us to have a date?"

"I mean, he will very much be there and I really have to warn you that when he is somewhere, he is really really there. The word obnoxious comes to mind."

"You're giving me the hard sell," Kip hesitated then took Scott's hand in both of his. "Honestly, I was hoping it would come up on it's own. I don't know how I feel about sharing you with someone I've never met."

"We can stop. Me and him," Scott said, but even as he suggested it, it felt like betrayal. To Rozanov, but to himself too. "If it's a deal breaker. It should be. I mean it's cheating, right?"

"You told me about him right after we slept together," Kip pointed out. "It's not cheating. If anything, I'm the other man. He was here first."

"That's not true," Scott said quickly. "It's not like that with me and him. I think we could stay friends without-"

"We don't have to play by their rules," Kip cut him off.

"Whose rules?" Scott studied Kip's face. Thoughtful, not upset. Somehow.

"The straights. The people who say you have to line up two by two, Adam and Eve, make babies and all that," Kip shrugged. "A lot of my queer friends in long term relationships have all sorts of configurations. Monogamy, open relationships, poly in like twenty different forms. We negotiate it."

"Like a contract?" Scott asked, throat thick.

"I don't know. Haven't done it before. We can write it down if we want, but I think it's the spirit of the thing."

"And what's the spirit of our thing?" Scott asked softly.

Kip kissed Scott's cheek. "I want to meet him. I want to have dinner in public with you. A two for one seems like a good deal to me."

"Even if he's awful? And I'm kind of awful with him?"

"I'll believe it when I see it," Kip scoffed. "I don't think you have an awful bone in you're body."

"Okay, but he only had awful ones," Scott warned. "And he does sometimes put one of them in me."

For the first time, Kip actually looked mildly upset. "Babe. That is so gross."

"Sorry?"

"No, no, it's okay. I was just going to fuck you about this, but now I'm queasy," Kip mock pouted.

"I can fix that," Scott said with a great deal of relief. Flirting he could do. Or their weird version of it anyway. "I know a great remedy."

"Tums?" Kip suggested with a twitch of a grin.

Scott sank to his knees. "I mean, I can start with stomach, but I was thinking lower."

"Not too much lower. We're not getting into feet," Kip teased, eyes sparkling. "Feet are gross."

This was such a problem, Scott thought as he got Kip's cock in his mouth and instantly relaxing about five notches of tension from his own spine. Kip was such a beautiful, horrible problem. Because Scott was absolutely crazy about him when he could ill afford to be anything less than perfectly sane.

"Are you sure I look okay?" Kip asked, days later, fussing with the hem of his shirt.

"Yes," Scott said, trying not to reach for a hat to pull down over his eyes.

The point was to be recognized. The point was that there was nothing to hide. But trying to hide something by not hiding was going to make him break out in hives.

"Wow, encouraging," Kip sighed and stopped fussing with his own shirt. "I just want to make a nice impression."

"Sorry," Scott's attention finally snapped full toward him, "I promise you he is not worrying about the same thing. I'm not sure he's ever intentionally made a good impression on anyone."

"It's funny," Kip cocked his head to one side and Scott suddenly felt pinned down. Seen. It was frightening, "You insult him with the same tone of voice you compliment me."

Scott opened his mouth, then closed it and groaned, scrubbing at his face.

They were still in the apartment. Sometimes, Scott wondered if he could just turn off the elevator access and keep them there indefinitely. Not a good part of him. Not a part he listened to. Mostly.

Kip gave him a pat on the arm, "It's cute. What do you think he'll wear?"

That opened up a whole new level of horror.

"How cold is it?" Scott asked. "Please tell me it's under fifty."

"It's November."

"Global warming."

"Yeah, good point," Kip said, got out his phone. "Uh, forty-one?"

"He will probably have on pants," Scott said with some relief. Arms and thighs would be too much, but he could manage one or the other and not betray himself. "Might still wear a tank top."

"Oh, he's one of those guys," Kip nodded. "Yeah, got it."

"Got what?" Scott stared at him. Out around Mars again, apparently.

"Eh, some guys will show off and pretend they never get cold. You know. Basketball shorts in January."

"Oh, not a gay thing," Scott determined. "That's just guys being fucking idiots."

"I mean, arguably it's both," Kip laughed. "Gay guys are still idiot guys. Liking sex with men does not make you any smarter. "

"If only," Scott said mournfully and Kip kissed him about it.

Rozanov had suggested a place only a block from Scott's apartment building. They'd eaten there twice in the last year since starting their whole friendship charade (which wasn't fake and was and wasn't and Scott's own stupid plan gave him a headache if he thought about it too hard). It served decent, bland Americana. Not an ostentatiously celebrity 'look at me' place or a dark one where you might got to hide. Just a regular restaurant with a normal amount of glass windows.

Scott walked there alone first, keeping up the guise of happening to meet up with Rozanov and some random third guy. Rozanov was already there, waiting outside, the picture of casual indifference on his phone. He was, blessedly, wearing pants. They were, less fortunately, obscenely skinny jeans. The shirt was fancy, elaborately patterned and the neckline vee'd practically to his cross. A leather jacket was hooked over his shoulder by one finger.

He looked fucking incredible. Goddammit.

"Rozanov," Scott said.

"Hunter," Rozanov glanced up from his phone and for a moment, their eyes caught and a private smile flitted over Rozanov's lips. "You look like you will have heart attack right here."

"I might," Scott admitted because there was no way he could hide it. "I keep running disaster scenarios through my head."

"You are so fun," Rozanov scoffed. "What will happen? Three men have dinner? News at 11? We are fine. You are fine. Fucking breathe."

"You breathe," Scott muttered vengefully. "Did you break out the designer gear to impress him?"

"I do not need to impress him," Rozanov said, "he needs to impress me. I was here first."

"That's not how anything works." Even if it was basically what Kip had said.

"Is it not?"

They stared at each other until Scott admitted, "I have no idea how it's supposed to work."

"Mm, me either. Even more fun," Rozanov said like someone had a gun trained on him.

"Do you ever feel like you're from Mars?" Scott asked then winced. "Nope. Ignore that."

"I am literal alien in America."

The reminder wasn't bitter, but it made Scott want to go back in time and smack himself up the back of the head. Lucky for him, that was when Kip showed up. 'Lucky' could mean a lot of things in this context and Scott didn't have time to process any of them.

"This is him?" Rozanov determined before Kip even got close them. "I can put him in my pocket. You find the smallest man in the world who looks like you?"

"Excuse me?" Scott gritted out.

"I will not excuse you, you are fucking ridiculous," Rozanov said and turned to face Kip, who was slowing down and flushing a little at the blatant up and down he was getting.

"Hi," he said tentatively and held out his hand to Scott. Right. Because they were meeting for the first time. "I'm Kip."

"Nice to meet you, Kip," Scott said, taking his lover's hand in his. In another circumstance, this might be a fun bit of roleplay. Right now, it was breaking his heart a little.

"Hello," Rozanov said. "So nice of my dear friend Kip to join us."

"What do I call you?" Kip asked, after making sure no one was close enough to hear.

"Rozanov. Roz if this is too long," Rozanov said with a toothy smile.

"Rozanov," Kip repeated and smiled back. "Wow. You know, you look a lot bigger on TV."

"It is the shoulder pads. And attitude," Rozanov said, shifting a little to straighten his posture which did make him about five times more imposing somehow. "Also I am not here to make you cry about being bad at hockey."

"Great, cause I suck at it," Kip said cheerfully. "I like watching it though. Do we have a reservation?"

Rozanov looked to Scott expectantly.

"Yes," Scott said. Because he'd had to make a reservation for his own execution which just figured. "Might as well go in."

They were shown to a table towards the back, but not tucked away in any particular manner. It was busy already, dinner hour, and the noise covered them a little. Scott wanted to crawl out of his skin, but no one was paying them any obvious attention. Beyond one woman looking over Rozanov like she might leap out of her chair after him, but that was normal and likely had nothing to do with being recognized. In their excursions out into their respective cities, Scott had quickly learned that the intoxicating effect of Rozanov cutting through a room didn't just drug Scott.

"What's good here?" Kip asked, perusing the menu either oblivious or willing to ignore Scott's mental state. That was nice of him. 

"I like BLT," Rozanov said, saying each letter like it was a word. "Not fancy, but good." 

"How are the fries?" 

"Depends. I like crispy, these are very," Rozanov held up his pointer finger and then made it go limp. 

Kip had to cover his mouth to cover the bark of laughter that broke out of him. "Yeah, I'm a crispy guy too." 

"I had feeling," Rozanov said with a pleased smile. "We share some things in taste, I think." 

"Maybe a couple. Not sure I'm into your drinkware."  

That one took Rozanov a second, but his grin only got bigger when it hit. "You are not Boston fan? Shame. We will win cup this year."

"You have to go through me to get it," Scott reminded him. 

"Oh no," Rozanov said flatly. "Stop threatening me with good time." 

"I really thought you'd be more uptight about this," Kip said through another round of laughter. "Scott made it sound like you were way more tense than him." 

"Did he?" Rozanov's eyes narrowed at him. "He is the one that threatens to throw up all the time." 

"I didn't say you were were more uptight about it," Scott resisted the urge to whisper which would likely only draw more attention. And anyway, they weren't saying anything exact. His stomach churned anyway.  "I said you had even more to lose than I did." 

Rozanov frowned, surveying him. "Why?" 

"You need to be able go home. I read about...anyway. It's worse. I get that." 

Silence descended for two or three seconds then Rozanov sighed. "You read about it for the Olympics? I could tell you this. Do not fucking go to clubs in Sochi." 

"Very much not the plan," Scott said quickly, glancing at Kip. "I swear." 

"Didn't think it was," Kip assured him. "Frankly, watching the flop sweat right now is making me wonder how you ever did it in the first place."

"He is brave after two shots and six months without," Rozanov said. "Or with smoothies, maybe. Extra banana does something to his head." 

"He told you about that?" Kip asked, so clearly delighted that Scott actually felt terrible. It was such a small thing. A detail that someone else knew about them. Almost nothing at all.

Rozanov rolled his eyes. "Kip is the only word he says to me for two months." 

"The whole time?' Kip asked, a real smile starting open up.

"Oh, Roz," Rozanov put on a deeper timber and speaking at a quicker clip, "he is so cute and hot and I am very stupid and don't know how to say nice things to pretty man." 

"That cannot be your impression of me," Scott said. "Absolutely not." 

"I don't know," Kip winked at him. "I think it's pretty close. Tell me more." 

"I tell him not to flirt with murder, but lucky him, you like this because he never listens to me." 

"It was very sweet of him to try to assure me he wasn't a serial killer," Kip said gently. "I got it. He is very intense." 

"Jesus, should I leave?" Scott asked. 

"What can I get you guys?" A waiter appeared and Scott tried not to startle like he was in a horror movie.  

Kip really did order the same thing as Rozanov which was not a big deal and yet felt big.  

"So what do you do besides hockey?" Kip asked as the menus got cleared off. 

"Clubs, I like to dance," Rozanov said. 

"Okay, but like..hobbies? Special interests?" 

Rozanov gestured at Scott, "What did he tell you when you ask this about him?" 

"Honestly? He gave me the same deer in headlights look you're giving me." 

Rozanov frowned. Glanced at Scott, who provided: "Deer freeze up when they see cars coming. Not scared, but kind of surprised? They get hit by cars a lot."  

"I like this one," Rozanov decided. "I know some deers in the headlights." 

"Deer. One of those ones that doesn't get an 's'. Same plural or singular."

"Ech, fine. Deer," he repeated. "I know deer in headlights. Hunter likes podcasts though. That is not a hobby, maybe, but something." 

Kip watched that back and forth without comment, then nodded. "Yeah, I got that out of him eventually. And movies. You watch a lot of movies too?" 

"Yes, the traveling all the time means lots of movies. I like American action movies. Lots of things exploding," Rozanov said. "Cars. I like cars. Fast ones." 

"Just collecting them or the driving? Cause living in a city seems like a real barrier to going fast." 

"This is why I will buy a house outside of Boston," he said. "My new contract is very good." 

"That mean you're paying for dinner?" Scott joked weakly. 

"No," Rozanov said. "Anyway, you will not let me. You will say you will then I will look away and the check will be gone." 

"He does that to me too!" Kip said. "With take out though."

"Why are you trying to pay?" Rozanov turned on Kip, bemused. "You are smoothie shop worker and he is ridiculous millionaire that lives like monk." 

"Thank you!" Scott said. 

"That was not compliment," Rozanov said.  

"I don't like when the other person pays for everything. It feels gross," Kip said with an adorable frown. "I want things to feel even." 

"They are not," Rozanov said simply. "Life is 'uneven'. I cannot believe you found other 'Mr. Fairness', Hunter. Ridiculous.  He has money, you don't. Why pretend this is not true? You are also much smarter, sexier and probably nicer than him. He does not thank you for charity of spending time with him." 

"He kind of does," Kip said with an adorable nose crinkle. "Like a lot." 

"Hunter, you are so predictable," Rozanov threw up one hand. "Kip, let him pay for things. He likes it. Makes him feel like big man and save your smoothie money for school." 

"Easy for you to say, you're loaded too." 

"Now. And he is more 'loaded' still," Rozanov said the word slowly, clearing relishing it. "Money is hard. And not good dinner talk, maybe. Hunter says you want to study art history. What do you do with this when you're done?"

"Work in a museum as an educator, hopefully."

"Like tour guide?" Rozanov asked.

Which got Kip going on his dream job and the actual work of a museum educator. All of which Rozanov listened to with the same blank attentiveness Scott had seen when they watched games together. He was paying sharp attention, if not to what Kip was saying than to the animation he brought to it.

Their food came out and Rozanov asked more questions, drawing out information from Kip without revealing a thing about himself. Scott's shoulders came down and he actually managed to eat. He felt a little superfluous to the conversation, but that was actually good. It was easier to watch them then try to wade in.

"What if we did coffee back at your place?" Kip suggested as after their plates disappeared and Scott had, in fact, gotten his credit card into the billfold before Kip even saw it. "Or a drink."

"Roz?"Scott checked.

"This is fine. No one waiting for me to get back to hotel room."

Because he'd planned this trip originally as a hookup, Scott surmised, until Scott had failed to come through. Then again, Rozanov could've changed course and he'd apparently wanted to plow ahead, so here they were.

"Yeah," Scott said, already outnumbered. "Why not?"

He could use a drink anyway.

At least they could all walk back together. Three wide was asking a bit much of the busy sidewalks, but Rozanov kept getting ahead anyway, weaving around the foot traffic and talking over his shoulder at them.

"He has a lot of energy, huh?" Kip asked, amused.

"Rookie energy," Scott said, letting his voice carry enough that Rozanov flipped him off. "He's not usually like this unless he has an audience."

"Ooooh, gotcha," Kip said. "So he's calmer with you?"

Scott thought about Christmas, the way they would doze on the couch, Scott's hand on Ilya's chest, something on, but mostly just breathing together.

"Sometimes," Scott said softly.

Kip nodded. "Yeah, you've got a calming energy."

"I do?" Scott asked.

"You calm me down."

"You calm me down too," Scott said too softly. Too privately.

Too much.

"Almost there, Hunter. It would be very embarrassing if you die five steps from your own place," Rozanov called out, "I know this is very long walk for you!"

"I've heard of negging, but you two really bring it to another level," Kip said with a half-grin. "You don't ever hurt each other's feelings with all that?"

"Nah," Scott said. "We're bullshitting mostly. Chirping. He doesn't go after the things that actually hurt."

"And neither do you," Kip determined. "No poking sore spots."

"Yeah, exactly. I'm only six years older than him for fuck's sake. It doesn't keep me up at night."

"In hockey years, this is so many," Rozanov said very somberly to Kip, the approach to the door slowing him down. "Like dog years."

They stepped into the empty lobby, the elevator opened. They all got in and before Scott could really feel the discomfort, Kip said like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth,

"Dog years puts him at like 140 or something. You like to fuck great-grandpas that much?"

Rozanov sputtered, choked, then laughed so hard Scott was almost worried for him. When the elevator opened, Rozanov flowed out, still chuckling as he hung up his jacket in the closet and held out his hand, gesturing for Kip to hand his over.

The moment shifted and Kip shed his jacket with a glance back at Scott as Rosanna hung it up for him. Who was hosting who? Was Rozanov doing it on purpose or instinctively?

No. He hadn't been Rozanov here in a long time and Scott couldn't make himself go back.

"What does everyone want to drink? Coffee or booze?" Scott asked. Because he was the host here. This was still his place.

Colonized by two very persistent beautiful men or not.

"Booze," Kip and Ilya said at the same time.

"Thank fuck," Scott said.

When he got to his rarely used little bar table, Scott hunted for something quick, easy and potent. There was a bottle of vodka, unopened, in the middle of it where he had definitely had whiskey at some point.

"Ilya," he said heavily, pulling it out.

"I will get the ice," Ilya said without even turning around. "Kip, you like vodka?"

"I thought that was a stereotype?" Kip asked, bewildered. "Like a thing Americans think Russians do."

"Probably," Ilya shrugged. "But I already sound like this and look like this. I enjoy vodka, why pretend I do not? Do you like it?"

"Sure, with a mixer."

"Boo," Ilya said, but as he filled a glass with ice, he pulled open the fridge. "This is too much juice. You open second smoothie shop in the apartment?"

"It's a thing," Kip laughed. "I do get to take stuff home sometimes."

Home. It hadn't been long enough for this to be home for Kip. Just a turn of phrase. That was insane thinking. Scott hauled the vodka over to the counter and the better crystal glasses to the island.

Properly armed with alcohol and safely stowed away in the apartment, at least all there was to stress about was the two men he cared most about in the world accessing each other at close range. Scott did his best to drink slowly. Somehow he'd wound up standing next to Ilya on the kitchen side of the island and Kip was sitting on a stool on the other side like an interview or something.

"So Scott said you've been hooking up for a long time. He never really said how it started or how long," Kip ventured. "How about it?"

Okay. Plenty to worry about.

"It is not a very long story," Ilya said, taking his own sip of vodka. "We were at the same club and did not know each other at all"

"Oh and…" Kip waved a finger between the two of them. "Wow. Okay, so you didn't know each other through hockey first. I wouldn't have guessed that."

"There's no way I would've done it knowingly with another hockey player." Scott said. "It was too risky."

"Yes, very," Ilya said softly. Shit. Right. The twitchy ghost of Hollander was still in the room with them.

"I'm not judging," Scott said quickly.

"Stop," Rozanov rolled his eyes.

"Stop what?" Kip asked.

"Hunter is obsessed with my other…" Ilya searched for a word then shook his head. "Guy. Not mine. Just. You know."

"Wait, you're doing this with two professional players?" Kip's voice climbed to the ceiling. "Why?"

"Good question," Scott muttered. "How's that going by the way?"

Ilya went quiet. Way too quiet.

"Oh, girl," Kip said gently. Ilya's head whipped up at that. "That looks dark. Did he do something shitty?"

"No," Ilya frowned. "We fucked a few weeks ago."

"You didn't tell me," Scott said, then paused. "I mean you don't have to obviously, but I thought you'd send off fireworks and a four-piece band parading through here or something."

"Wow, okay," Kip said. "How long were you trying to get into this guy's pants?"

"We have bad schedules," Ilya gritted out. "It was by accident."

"Two years," Scott supplied. "They hooked up a few times before, apparently, but didn't go all the way."

"Scott!" Ilya protested.

"You called me 170, cope and deal."

"Personal information," Ilya said. "But…yes. Two years. It was just schedules."

"Yeah, I often find it hard to schedule time for sex for two years," Kip said carefully. "So…it was bad?"

"I do not have bad sex," Ilya said immediately, considered, then tacked on, "Sober."

"Okay, so it was good and then he was an asshole?" Kip asked.

Damn, Kip was good at this because Ilya was actually talking. Scott had to take notes.

"No, he is very sweet. Good. Good person," Ilya breathed out. "But it was his first time. I don't know. It was very much. I don't know what to do with it."

Hollander's first time. The guy was intense enough to face off against, what had he been like in bed for a first time? Scott couldn't picture it.

"You could ask him," Kip suggested. "Usually the best bet."

"We do not talk very much. We text sometimes. But only for flirting and schedules."

"What's different with him? Because you text Scott all the time," Kip pointed out.

"Not all the time," Scott said.

"Enough that I know you've got a Boston Hottie expression," Kip said.

"Oh, yes," Ilya was definitely pleased by this change of topic. "I make his eyebrows come close together. Line between them like this."

Instead of mimicking it, Ilya just reached over and poked Scott between the eyebrows. Scott swatted at his hand, caught it, then pinned it to the island. "Behave."

"No," Ilya said delighted.

"I'm still stuck on this other guy," Kip said. "So you had sex and it was what…too much feeling? First times can be like that."

"It was not my first time," Ilya complained, wiggling his hand out from under Scott's, so he could get back at his drink.

"So you're worried that he caught feelings?" Kip asked.

Oh shit, that look Scott knew on Ilya's face. He elbowed Ilya. "Take it down a notch, he's a civilian. You'll level him."

"No one caught shit," Ilya ground out.

Kip, who apparently had an appetite for danger heretofore unclocked by Scott, said, "Oh, so you caught feelings. And now it's a meltdown. Oof. Been there."

Instead of leveling Kip with a nuclear chirp, Ilya picked up his glass, knocked the entire thing back in one gulp and reached for the bottle.

"No feelings," Ilya said.

"Ooohkaay then. Biiiig feelings," Kip nodded and pushed his glass towards Ilya. "Top us both off. We can drink to big feelings."

Wordlessly, Ilya poured heavily for all three of them. Surely Ilya wasn't that serious about Hollander? Scott had pinned the whole thing on a cat and mouse game between them. Not whatever was making Ilya drink vodka like it was water.

"To big feelings," Scott offered, holding up his glass. Kip clinked with him and then with an ugly grunt, Ilya did too. They all drank deeply and Scott set his glass down as the slight shivery burn of it landing in his stomach. "What's worse, if he has them too or he doesn't?"

The stream of Russian Ilya muttered sounded toxic, but the English that emerged was simply. "Both are bad."

"Because of the hockey?" Kip ventured. "But you two like each other a lot and that seems fine."

"Like is fine," Ilya said. "Friend is fine. And Scott is Scott. Not the same."

"I like Scott a lot," Kip said mildly.

"Thanks, babe," Scott smiled at him. "I like you too."

"Yes, but…" Ilya groaned. "You explain."

"Me?" Scott asked with a snort.

"Yes," Ilya said impatiently.

Which. Yes, fine. Scott could explain. Even if Ilya didn't know the full extent of what Scott knew, it didn't exactly matter.

"We figured out a cover story and it works fine because of my reputation. I've always had a soft spot for rookies and-"

"You started this up when he was a rookie?" Kip looked between them. "Like…a real rookie? That sounds…young."

Ah. Shit. This was not going to make Scott look good.

"Old enough to make up my own fucking mind," Ilya said without any heat.

"He doesn't like it when you call him a kid," Scott stage-whispered to Kip. "Gets him all up in arms."

"I'm twenty fucking two and I think you are too, yes?" Ilya asked Kip, who nodded once. "Are you child?"

"No," Kip said, a thread of suspicion in his voice.

"Scott is only twenty-eight now. Not a creepy old man just yet."

"I don't like how you say that like it's inevitable," Scott said. "But thanks for acknowledging I'm not ancient."

"In here, not on the ice. On the ice you are dinosaur."

"Yep, got it."

Kip took a long sip of vodka. "Ok, well that's been a horrifying cul-de-sac. So you're saying that because you're good to younger players, the two of you paling around has like…a shield. But this other guy, not so much?"

"Not so much," Ilya agreed. "Not at all. Terrible all around."

"God, I am so glad I'm a nerd and not a jock. You two live in nightmare land," Kip decided.

"Most days are okay. There is hockey which is good," Ilya said, swirling the ice in his glass a little. "There is this asshole. Svetlana. Many people have less than this."

"Yeah, I kind of agree," Scott said. "I mean if it was torture alone, we wouldn't do it. The game is worth a lot of sacrifice. And you find ways to make the rest of it work."

"This," Ilya nodded. "Not a nightmare. But not a good dream always."

Scott took a sip of his own glass, a little taken off guard by how low it had gotten already. He wished Kip would go back to being suspicious of him having some weirdness about younger guys instead of looking at him with pity.

"This is all making sense now," Kip sat up a little and raised his glass to his lips. "I kept trying to sort this friendship out in my head on your end, babe, and now I think I've got it. Rozanov is your emotional support twunk."

Bemused, Ilya looked to Scott, but this time he could only look equally bewildered. "I know the first two words. No clue on the last one."

"Okay, do you know what a twink is?" Kip asked.

"No," Ilya said first which was good because Scott was reasonably sure he knew from porn and did not want to offer that up in the least. He let his silence be misleading.

"It's a young guy with a certain body type. Thin, kind of boyish. Usually pretty desirable by real alpha male type guys," Kip explained, his hand gestures a little bigger than usual and his Long Island accent thickening. It had been a lot of vodka in not a lot of minutes. "But you know. You're too beefy for that. A hunk. So. Twink. Hunk. Twunk."

"And you think…" Scott trailed off.

"Am I wrong?" Kip asked.

Scott reached for the bottle. "I'm going to drown myself in this."

"You want to put harness on me, take me to business meetings, Scott?" Ilya teased, immediately all in. Because of course he was. "Out for walks so you do not go crazy? Pet me so you do not have panic attack?"

"I already do all that," Scott pointed out, then froze. "I mean not an actual-"

"Kip," Ilya interrupted him. "You are very smart. Teach us more words right now." Scott coughed and Ilya rolled his eyes. "Please."

"Okay, I've unwound one half of this equation, I still don't entirely get your side of this," Kip said. "Are you like…the world's wealthiest sugar baby?"

Throwing back a good shot and a half at one go, Scott considered simply taking the bottle and locking himself in the bathroom. That might actually be safer then whatever this was.

"Kip," Ilya leaned in and said deadly seriously. "I am in love with you. Run away with me."

"No, thanks," Kip laughed. "I'm pretty good here."

"He is terrible sugar daddy," Ilya sighed, confessional and still halfway across the counter. "Instead of buying me pretty things, he finds me agent and makes me work for my own money."

"That is terrible," Kip said sympathetically. "Is that why you steal from him all the time?"

Scott had never actually confronted Ilya about it. Or mentioned it. The ritual of it was private. After Ilya's first statement of intent about the scarf, he had never even referenced it happening.

"It is not taking," Ilya shrugged, eyes darting around. Calculus face. "It is…something else. Not stealing."

"Okay," Kip said, head tilting slightly. "Okay. The emotional support goes both ways then."

"Yes," Ilya's shoulders sagged a degree. "Little bit. We are both captains. We hold things up for everyone all the time. I like to not do this sometimes."

"He lets you act your age," Kip nodded. "I get that. You're a good captain, I think."

"How do you know?" Ilya asked, frowning.

"I'm no expert, but your team seems like you a lot. They play well. They listen. Scott is a good captain too." The loyalty was nice, but it also seemed genuine and Scott smiled down into his glass. "I think I can sort of see it now. With how teams play."

"Thank you," Ilya said.

"You're welcome," Kip smiled like he knew how much that was worth.

They drank a lot more. There was no sensible place to stop. Ilya tried to coax more vocabulary out of Kip, but a few drinks in and they had meandered far away from that. Kip demanded hockey 'gossip' readily laughing at their stories of teammate shenanigans. With a little more time, Ilya started to grasp the things that made Kip laugh harder and was clearly trying to push those buttons the most. Making a good impression.

Scott could admit he'd been wrong.

"I don't trust you to find your way into a taxi like this," Scott determined hours later. Ilya was smeared over one end of the couch. "Where is your hotel?"

"I am not drunk," Ilya said sharply.

"Great," Kip said. "Love that for you. You can sleep right there though and be not drunk in one places. Place. Fuck, I am toasted."

"I'll get a blanket," Scott said.

"No," Ilya protested even though his eyes were heavy lidded. "It is early still."

"Girl, it's like two am," Kip snorted. "I'm done, Scott's done and I think you left half of your English in the fridge with that insane snack you had. I never want to watch someone eat pickles with cheese again."

"Why do you call me this?" Ilya asked, eyes wide. "I am like girl to you?"

"No! No. It's just an affectionate thing," Kip said quickly. "Between queer guys sometimes. You can use it a lot of ways, I guess. But that's how I mean it."

"It is nice? To call each other a woman?"

"I mean, other people say it about us," Kip frowned. "So we might as well take it and make it fun."

"This!" Ilya snapped his fingers a few times at Kip. "I understand. Yes. Girl. I like. Girl, get me blanket, I will sleep here."

"Almost," Kip said with a grin. "You heard the man, Hunter. Go on."

"Bossy," Scott grinned back, glanced a kiss off Kip's cheek and pushed himself to his feet. He steadied himself on Kip's shoulder for a second until the room calmed the hell down.

Retrieving an extra blanket and pillow took him a little longer than it should with everything wavering a little around the edges. By the time he emerged, Kip was in the bedroom very slowly taking off his socks.

"You good?" Scott asked.

"Ooooh yeah," Kip outright giggled. "I'm so good. Great. Fantastic. The tip of my nose is gone, I think."

Scott leaned down to kiss it. "Nope! Still there. Still cute."

"You're cute," Kip grinned so wide his eyes wrinkled up. Scott had to kiss those too.

There was a thump from the living room, possibly of Ilya knocking something over.

"He's like a fucking cat," Scott grumbled. "Be right back."

"I like him," Kip declared and flopped backward on the bed.

That shouldn't make Scott feel as good as it did. He wasn't sure many people really did like Ilya and everyone should. Or no one. Or something. Stumbling back out in the living room, he found Ilya already skimmed out of his clothes, sitting up, but blinking heavily. His hair was a disheveled mess.

Tossing down the pillow, Scott got a hand on Ilya's shoulder and urged him down. For once, there was no argument, only a gentle collapse against it and a mumbled bit of Russian as Scott drew the blanket over him.

"Gimmie kiss," Ilya said so quietly it almost disappeared.

"Brat," Scott scolded, but he got down on his knees on the floor next to the couch so their faces were level. He kissed Ilya slow and sweet, palming his curls.

"Good night," Ilya whispered.

"Good night, sweetheart," Scott said and pressed his forhead against Ilya's for a moment. "Thank you."

"Shut up," Ilya groaned, but he reached out and cupped the back of Scott's head for a second, pressing them closer together.

"You want me to turn everything off?"

"Mhm. Leave the fire on, please?"

"I can do that," Scott kissed him a last time.

The hangover the next morning was leveling. When he woke up, Scott kept his eyes closed and only breathed for a while until he was sure getting up wouldn't make him vomit. When he finally pried one eye open, it was to find the bed empty.

There were voices coming from the kitchen. Suddenly very motivated to wake up, Scott got to his feet and blearily dragged himself to the doorway.

In the kitchen, Ilya was handing Kip something out of the fridge. Kip poured it into the blender. They were talking, peaceably. Maybe about breakfast. Ilya had one of Scott's old school t-shirts on, one that Scott hadn't even known was missing. Kip was still shirtless, apparently unconcerned about this state. Considering that Ilya's ass was barely covered by his underwear that was probably fair.

They were at ease with each other already. Hungover and amused by it, comparing headaches and remedies.

Scott leaned against the wall and watched them until Ilya caught him and made a face.

"I tell him you are not creepy than you stay in shadows and watch us. Stop making my job so hard."

"Sorry," Scott said entirely unapologetic.

"Liar," Kip laughed.

"Kip," Ilya said seriously. "Leave this creepy old man. I will take you to Boston. Make a beautiful life for you."

"Nah, I'm good," Kip winked at Scott. "But I'll keep it in mind."

It was funny, the way Ilya's accent rendered Kip. It almost sounded like keep.

I'm trying, Scott said. I am trying to keep.

Not trying hard enough as it turned out.

December 2013

NYTY: he left me

Three hours later

BH: What? I had a game. I missed this. What happened?

Twenty minutes later

BH: Did you make up already? Having hot sex and you cannot reply?

Fifteen minutes later

BH: Boston to New York, what the fuck?!

Missed call from Boston Hottie.

BH: Okay. You had better be fucking sleeping.

One hour later

Missed call from Boston Hottie.

BH: One word. Anything.

A half hour later

Missed call from Boston Hottie

BH: Fuck it.

This hangover was far far worse than the one in November. There was nothing good to wake up to and Scott hadn't even had that much to drink. He'd finished both of their abandoned drinks and then curled up in bed, still half-dressed in his tuxedo and cried for the first time in his adult life.

Everything hurt. The world was too slow.

And something was buzzing and wouldn't stop. It took a long minute before Scott realized it was the door buzzer. A delivary? Kip? His heart leaped, but then he remembered that Kip didn't have to buzz. Kip had keys and codes and everything he needed to move unchallenged through Scott's world.

The buzzer was insistant, so Scott reluctantly got up and went to the elevator to check the monitor.

That was a lot of pissed off Russian.

What the fuck? Scott hit the button. Relief spilled over the pixilated face as the elevator door opened in the garage. Oh. Shit. Not pissed off. Scared. What had Scott done last night in his heartbroken fog?

He stayed where he was, uncertain what to do as the doors slid open and Ilya stepped into the apartment, a frantic searching look until he landed on Scott's face. Then all at once Scott was wrapped up in Ilya's arms and he hugged back, the embrace all he wanted even though he was deeply confused about it.

"You scared me," Ilya said.

"I'm sorry," Scott said automatically, burying his face in Ilya's neck. "You didn't have to drive all the way out here."

"You didn't answer. All night, you do not answer. You always answer."

Oh. Shit. "I left my phone in the kitchen. I wasn't really…sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."

"It is okay," Ilya said, his voice still a little strained. "What happened?"

They both collapsed onto the couch as Scott oulined the evening. The awkwardness of the gala, Elena's kind take down, the discussion of Kip's birthday and the way Kip had walked out after.

"I can't just show up at a gay bar," Scott said. "I can't."

"I know," Ilya said, his eyes still hungry on Scott's face like he might evaporate. "And he cannot stay here always. So."

"So," Scott said heavily. "I should never have asked him out in the first place. It was always going to end like this."

"Oh, you are Russian now too?" Ilya snorted. "You were happy."

"At his expense. I knew he wanted me to be more normal. Meet his Dad, his friends. Be a real boyfriend. I don't even know how to do that, even if I could."

"Yes," Ilya said quietly, "you do. You know this."

"Ilya."

"Scott," Ilya smiled tightly at him. "You do know this. Maybe we do not say all these words for us, but you do all the same things."

Reaching for him, Scott secured Ilya in the circle of his arms. "I love him, I think."

"Yes, probably," Ilya said, shifting until they were both reasonably comfortable. "He seems very loveable. So. You go to his birthday and get him back."

Scott closed his eyes against the thought. "His friends. This bar. I don't- I can't."

"I will come with you. This is my job, I think. Emotional support twunk."

The words were truly bizarre rolling off his tongue.

"And if word gets back home that you went to a gay bar?"

Ilya sighed. "My friend chooses this place and doesn't tell me it is so gay. I had no idea! Terrible. I do not plan on sticking my tongue down your throat. I think Kip would not like this anyway."

"You don't have to do this."

Ilya shrugged, the feeling transferred all down Scott's body. "When we talk that morning and you sleep like someone hit you with hammer, Kip says very many things to me. Nice things. Maybe I owe him a little."

"He helped you with the other guy?"

"Yes," Ilya admitted. "He helps me write a text. Something okay and not so much feeling, but also something. Now we are texting again. Careful, but a little."

"The party is the 28th. Do you have a game?"

"No. It's fine. We have lucky schedule because we have game on 23rd. Nothing for almost a week."

"I have one on the 26th, but it's at home."

"Mm, good. I come on the 23rd after the game. Stay."

It would be a long time. Longer than they'd done before. And it might end with Scott having a complete breakdown. Yet, he felt a little lighter with the thought.

"Yeah, good plan," Scott said.

"Great plan. I only have great plans."

And maybe that was true. They spent the week together. Scott only texted Kip once after that night to say he was sorry again and Kip said he needed time, so Scott left him alone. With only a little bit of guilt, Scott let Ilya fuck him until he was sore. They watched a lot of movies, including the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy on Christmas Day when Ilya admitted to never seeing them before.

"They should fuck about this," Ilya declared as Sam passionately defended Frodo from Gollum and then the ensuing fight. "Why do they never fuck about it?"

"Holy shit, let me tell you what queerbaiting is," Scott said. "Cause it's wild."

So it was a little like Kip was with them too somehow. In the margins of the pages.

Ilya came to Scott's game. He showed up on the jumbotron with a shit-eating grin in his Raiders' t-shirt. When the crowd gamely booed him, he threw back his head and laughed, tossing a piece of popcorn in the air and catching it between his teeth. Scott scored two goals and he was almost positive that Ilya was audibly booing him both times even though Scott knew there was no way he could hear him in particular in the crowd.

"Wow," Carter clapped Scott on the shoulder, "you have a hater so bad, he shows up to games on his days off to give you shit. I love it."

"He's such an asshole," Scott said fondly.

"Stupid fucking kid," Greg rolled his eyes. "Does he eat gyros? I'd fucking murder for one right now. It's on me if we're all still standing after this one."

Ilya ate two gyros and almost doused himself in tzatziki sauce as he quizzed Eric about his art dealer who Ilya deemed 'hot as fuck' from a photo on Instagram and Eric informed him 'knew too much about aesthetics to settle for your ugly face'.

"He stay with you for Christmas or something?" Carter whispered as Ilya made the usually quiet Eric increasingly loud.

"Yeah," Scott admitted.

"Wait," Carter frowned. "So like these past few years when you let me think you had a hot hookup, you were just hanging out with Rozanov? Really?"

"He doesn't have anyone here," Scott said defensively, alarm bells sounding in his ears. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Oh, yeah," Carter shook his head. "Scott, man, you could've just brought him to ours. No reason for you two to be alone like that."

Wow. Scott was the worst. His had the best friends in the world and he assumed horrible things about them.

"Thanks, man, really. But it's kind of a lot on the day, honestly. It's better sometimes to pretend it isn't happening."

The resulting pity was hard to to take, but it was true, at least. Not another lie. Obfuscation. A little.

"I get it. But like…Christmas Eve drinks next year or something. Unless Rozanov falls face first into some tits he can't get out of before then."

Scott laughed, "Yeah, that is always a danger."

Hollander did have some impressive pecs, after all, even if he didn't dress to show them off constantly unlike some twenty-two year olds at this table that Scott could name.

The 28th came a little too quickly. Scott sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his dresser. Putting on clothes meant admitting this was going to happen. They were going to do this.

For Kip. Because even if Kip hated it, even if he said no and told Scott to get out of his face at least he'd know that Scott had tried for him.

He was going to try.

A pressure between his shoulder blades made him jump.

"It is one night. One place," Ilya said steadily. "One bar. I look it up online, it is not even that gay. Just a little flag in the window. So many places have this. Closed for special event tonight, even. Not full of strangers."

"I can't let them down," Scott said. There was no specified them. It was his parents, the charity, his team, the fans. The whole wide world that Scott knew sat on his shoulders and he could never put down somehow. Unless it was here. In the most private place he knew.

"You will," Ilya said.

"Fuck you, what do you mean?" Scott snapped.

"You are person, not idea. Person will be person and eventually something will not be the idea," Ilya shrugged. "Come. Clothes. Jeans, maybe. Shirt."

Ilya picked out his outfit and Scott put it on mechanically. Ilya shoved him into the elevator, a beanie already pulled down over his ears and Scott's scarf tucked up around his neck. As it descended, Scott's winter gear was tossed at him. There was a car waiting, dark glass. They slid through the streets and arrived at what did, in fact, look like a regular bar.

Through the window, Scott could see Kip. He was surrounded by people. So many people.

"Fuck," Ilya breathed out and then gave himself a hard shake. "Now. We go."

"I can't," Scott muttered.

"I will fucking punch you instead if you want. Break your nose. Right here. Do you want this?"

A little. That'd be a feeling Scott knew what to do with. He shook his head. He took one step forward, than another. Then stopped.

"I do everything," Ilya muttered darkly, fisted his hand into the front of Scott's jacket and simply pulled him along, throwing open the door.

"Sorry, this is a private party," a young whip thin man said as they stepped into the bar. It was a rosy lit place, big screens currently dormant. A party of twenty-somethings gathered around Kip, raising glasses to him.

"Kyle," Scott guessed from Kip's descriptions.

"He is on the list," Ilya said crisply. "I am party crasher. Friend Kip! Happy birthday!"

Kip's head whipped up and he spotted them. His lips parted in shock. Ilya's grip on Scott's jacket had been released, but he didn't need it anymore.

Scott had made it inside and he knew exactly where he needed to be. He gravitated to Kip, the friends watching him with ill-concealed amusement. Elena's approval bathed over him.

"Hey," Scott said. "Sorry, we're late."

"That's okay," Kip said softly, blinking a dozen times, then turning to his friends. "Uh, everyone, this is my friend Scott."

"Yeah, we know," the guy who had to be Shawn said. "You keep making us watch his games, he's kind of recognizable now."

"Scott, this is everyone. Oh! And this is Rozanov."

Ilya had appeared at Kip's other side, somehow already holding a drink. "Hello, Kip's friends. This drink is like candy cane. Why?"

"Creme de menthe," Kyle supplied."It's seasonal."

"It is poison," Rozanov determined and took a long sip. "But okay poison. Who is everyone?"

He had them charmed in five minutes flat, distracted in two more. Kip tilted his head and Scott followed him down the bar where they were out of hearing range. Reaching over the bar with long familiarity, Kip got the soda gun and filled two glasses.

"You came," he said neutrally.

"I did," Scott said. "Look, I know that it's not enough. That I'm not- I can't do enough this way."

"I think I get to decide what enough for me is," Kip said and gave him a look under his lashes. Considering. "I got in with a full ride."

"You did?" Scott said, pride in every letter of it. "Babe, that's amazing. You deserve it."

"It's Princeton," Kip said. "I'm going to move down there. I know it's not far, but it's not exactly next door either."

"I can deal with New Jersey for you," Scott said. "I'll complain about it though."

"Funny," Kip snorted. "But look. I think it makes sense for us for right now. I'll see you when I come home on the weekends and breaks. We'll talk. I'll have my life. You'll have yours. And by the time I have my doctorate, maybe you'll be ready."

Years. Years and years. But Kip was willing to try. To wait for him, in his way.

"And other people?" Scott asked. "Will you-"

"Yeah," Kip said with a pained smile. "And you too. I'm not sure the word casual can apply to us, but something like it. Until we're where we need to be. Okay?"

It wasn't what Scott wanted, but it was a million times more than he thought he'd ever have. A part-time boyfriend and a full-time asshole, who was apparently explaining high-sticking to a room full of people who likely had never given a damn about hockey before Kip forced them too.

The promise of a future.

"Okay," Scott agreed. "Let's try that."

They didn't kiss, but Scott risked taking Kip's hand in his, their fingers lacing together.

"You have a Kip expression too," Kip said as if this was a revelation to him.

"That's not just a Kip expression," Scott said. "This how I look when I love someone."

The beat of long honeyed silence didn't even scare him. Scott had gone beyond fear. He was only watching Kip's eyes, how they went soft, even as his grip went hard.

"I love you too."

They held on to each other, the ground steady under their feet and Ilya's laughter wrapping around them.

January 2014

BH: Best of luck losing. I leave soon.

NYTY: Good luck to you. Heard you have some injuries.

BH: Do not remind me. When do you go?

NYTY: Last minute. I won't get there until a two days before the first game. Are we friends in Sochi.

BH: Do not know my name.

NYTY: Roger that. 

BH: Who the fuck is Roger?

Chapter 6: North Americans and Boxes

Scott's phone had been notably quieter for two weeks. There were still messages, of course. Group text things with Carter, Eric and Greg, but those tended towards the organizational with occasional complaints about one of the other players, either for Scott to address or just to vent without pissing anyone else off. There was Kip, god there was Kip, a few flirty things tossed back and forth, some logistics. Kip was in the city until the summer, so they were still seeing each other regularly enough that they didn't need phones much.

It occurred to Scott over those two weeks that he texted Ilya a lot. It hadn't always been like that. He did know that at some point between years two and three, they had left behind the occasional perfunctory planning texts to start chirping at each other, then eventually straight up chatting. Dead time on the tarmac, in hotel rooms, days between games. Nothing that anyone else would clock as odd. Everyone was on their phones in those intervals. No one, except Kip, had ever commented on it.

It always went quiet in the summer. Russia silenced Ilya. Not only for the duration of his stay, but sometimes a week or more after. But that was normal now and Scott was used to that rhythm of silence. His summers were already very different from the rest of the year.

But silence in February was unnatural. A disruption of form that was cold and dark.

Lucky for Scott, there wasn't much time to dwell on it. It was his second Olympics, but he hadn't been captain for the last one, so it felt new all over again. He filled his phone by texting all the guys on the team that he knew personally, making plans and getting them on a group chat. It would work better when everyone had a chance to put aside home team mentality first.

"Do you sleep?" Carter asked him, rocking up to the bar at their favorite sushi place with a fresh hair cut.

"Looking good," Scott gestured to his head, "And no. Why would I do that?"

"Thanks, man. You gotta find a way to close your eyes. You're gonna pass out on the ice one day," Carter shoulder checked him and took the stool next to his. "I think you actually got Wabowski to chill the fuck out about getting his passport situation fixed."

"If he doesn't, I'm going to fly to his house and kick his ass," Scott said. "Never seen a grown man need his hand held that much."

"You're great at that though. A+ hand holder."

"You ready?"

"Born ready! I'm psyched. International travel! The Olympic Village!" Carter laughed. "I've heard crazy things."

"Most of them were true," Scott shrugged. "Lot of athletes in one place."

"I hope some of them like Americans," Carter grinned. "I mean I only need one or two, right?"

"What you need is a drink and dinner," Scott rolled his eyes. "Please remember the hockey somewhere in all this."

"I don't need to worry about all that, you've got it, Cap," Carter teased. "Seriously though, we've got this. You know that, right? Me and you? Unbeatable team. New York coming in to shape up the rest of those flyover assholes and get us set up right for a win."

Scott grinned. At least he had Carter with him. They really were a good pair for this and maybe they did have a snowball's chance in hell.

The flight out was long and Scott walked up and down the aisles to keep from swelling up too much. Carter tugged him back down when he started making people nervous and found a murder mystery series with some Australian lady that wasn't bad. There was gauntlet of things to do once they were free of the airport: registrations and paperwork, issuing key cards and the like.

"Uh, was it this disorganized last time?" Carter whispered to Scott. "Cause these folks are acting like the Olympics jumped up and surprised them."

"There was some bad moments, but this does seem worse," Scott whispered back.

They did eventually get their room. The beds were small. It had an off smell.

"Man, this is slightly less glamorous than I was promised," Carter said, setting down his bags. "You better not snore."

"I don't think I do," said Scott and didn't get out his phone to ask Kip or Ilya because that was insane response, all things considered. If for no other reason than Ilya would already have told him about it in detail if he did. Multiple times. Possibly with video evidence.

At least the food was good. Scott poured over their schedule, and Carter paused in flirting with a ski jumper to help him map it all out the way they usually did their season. Then he was off with a wink to schmooze around the room. He must've struck out because he came back to Scott's side in time for them to round up the whole team for their first practice, everyone jetlagged out of their minds.

"Why right now?" Wabowski asked through a yawn, there somehow, despite the bureaucratic knots he'd tied himself in.

"We don't get much time on the ice," Scott said seriously. "I know we're all beat, but if we give up this practice, it's a huge chunk of our time together. The world is watching. Let's make sure we give them a damn good showing, all right?"

There were coaches, of course, and support staff. Scott knew all of them, made it a point to talk to everyone he could once they'd gotten in time on the ice. They went through their paces, jostled at each other, and Scott policed the chirping, listening for the places it was less than friendly to know who to take out to dinner together to ease the way. If he had a month, they could be formidable. He had days.

So little time and still time to wait. Scott checked the schedule twice three days later, body sore, but spirits high and then said to Carter. "Going to watch the game, coming with?"

"Nah, man, I've got a date with a bi-athlete and if I miss her today, she's got an eight-hour training block or some weird shit tomorrow," Carter said. "Tell Roz I told him to break both legs, okay?"

"I'll let him know," Scott laughed.

He actually sat far back enough that there was no way Ilya would catch sight of him. Scott would pretend not to know his name, but he wouldn't pretend not to be interested in the hockey of it all.

The Russians were a mess. It reminded Scott of Ilya's first season with Boston as he tried to bully his team into better shape with every game like he thought he could do it by sheer will and talent. By his second season with the Raiders, he actually managed it. He didn't have two seasons with this team though.

By the end of the first period, Scott could see Ilya flagging. His usually precise fast skating was losing some of it's clean edges. Unnoticeable on an average player, but Ilya was never average.

The worst part was that Latvia wasn't even very good. They were simply lucky. Lucky that the Russians couldn't coordinate for shit. Lucky that their goalie was clearly too injured to do his job. Lucky that Ilya Rozanov was exhausted.

Latvia won. Russia was out, fallen from the bracket, not even close to medal contention.

And Scott couldn't even text him.

"How was the game?" Carter asked.

"They didn't break Rozanov's legs, but he probably wished they would."

"That bad?"

"Worse," Scott said and sat on the too small bed, trying not to inhale the smell. "You should've seen it."

"I'll watch the highlights. We'll buy him a round next time he's in town," Carter said with a hint of sympathy. "Poor guy. At home too."

"How was your date?" Scott asked.

"Man, fantastic! You should see this woman. Fine as hell. I can't understand half the shit she says, we were communicating with our bodies alone, but it was fun."

"Good," Scott summoned a smile for him. "This an Olympic fling or a one and done?"

"We shall see, we shall see! I can't call it yet."

They beat the Czech Republic the next afternoon and were riding that high, walking through the limited part of town that was clearly tidied up for the games. They were in search of ice cream because Carter insisted. Halfway down the street, Carter grabbed Scott's arm and pointed.

"Want to go bother Hollander?"

"Yeah, sure," Scott said because he couldn't think of a fast enough no.

Carter rushed in, giving a quick punch to the arm, bringing up Russia's game almost immediately because, of course he did. He loved the fabled rivalry as much as most of the other players did.

"What did Roz say?" Carter asked like those two were friends.

Were they? Not for the first time, Scott wished he'd just broken down and told Ilya he knew so he could get the full story. Certainly Hollander had started to sound like him. Something Scott had had to swallow on the ice not long ago when Shane chirped at him post-game like some discount version of his occasional hookup.

Hollander laughed his nervous little laugh. "He certainly didn't tell me anything."

Then Carter was sitting down. Shit. Right. Ice cream. Scott joined them like that had always been the plan.

"You want to hang with us tonight, Hollander?" Carter asked after they put their order in. "Do some international bonding?"

Oh god. Scott loved Carter so much, but he might have to kill him. He'd make it painless.

"Oh yeah, sure," Hollander said. "JJ already ditched me for a speed skater."

"This one has a biathlon girl," Scott gestured at Carter which bought him some time as Carter filled Hollander in on his hookup.

Eventually though Carter got absorbed in looking for something for them to do and Hollander turned a little to Scott, who was clinging to his ice cream like it was the last still point in the world. It would be so much easier if Hollander didn't look so goddamn sad every time he thought they were distracted. Like he couldn't keep up a fake smile for more than ten seconds.

Not my problem, Scott reminded himself firmly. Not even a little.

"Does your room have that smell?"

Great. Scott could talk about that. That was fine. Yes, it stank. Yes, it was probably mold. No, they wouldn't be here long enough to worry about it. He'd had that conversation with twenty people over the last few days.

"Men's short-form figure skating tonight," Carter said.

"My buddy Joe's in that program," Hollander said with some actual positive feeling in his voice. "We trained together. Would you guys be cool to do that? I'd love to show up for him."

"Hell yeah dude," Carter said. "I'd show up for any dude who's that brave."

Maybe not painless. Maybe a little bit of pain.

"What do you mean?" Hollander asked.

"Well, I'm assuming your buddy may be gay," Carter said. "Fucking brave for a dude to show up to a place like this and say "hey, this is me!"

Fuck. Scott set down his ice cream. He could see Kip's frown front and center of his mind's eye. The way he got when Scott said something ignorant without even knowing it.

"Carter," he snapped. "What the fuck?"

Hollander pulled back a little, startled. Oops. "What?" Carter asked. "It's true. You know Russia is-"

"First of all, figures skaters aren't all gay. That's fucking ridiculous," Scott said firmly.

"I mean a lot of them-" Carter started and Scott cut him off. Hollander had already shut down, face closed for business. Figured. Thanks for the help, guy.

"A lot of them are what? Do you have statistics or something?" Scott asked tiredly. "And second off, there are plenty of male Russian figure skaters. I don't know medal counts, but google it. Third off, if you know it's dangerous why are you mouthing off about it in a cafe where plenty of people can hear us? "

"Okay, okay," Carter held up his hands. "Sorry. I don't care if the guy's gay. I like figure skating. Jesus, Scott, breathe."

Scott subsided and risked another glance at Hollander, who looked a little shell shocked.

"I don't care if he's gay either," Scott said more calmly. "But we're not going to make assumptions about people because of the sport they play."

"I hate when you use the 'we' on me, man," Carter grumbled. "Makes me feel like I'm back in the peewee league."

"I've seen the pictures, you were better looking then," Scott said, taking the flipping off as his due. "Yes, figure skating is fine with me. Let's do that."

He waited for Carter to call him on it when Hollander got up to check in with some of his teammates, but Carter was so used to Scott being a tense, do-gooder lecturer, than he only said,

"I think you scared the kid."

"Are we calling Hollander a kid still?" Scott asked. "He's four seasons in and shoots puck to kill."

"Good point," Carter laughed. "He's got sort of a young vibe, you know?"

"Yeah, it's the haircut."

"Maybe they don't have decent barbers in Canada."

Whatever tension Scott had accidentally caused between them, Carter had already dismissed. Someday, Scott would tell him the truth. He had to. He didn't deserve Carter Vaughn. Even when he wanted to kill him.

"Sorry, about that," Hollander circled back.

The fluffy Canadian fleece seemed to swallow him, making his impressive physique disappear into a cozy lie. The way he folded in on himself only made him smaller. If Scott hadn't almost been annihilated on the ice dozens of times by a man with the same face and twice the size, it would be easy to think of him as meek.

"No problem," Carter said, "I think your sorbet melted though."

They walked over to the venue together, plenty of seats available this early on into things. Carter slotted himself between Scott and Hollander, so they didn't have to talk. Perfect.

"Wow, I always forget how these guys just fucking launch themselves," Carter said, the first program unfolding. "Maybe we should take some lessons from their coaches."

"Some guys do," Hollander said. "I've heard it helps with dexterity."

"You ever consider it?" Carter asked.

"No," Hollander said quickly. "One bad fall and you lose the season because you thought an axle looked doable or something."

"Oof, good point."

There was beauty to it. Scott appreciated the movement, the music. A Russian competitor was up next and Carter elbowed him, "Guess you were right, Cap."

"I'm always right," Scott grinned and Carter laughed.

"If that was true, Burrito Night would never have happened."

"What was burrito night?"

Which was how Hollander got regaled by one of Scott's tamer errors that mostly just led to everyone making fun of his spice tolerance for months. The Russian guy was good, but Scott really couldn't tell anything beyond that. Everything happened quickly and he couldn't make heads or tails of the scoring.

"There's your guy, Hollander!" Carter said, then started cheering loudly as the Canadian competitor flew onto the ice.

Scott watched for a bit, but his attention wavered and he idly scanned the stands, wondering if any of the other guys from the team had gravitated here. A movement in the upper reaches of the arena caught his eye. A black blur, resolving.

If Scott didn't know that 75% of Ilya's wardrobe was black, he would've guessed he was kitted out for a funeral. It was hard to make out his expression from here, but it was definitely not happy.

Pressing a hand to his pocket, Scott reminded himself why he wasn't texting. It had to be enough that he would when they were both stateside again. The program concluded with a flourish and Scott joined everyone else in applauding.

It was only chance that he glanced over at Hollander as Carter congratulated him on his friend's skating. Hollander's eyes were cast upward.

"I'm just gonna go find the bathroom."

The alarm that had been sounding quietly in Scott's head started blaring.

"I'm going to hit the head too," Scott said, clapping Carter on the shoulder as he got up. "You want anything from concessions?"

"Yeah, that'd be good. Carbs, please," Carter said.

"You got it."

Scott took the stairs two at a time and as soon as he was out of visible range from Carter, he picked up the pace. Either he was wrong and Hollander in his fluffy sheep fleece was going to disappear into a bathroom or Hollander was about to put his and Ilya's neck on the line out of sheer horny stupidity.

He spotted Hollander and jogged a little to catch up. The man was fucking fast, but he was also trying not to catch attention which helped.

"Hollander," Scott called and the way Hollander went stiff was one clue that the worse case scenario had been true. That and how he'd sped past the bathroom.

"Uh, everything okay?" Hollander turned to face Scott.

Shit, now Scott had to actually say something. There was no way a plausible lie was coming to him with his heart pounding in his ears.

"The bathroom is that way. You went right by it," Scott pointed. "Come on, I'll show you."

"I- yeah. Thanks," Hollander muttered and slumped a little, coming alongside him.

With the program starting to heat up, the bathrooms were relatively empty. Scott paced down the length, checking stalls while Hollander watched him with confusion.

"Okay," Scott exhaled and whirled on him, reaching over to turn on the water in one of the sinks so the sound would help cover them if someone did walk in. "You gotta leave him alone here."

"Who?" Hollander asked, jaw set defiantly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you know how goddamn dangerous it is here for us?" Scott snapped and then wished he'd stayed in his seat. What was he doing? What was he fucking saying?

"For…North Americans?" Hollander asked, rocking a little back on his heels. Eyes on the floor. Hands in his pockets. The precise monster on the ice was nowhere in sight.

Jesus tap dancing Christ, Ilya. This one? It has to be this one? Anyone even slightly less complicated or more plugged in? Someone calmer? Is your type high strung hockey captains?

"Sure. Let's go with that," Scott cast his eyes up to the ceiling. The dirty, funky looking ceiling. "Fuck. Okay. Carter is going to go out tonight with his hookup when she gets in from practice. Come back to my room after this. I think it's time we talked."

"About what?"

"About being fucking North Americans," Scott gritted out.

"So I should bring my teammates?"

He absolutely had to be fucking with Scott now. Scott searched his face and Hollander looked at him back, panic in every line of him. Not fucking with him. Trying to chirp to hide. Badly.

"Just you and me. Team captain to team captain," Scott said. "Come on, I told Carter I'd get him something to eat."

Hollander didn't even pretend he'd actually had to piss and obediently followed Scott back out into the hallway. Fuck Scott's entire life.

"You want anything?" Scott asked Hollander.

"Uh, just a water or something," Hollander mumbled. "I can get it."

"Don't worry about it," Scott said and bought enough bullshit to feed all three of them while they finished out the program.

Predictably, Carter ate, checked his phone and as soon as things wound to a close, gave Scott a wink. "I've got to head out. Don't wait up."

"Practice is at 11," Scott reminded him.

"Yeah, Cap, I know," Carter grinned. "I'll be in fighting form, promise. Hollander, always a pleasure. See you when we beat the gold out of you. Though I guess it could be Sweden. You played them yet?"

"Tomorrow," Hollander said solemnly.

"Ooooh right," Carter nodded. "Good luck. Fight hard. Would love a neighborly face off, huh?"

"Sure, it's always more fun to score off guys you know."

Scott watched the ice, so he didn't say something even worse than he already had. Ilya had been gone when they got back to their seats, whisking away his ominous presence with all the dramatic timing of a vampire.

"Let's go," Scott got to his feet, when it was all over, but for the weeping and cheering.

For an instant, it seemed like Hollander might not follow him. The jaw even clenched, preparing for push back, but apparently, he thought better of it and silently came to Scott's side and followed him out of the arena.

"You guys have been playing well." Scott offered as they got on the tram that would cart them back to the village. Sitting in silence seemed like the wrong play.

"Thanks," Hollander said stiffly. "Helps that I've got JJ with me."

"I know the feeling. Carter makes it a lot easier. If I had a room full of strangers, wrestling them together would be harder. Not sure I've ever met JJ off the ice. Good guy?"

"One of the best," Hollander said, staring down at his joined hands. "Him and Hayden were great when I joined the team. Really welcoming."

"That was Eric and Greg for me. It's good when you can stay together. We lost a lot of guys the next season, retirements and things."

Somehow, they stumbled through that kind of asinine small talk all the way to Scott's door. Any observer would think they were two awkward people having an awkward conversation that they couldn't escape.

Which had all the benefit of being fundamentally true.

The second that they stepped into the room and the door closed, Hollander turned on Scott with his eyes flashing. Ah. There was was the man with nerves of steel, who could steal Scott's shots like he was standing still and be gone before he could blink.

"Tell me what you fucking know," Hollander demanded.

"No," Scott said.

The blink was a little sad. Had Hollander been expecting instant capitulation?

"You corner me in a goddamn bathroom and you won't even-"

"I'm trying to help you," Scott said with as much gentleness as he could summon. "Please."

"How?" Hollander didn't move from the door, everything in his body language screaming fight or flight. Both would be bad.

"Let's just sit down."

The rooms had a table, big enough for two people to eat a meal off of if you were friendly with your roommate. Scott pulled a chair a little away from the table. Knocking knees with Carter over oatmeal was one thing. He wasn't getting that chummy with Hollander as he negotiated his way through the field of bear traps he'd accidentally setup for himself.

Reluctantly, Hollander sat in the other chair, eyeing Scott up carefully. Taking a few breaths, Scott settled on something close enough to the truth to get them through this.

"I know you and Rozanov are friends," Scott said.

"How?" Hollander demanded.

"Observation," Scott said dryly. "There's nothing wrong about that, you know. Media is media and real life is real life."

"Easy for you to say," Hollander muttered, then a little louder as if he was throwing it back with equal force. "I know you guys are friendly."

"We don't hide it," Scott confirmed. "Friendly enough that I talked to him about some things before we came here."

"Which things?" All at once Hollander was a live wire again. It was like roaming through a laser field.

Could Ilya, of all people, disarm him? How? Ilya was the most defense activating human to ever live.

"We talked about Russia."

"But he doesn't ever-" Hollander started then stopped.

"He doesn't and he didn't really with me either," Scott placated. "But I asked him if we were friends here. And he told me that here, I don't even know his name."

"Oh," Hollander frowned. "Why?"

Scott stared at him. Hollander shifted a little, but didn't give anything away.

"I honestly thought you two were talking more," Scott said.

"Does he say things about me?" The question was tight with paranoia.

"He doesn't," Scott said. "He's never said your name in my presence unless it was hockey-related. But I figure friends talk sometimes."

"Nothing about the Olympics," Hollander's gaze skittered to the walls.

Okay. Right. Scott could figure this out. He was a strategist. He was going to get them through this with most of everyone's secrets relatively intact.

"Rozanov isn't as popular here as he is at home," Scott said. "And I think being friendly with North Americans would land him in a lot of hot water."

"But he plays for Boston," Hollander protested.

Ilya was fucking this guy, right? Scott hadn't somehow pulled all the facts out, lined them up and gotten the wrong answer had he? No, it had to be Hollander.

Beating around the bush was getting them nowhere.

"Fuck me running," Scott threw up his hands. "Look, if you talk to him, people might assume you guys are too close for comfort and his life here is over. He doesn't have American citizenship, who knows if they could even get him home again?"

"Why would they think it was too close?" Hollander asked, hands knotting around each other now. "We really barely know each other. It would just be a hello."

"Right," Scott said. "So you want to put his life on the line in hopes that no one takes your friendly conversation the wrong way?"

"No!" Hollander protested.

"Great. Good. So leave him the fuck alone until we get back."

Hollander frowned and looked away. "He owes me a conversation."

"About what?" Scott asked.

"Doesn't matter," Hollander grimaced.

"Hollander," Scott said heavily because he couldn't stop being himself no matter how much he tried. And Scott wasn't the person who let people suffer in front of him. "Can I tell you something?"

"Yes?" Hollander frowned. "About Rozanov?"

"About me," Scott said.

"Are you retiring?"

"Wow," Scott said with a shocked chuckle. "Now I know you two assholes are friends. Damn, you almost did the accent and everything."

"I did not!"

"Okay, sure," Scott shook his head. "I'm not fucking retiring because I'm only twenty-eight. You want a cup, you'll have to slam through me for it."

"Done," Hollander said with unshakable confidence. People really could contain multitudes.

"So do you want to hear what I have to say or do you have more bullets in the gun, Mr. Rozanov?"

Being called that seemed to take Hollander entirely offline. Fascinating. Scott waited him out. Maybe Hollander would just punch him and then Scott could show up with mysterious black eye tomorrow. Wouldn't that be delightful? Kip would probably notice when he watched the game and then Scott would have to explain that he antagonized Ilya's other guy into beating the shit out of him.

That was not good ethical non-monogamy probably. Then again, someone in their fucked up quadrangle not knowing they were even it was probably worse. Rozanov should probably get on that, but Scott was not taking that hit for him.

"I'm done," Hollander choked out.

"Great," Scott sorted through his thoughts and said, "Okay, look. I spent the first seven years of my career without a single person in my life actually knowing who I was. I had friends. I had teammates. And then I came home to an empty apartment and that was the only time I was entirely myself. Do you know what I mean?"

Hollander stared at a point over Scott's shoulder. Scott waited him out until he saw one tiny nod, then went on.

"I didn't really know how bad it was until I did have someone who saw all of it," Scott said. He could still see Ilya that first night in Scott's apartment, trailing his fingers over the couch cushions, over Scott. Leaving his fingerprints behind, his DNA. His fucking Raiders shirt.

Was that what he'd been doing all these years? All those reminders that they saw each other. That someone out there held the whole of them in their minds' eye? There was no way Ilya put it in those words, but Scott was seized with the conviction that he was right about that.

He wanted Ilya desperately right now and not just to throw him up like a shield against Hollander's wounded doe eyed gaze.

"Who?" Hollander asked.

"A friend," Scott said neutrally. "My point is…fuck, okay, listen, I don't know your life, Hollander, but I think maybe you need that kind of friend too. Someone who has nothing to do with hockey. Someone you can talk to, who sees you."

Hollander blinked, "Wait. The friend isn't Rozanov?"

"No," Scott said. "Someone who's whole life isn't puck and stick. It gives them a different eye on things. Keeps me grounded."

"Oh. Sounds…nice."

Scott couldn't help it. He had to laugh at the thinly veiled disbelief. "It is. It's actually fucking fantastic. They care enough about it that they don't look at me like an alien when I talk about it, don't get me wrong. They watch. But they mostly care about me as a person. It's wild."

Hollander sat back, still staring at that point beyond Scott. Scott let him have his quiet, ready for some of his own. Mostly Scott was doing time zone calculations to figure out if Kip would be available for a phone call after this.

"I have people that know me," Hollander said.

"Okay," Scott shrugged off the lie. He wasn't Hollander's captain. He wasn't even his friend. "Good. Everyone deserves that."

"I'm going to go," Hollander decided.

"Sure. You have my number? I can't remember."

"No, I don't."

"Take it. Just in case."

"In case of what?" Hollander asked warily.

"Will it poison your phone? Just take it, for fuck's sake."

So Scott exchanged numbers with fiercest player in the league trying to not visibly sweat about it. It would've been funny if the whole damn weight of sadness about it was starting to crash down on Scott like a tsunami.

"Whenever, wherever. If you need an ear," Scott said so quietly, so gently. So careful. "I mean it."

"Yeah," Hollander took a step back like Scott had threatened him with violence. Except Scott would bet that Hollander would handle that a lot better. "Sure. Thanks. I'm going to- yeah. Bye."

Then he was gone with cartoon speed lines following him. Scott, phone still in hand, went into the dark bedroom and texted Kip.

Scott: You up?

LOML: Lucky you, insomnia strikes again.

Scott: I've got a killer bedtime story for you.

LOML: International rates have to be murder though.

Scott: Are you being serious right now? Please let me call you. I don't give two shits about rates.

LOML: OK

"Hey," Kip picked up after a single ring. He sounded sleepy over the stretched out static of the call. It was easy to imagine him in bed, hair tousled and eyes heavy lidded. Easy to imagine himself beside him, kissing his neck and pulling Kip in closer for a cuddle.

"Hey, yourself," Scott smiled at his knees. "Randomly can't sleep or something on your mind?"

"Random," Kip said. "Probably too much coffee. You were awesome yesterday, by the way. Two goals!"

"Thanks," Scott said, getting up to change for bed. He might as well lay down while he talked to him. "You don't have to watch all of them."

"Shut up, my boyfriend is a big famous hockey man, I will be watching his games. And he promised me a good bedtime story."

"I hope I didn't oversell it."

"Yes, because you are known to be overenthusiastic about things," Kip teased. "That's my man, always hyping things up with his endless optimism."

"Hey, I'll have you know I give great pep talks," Scott said with mock-offense. "Get everyone going before the game."

"Is it the violent crime statistics?" Kip guessed. "That could be pretty motivating."

"You know, I haven't used those yet, but I might if we keep playing like shit," Scott laughed and tossed his clothes into the laundry bag, before carefully laying back down. No one he knew of had broken one of the weird beds yet, but he didn't want to be the first.

"Let me know how that goes."

"Will do," Scott got comfortable. "So. I talked to the other guy today."

"Other- wait! Roz's other guy?" Kip's voice rose. "Like randomly?"

"I wish," Scott groaned. "I did it on purpose."

He had confessed to Kip weeks ago that he did know the mystery man's identity without giving up a name. When he explained why he hadn't told Ilya he knew, he was surprised Kip had agreed. "It's his secret to keep and yours to keep for him now, I guess."

"Ooookay, why?" Kip asked.

So Scott launched into the story, trying to dress it a little for Kip, but the more he talked about it, the sadder it seemed. The missed connection of it all.

"He's one of the most successful people I've ever met and I feel fucking terrible for him," Scott concluded. "I don't know what that means."

"Honey," Kip said all warmth curled in his ear, "you're like two peas in a pod. You know exactly what he feels, how could you not have empathy for him?"

Scott closed his eyes, listening to the soft scrap of Kips' breath thousands of miles away. "I should've done more. Said more."

"You were as kind to him as he would let you, sounds like to me. Without you revealing things that weren't yours to give away."

"Maybe I should've told him about me," Scott said. "Something more."

"Maybe," Kip sighed. "Or maybe you would and he would tell someone else. You know, I don't take it lightly. All the reasons you're afraid."

"I know," Scott said, but it was nice to hear. Sometimes he felt a little crazy, spinning out about worse case scenarios. "Sorry to bother you with all this at midnight."

"You're kidding, right? I want to know all this. Not just for you, but for Roz too. God, what a week for him."

"I keep reaching for my phone and remembering I can't text him," Scott admitted. "You should've seen him, dramatic asshole was standing there like a broody grim reaper or something."

"When does he get back?"

"He's got a game two days after closing ceremonies, so that would be the latest. I'm going to have to tell him I talked to the other guy as soon as I can in case the other guy beats me too it."

"I don't think you have to lose sleep over that. They're not talking that much," Kip offered.

"No? I thought they were back on track or something like it. Though the other guy said he was owed a conversation."

"He's owed something. Maybe damages," Kip muttered. "You know Roz is not exactly the king of emotional openness?"

Scott faked a gasp.

"Shut up," Kip laughed. "Just take my word for it, if you reach out the day of the game, you'll be okay. Roz usually has to text the other guy first is the pattern I'm getting. We need a better code name for him. The Other Guy makes it sound like someone's cheating and no one is."

"You're right. I think he has him as a girl's name in his phone, but I don't know what."

"Jane," Kip supplied.

Jane. Shane. "I don't know if I find the lack of creativity charming or scary."

"What do you mean?" Kip asked.

"I wish I could tell you because you would agree," Scott sighed. "I guess that'll do. I'm not using that in my phone though, it's fucking ridiculous."

"Babe, you came up with Boston Hottie, let's not get too excited."

"When I tell you that is head and shoulders above this one, you'll just have to believe me." The yawn in his ear told Scott everything he needed to know. "Go to sleep, love."

"Mm, okay, if you insist, New York Thank You."

"Hey, that was him too, don't put that on me," Scott grumbled.

"What am I?" Kip asked.

"What are you what, sleepyhead?"

"In your phone. I just realized, you can't possibly have me in there as Christoper Grady, can you?"

"No," Scott said softly. "Do you really want to know?"

"Is it unflattering? Or deeply ridiculous?" Kip asked.

"I hope you wouldn't think so," Scott sighed. "L.O.M.L."

"Help me out here, I'm half-asleep. What's that mean?"

He hoped Kip's eyes were closed too. He hoped he was imagining Scott talking quietly beside him in bed.

"Light of my life," he whispered to him. In his ear. Halfway across the world.

There was a beat of silence and then the softest exhalation. "That's not ridiculous. It might be the most flattering thing anyone's ever said to me."

"You are. Okay?"

"Okay," Kip said. "God. Okay."

"Get some sleep. Sweet dreams. I love you."

"I love you too. Good night."

The connection severed and Scott pressed a hand to his eyes. He was alone in the dark, but he could still feel the silky thread of connections. One over the water and far away, the other close at hand, but somehow even further.

Feeling very silly, but also like it mattered, Scott whispered into the mildewed dark, "Good night, sweetheart."

America got the bronze and Scott clutched it without remorse. There was something beautiful about a hard fight and while the gold would've been better, he'd take the evidence of a mountain climbed.

Funny thing though, when he finally made it back to his own bed, he opened the top drawer of his bureau to dump the medal in along with the one from his last Olympics. For old times, sake, he pulled out the gold medal, but it felt and looked entirely different. Instead of the burnished stylized finish with the Olympic rings off-center, there was a embossed hockey player and the words 'WJC World Champions'.

Scott took a picture with a beleaguered sigh, put it in a text and hit send.

NYTY: Explain.

BH: New phone, who dis?

NYTY: Nice try. That thing has actual importance to me.

BH: So you keep it under your underwear? Very important.

NYTY: I know you didn't win in 2009, so this is what? 2008?

BH: Yes. How did you know I didn't win in 2009?

NYTY: That's when I started paying attention to the Juniors. Getting a feel for the draft. Don't you do that?

BH: Yes, sometimes.

NYTY: I have to talk to you about something. Call would be better. Ideally in person.

BH: You cannot call your other friend if you are so hard up? I am so jet lagged.

NYTY: That's never stopped you before, but no, not a sex thing.

BH: Boooo. Bad news?

NYTY: I don't think so, but you might.

Boston Hottie Calling.

"What is it?" Ilya sounded awful. Tired and scrapped up worse than after any game.

"Drink some water," Scott said. "I can hear how dry you are from here."

"Yes, whatever. Talk."

"Okay," Scott said, dropping both medals into the drawer and closed it. "You can be as angry with me as you want, but I need you to hear the whole thing first and then hang up if you want."

"This sounds bad," Ilya said.

"I know who your other guy is. I have for a long time," Scott said carefully. "I didn't tell you I knew because I didn't think you wanted me to know and if I didn't know…well. Yeah. Probably for the best."

"You do not know," Ilya said reflexively. "How would you know?"

"Because I pay attention to you in a pretty specific way," Scott rested his hand on the drawer, the one with all of Ilya's things in it. Such a small collection, a tiny gallery, curated by the man himself. "It's not things anyone else would notice. No one did anything obvious."

"Who do you think it is?" Ilya challenged.

"It's Hollander," Scott said and the name was heavy between them. "It's been Hollander for a long time, hasn't it?"

There was a percussive noise on the other end of the phone and Scott wondered if he'd been tossed across the room or if Ilya had broken something. That didn't seem like him though. Ilya was always careful with his things. Despite his total willingness to throw hands on the ice, Scott had also never once seen him violent outside the rink.

"You look at my phone?" Ilya demanded.

"No," Scott said. "I suspected at that first All Stars game, the way you talked to him when I was sitting next to him. It was really just a guess, but then Vegas and the way he ran away from the balcony and I found you out there…yeah. I only even knew to look because we were already fucking and you'd mentioned another guy. No one else has those pieces. It's not out there for anyone to guess, I promise."

Ilya's breathing was ragged, but he was deadly calm when he asked, "Why are you telling me now if you have kept it quiet all these years?"

"Hollander went to talk to you during the figure skating when you were lurking around in the rafters like a bat with a bad temper. Carter and I went with him so he could support a friend. Ran into each other- doesn't matter. The point is that he saw you brooding in the higher levels and he darted off to get to you."

"Shit," Ilya said heavily. "You stopped him?"

"Yeah. We had the world's most awkward conversation in my room afterwards. I tried to explain things to him euphemistically and I think he thinks Russians hate all North Americans now."

"What did you say to him? Exactly." The last word was a demand and for once Scott didn't try to soften it.

With the best of his ability, Scott recited the bathroom encounter and the room conversation verbatim. There were no frills, no personal asides. This wasn't something to amuse Kip, it was critically important to Ilya and Scott had already gone too far down this path without his consent.

"I cannot believe this," Ilya said.

"Me either and I lived through it." Scott finally sat down on the edge of his bed. "I get if you're mad, I just didn't know what else to do."

There was silence again and Scott waited through it. Was Ilya pacing? Laying down? Drinking some water? Hopefully the last one though Scott hadn't heard anything to make him hopeful about that.

"So you know," Ilya said and that wasn't really what Scott thought he'd get stuck on.

"Yeah."

"And what do you think?" The question was a blade. "Horrible? Bad? Turn on?"

"Why would it be horrible? We're fucking."

"I know, but me and him, this is a whole other thing, isn't it?" The sharpness was all over and Scott had no idea how to avoid being cut.

So he just did what he usually did with Ilya and told him the truth. "He's a gorgeous guy and he's clearly really into you. I think he's the most tightly wound person I've ever met and I have to look in the mirror every morning, so there's that."

Another silence and then a bark of laughter. "He is Hollander."

"Yeah, I get what it means for you two in hockey terms," Scott said. "It's a mess. And also it's exactly what you would do."

"Explain," the word whip cracked through the air.

"You're one of my favorite people in the world and I know you like to hit self-destruct every other Tuesday. You love a risk. Never a car you didn't want to speed in, a model you didn't take home, or a drink that you left half-finished. It scares the shit out of me, but it's your life. So if you want to sit there and ask me to judge you and Hollander? It's risky, but I think it's probably one of the better ones you take. At least you seem happier sometimes when you think about him."

The quality of Ilya's silences was far easier to gauge in person. At this point, Scott could only picture him standing stock still in his living room losing a staring contest with his powered off television. Before Scott could start filling the silence out of pure nerves, Ilya grunted.

"I scare you." Flat. Quiet.

"When you do things that could hurt you," Scott said.

"You never say this to me when I do them."

"I'd be a bit of hypocrite. We play a risky sport. I have sex with strangers too. I drink too much sometimes. Hell, I rolled the die on Kip and we both know that could've gone badly."

"I did tell you to do that."

"Amazingly, I still have free will and likely would've done it anyway," Scott snorted. "So yeah, I worry because I care about you, but I'm not going to nag you about it."

"You chase after Hollander for me. You almost say very stupid thing for me," Ilya ventured. "Because 'North American' is very stupid."

"Okay, I owned that," Scott groaned. "I was on the spot! He was looking at me like he might cry! I've watched him tank men three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than me. Then he got all wet-eyed in a men's bathroom. I panicked!"

"Scott Hunter panics? Surely this is terrible rumor," Ilya said dryly.

"Fine. What was the alternative? Play distraction and hope you wandered off? Try to give a bat signal? Let him come talk to you and let that play out?"

"You did badly, but…yes. Would have been worse if he found me, probably," Ilya finally sounded like he was moving.

"Water," Scott reminded him.

"Shut up," Ilya said, but the faucet started a second later.

"Brat. So am I forgiven or should I go do penance?"

"I would not mind you on your knees," Ilya said.

"What happened to jet lag?"

"Not tonight. But some time."

"April 3."

"Yes," Ilya took an obnoxiously loud sip of water. "Forgiveness blowjob."

"Uh huh. You should text him. He's probably too freaked out to message first now. I don't want to be the reason you two stop doing whatever insane tango you're doing."

"Only sex," Ilya said.

"Okay. Still. If you want to fuck him again, I'd get with the texting."

"So wise now? One relationship and you are super genius?"

"Two," Scott corrected.

Ilya made an annoyed noise. "Two. Fine. Leave me alone now."

"Sure. Good night, sweetheart. I want that medal back, have it ready when I get there in April."

"No."

The line went dead. Scott was smiling. What an asshole.

NYTY: Fuck

BH: I think maybe you are cursed.

NYTY: Know any good witches? I can't fucking believe this.

BH: Your rookie is shit.

NYTY: YOU THINK?! I'm pretty sure he was crying in the shower after.

BH: Wildcard, maybe?

NYTY: Why would you even pretend that was an option at this point?

BH: I don't want you to cry in the shower like a terrible rookie.

NYTY: Fuck off. Good news is I can come watch you play. Think I can get tickets?

BH: Will you wear a Boston shirt?

NYTY: I'll be wearing black because I'm in fucking mourning for my career.

BH: Good enough.

The playoffs were a nail biter that year. Ilya gave Scott his comped seats for the first game of the final and for fun, he brought Carter since he knew Ilya was going to be in no shape to hookup after. Even if Ilya had told him point blank: "No sex during playoffs is fucking stupid." He still grew the beard though. It made him look about thirty which Scott was abosutly not going to tell him.

They had a good time, keeping neutral reactions on their faces, so they weren't cheering for the enemy nor were they giving San Francisco any credit. Boston trashed San Francisco. It was beautiful.

The rest of the games, Scott watched at home alone until Kip came over for the fifth one.

"I think they can take it tonight," Scott said. He had a plain sweatshirt on, but under it was Ilya's t-shirt. It didn't count if no one could see it, he figured.

Kip, who had no such compunctions, had dug out the travel mug and was drinking a Long Island Iced Tea out of it. He took a selfie with it and sent it to Ilya with a thumbs up before the game.

"You deserved it too," Kip said, snuggling in under Scott's arm.

"I had a pretty good year in other ways," Scott said, angling down for a kiss before the first puck drop. "I would've loved the chance, but I can't complain too much."

"I have to say, sports are a lot more fun when you care personally about the people playing. Woah! There he goes."

"Fastest in the league," Scott said with some pride. "Even this deep in."

The game grew increasingly tense and at the break between second and third period, Scott had to do laps around the apartment while Kip mixed them another batch of drinks.

"What if he loses?"

"Still two more games," Scott said. "They could do it in one in San Fran. Better to get it done tonight though. Guys play better at home."

Kip handed him a drink. "Sit down, you're making me queasy watching you."

He forgot about the drink as soon as the game restarted. Scott had gotten this close twice before and there was no worse burn that not crossing that finish line. When Scott had seen Ilya at last after the Olympics, some layer of ice had been scrapped over him, burying him a little deeper. It had taken Scott a lot longer than usual to coax out the softer parts of him and even by the end, it wasn't the same.

The loss in Sochi had damaged him. The cup couldn't fix that, but maybe it could give something back.

"Come on, keep it together," Scott muttered, watching Marleau veer away, distracted by some threat that Scott couldn't see because his eyes were all for Ilya. "Not now, Marly. Stay on him."

Then like it wasn't even hard, Ilya smacked in a goal. The buzzer sounded. Scott was on his feet.

"Fuck yes!" He reached for Kip who jumped into his arms and they spun around like idiots, toppling back to the couch. "He fucking did it!"

"Wow! What a high!" Kip was grinning ear to ear and kissed Scott soundly. "Is it weird to have celebratory sex when neither of us did anything?"

"Absolutely not," Scott decided and shoved his hands into Kip's pants.

NYTY: I know you're probably drunk out of your mind right now as you should be, so don't worry about answering this. CONGRATULATIONS! So proud of you. That was a hell of a win.

Fifteen Hours Later

BH: I am dead. I win cup and die. Worth it.

NYTY: Take some advil, champ.

BH: Come and bring it to me.

NYTY: From your bathroom?

BH: I don't have any in the apartment. CVS too far.

NYTY: You're out of Advil? Come on.

BH: North Americans.

NYTY: Got it. Gatorade, Advil and condoms. Anything else?

BH: I am kidding. Long drive. Don't come.

NYTY: I have nothing going on and you won the cup. I'll see you in four hours.

All things considered, Scott didn't go to Vegas that year. He'd been invited for no other reason that he was probably on some kind of perpetual 'looks good in an empty seat' list, but he'd already expressed his feelings about the season to Ilya in detail with the tip of his tongue everywhere it was wanted and it was otherwise shaping up to be extremely boring.

Summer travels had become unnecessary. Between Ilya and Kip, Scott had no desire to fly off to some distant locale for a feverish blowjob. Instead, Scott got to work with the charity early and read scouting reports.

The night after the awards show, Ilya called him without texting first.

"What's wrong?" Scott asked. Ilya didn't say anything, but Scott could hear him breathing. "Hey, sweetheart. Hi."

"Hi," Ilya said distantly.

"Where are you?"

"Penthouse. I have best view," the comment was absent. Without meaning.

"Yeah? Those are pretty nice," Scott had been headed out for a run, fully dressed for it, and gotten as far as the sidewalk. He turned back around into his building. "How was the awards show?"

"I got nice photograph from it."

What did that mean? "Okay, good. Wait. It's like 2am there."

"3. You are terrible at math."

"Blame the American educational system. Can't sleep?"

"I don't want to be here anymore," Ilya said.

"In the room or in Vegas?"

"Vegas," Ilya said firmly.

"When is your flight to Moscow?"

"Three or four days."

Scott hit the elevator button. "I'll check flights."

"I can do it," Ilya mumbled.

"You can," Scott affirmed even though he was almost certain Ilya couldn't right now. The phone call was devoid of energy. Not angry. Simply absent. "But I had a full night's sleep, so give me a second and I'll take care of it."

He waited for a sugar daddy comment and none was forthcoming which made him will the elevator to arrive faster.

Twenty minutes later, Scott had Ilya booked on a 6am flight to JFK and a car service to meet him there.

"I can go home," Ilya had protested, but not with much verve.

Twelve hours later, Scott had freshly delivered gutted Russian at his doorstep.

"What happened?" Scott asked.

"Nothing," Ilya mumbled.

When Scott reached for him, Ilya didn't so much as go to him as he sort of fell against him. He stank which was so out of character that Scott almost didn't process it for a second. It was a cigarette, booze and sweat melange that would've made any one feel worse.

"Shower," Scott declared and when Ilya only shrugged, Scott resorted to shoving him along a little.

Once there, Ilya did take over, washing himself mechanically while Scott went to go look through his travel bag for clean things to wear. The repacking job had been haphazard at best, Ilya's tuxedo a crumpled mess on top of everything else. Writing it off, Scott went to his own closet, resigning himself to parting with whatever he choose.

"Here," Scott held out the boxers and t-shirt to Ilya when the water finally stopped. "Bed."

Ilya nodded, ignoring the proffered clothes and walking into the bedroom, towel around his waist. As soon as he reached the bed, he dropped and gave Scott an expectant look.

"You're kidding, right?" Scott shook his head, drew back the covers and pointed. "Sleep. You're a zombie. I don't fuck with the undead."

And Ilya lay down and let Scott draw the covers over him. It was only when Scott made to leave that Ilya gave a sign of life. He shot his hand out and grabbed Scott's holding him in place.

"I have to go home. To Russia."

"I know," Scott gave his hand a squeeze. "I don't get why. If you ever want to clue me in, I'm listening."

"My father," Ilya said haltingly then stopped. It felt like the terrible book end to 'My mother' all those years ago.

"What about him?" Scott asked, squeezing Ilya's hand.

Ilya shook his head. "I have to go home."

"In three days. One day to pack. So. Stay with me for two days. Okay?"

"Okay," Ilya said and then he pressed Scott's hand to his forehead for a moment before letting go.

When he woke up hours later and somehow still exhausted, Scott made him pancakes and let him pick a movie to fill the apartment with noise. They lived in a twilight for the first day, Ilya like a ghost haunting his own body. Mostly Scott got food in him and otherwise, did useless pacing around the apartment pretending at busyness so he didn't smother Ilya with questions. The second day, Scott got a text.

LOML: SOS.

Scott: What's wrong?

LOML: I own way more things than I knew and my Dad's car will fit like a third of it. If I promise the grad housing is basically empty this time of year and us nerds don't usually watch hockey will you please help?

Scott: You want me to help you move?

LOML: I need an army, but yes. You'll do.

Scott: Your dad will be there.

LOML: Yes.

Scott: BH is here. Think something is up with him, not sure what.

LOML: Bring him with. You two=army.

Ilya was a lump under a blanket on his couch, a terrible timer clicking down over his head so loudly Scott could nearly hear it too. Or maybe that was Scott's heart racing. Kip's father. The man Kip spoke of with boundless affection only tempered by the mildest exasperation of an adult child. Kip wanted Scott to meet his father. Even with everything.

Scott wanted to meet Kip's father. He wanted to know the man that had given Kip a good heart and his sense of humor. Even if Kip's father had every reason to hate Scott.

"Ilya," Scott said and poked him in the chest.

"What?" Ilya sighed.

"Do you want to meet Kip's father?"

Ilya sat straight up, blanket falling away to stare at him. "Where?"

"Kip needs to use me for my car and to get boxes into his new place."

"I thought he moved at the end of summer."

"He got something figured out with housing and some kind of summer seminar. He told me about it, but apparently he didn't think he'd need me until now. We don't have to. Hell, I could pay for a moving van which would probably-"

"No, do not do this," Ilya said sternly and for the first time since he'd arrived, his eyes were fully open. "We can help. Tell Kip we are helping. I want to meet Mr. Big Kip."

"George," Scott supplied.

"George Grady?" Ilya asked as if Scott might be trying to pull the wool over his eyes.

"Some people like alliteration. I don't know. Get up if we're going."

The animation of getting dressed while Scott confirmed they were on their way left Ilya again once they were in the car. He watched the city slide by listlessly, impervious to the way the newborn summer was attempting to show off, light bouncing off climbing walls of glass and the dots of small parks abundantly green. None of it seemed to reach Ilya through his sunglasses.

The car windows were tinted. Scott reached across the expanse of the arm rest to take Ilya's hand in his. Callouses scraped over his knuckles and Ilya held back, face unmoving.

They crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge and eventually arrived in front of a row of three-story brick buildings, standing together like centurions. Kip was waiting on the front steps with boxes piled up around him.

"Hey," Scott said, getting out of the car. Just a guy meeting his friend. Ilya followed, slower, unfurling from the passenger seat into a cat's stretch, then slumping again.

"Nice to see you," Kip gave him a friendly smile. "And my- oh. Roz. Buddy."

Ilya blinked at him and then all at once, he was alive again. "Kip! You are building a fort on the street?"

"Uh, yeah, not on purpose," Kip glanced at Scott, bemused. "Congratulations on the cup win! That was awesome."

"Thank you," Ilya gave a small bow. "I will get two in a row next."

"How likely is that?" Kip asked Scott.

"Don't ask him! Ask me. Very likely. The most likely. Where do these go?"

They loaded the trunk and backseat of Scott's car, pausing every few minutes to rejigger things until half of Kip's worldly possessions were settled. It was only when the last box was in place that another car pulled in behind them. It was a sensible, older sedan and the man that came out of it matched: a sensible, older man. He was the same height as Kip, gently rounded and his remaining hair a mess from the heat of the day already.

Scott's memories of his own father were weathered things. Softened at the edges and bolstered by the family photos he kept by the front door. He was sure his father had had a deep voice and could still pick Scott straight off the ground at twelve, even over his protests. Sometimes his father had cooked. He was better at it than his mother, but got home later. Saturday morning breakfast had been his. Pancakes, almost always. Bacon on the side. Made while Scott watched cartoons at first and then together when Scott be trusted at the stove. Scott's father had been a hand on his shoulder, a proud voice a few feet above his head, and a pair of sneakers so much larger than Scott's that it seemed impossible Scott would ever be able to fill them himself.

A handful of memories that were as useful as photographs.

So it was possible that Scott didn't have a great concept of what a father looked like. But he was still pretty sure Kip's dad was checking a lot of boxes.

"Okay, Kipper, we're fueled up and I got us road snacks. When is your boy- oh," George Grady stopped and took in the two men standing next to his son on the sidewalk. "Well. Hi. You're here."

"Dad," Kip said, took a quick glance up and down, but found the sidewalk empty, "this is my boyfriend and his friend."

"Kip," George said, eyes wide as saucers. "Where was the warning? Are you trying to take me out? There are easier ways, kiddo."

"I did tell you it was complicated?" Kip offered, apologetically.

"When you said it was complicated, I thought you meant he was married or something. Don't get me wrong, this is way better. I was worried about you making that kind of choice," George said gaining some surety, then held out his hand to Ilya. "Uh, nice to-"

"Nope," Kip said quickly. "The other one."

"The other one," George mouthed, than said out loud. "You can't just call him 'the other one'. I know who that is!"

"Hi, Mr. Grady," Scott took the hand that was still stuck out and shook it. To George's credit, he shook back. "Sorry about my whole…everything."

"We should go inside," Ilya muttered.

"Yeah, yes!" Kip perked up. "Everyone in the house. Off the sidewalks that we are blocking."

The house was nice. Probably. Scott didn't really notice. Kip herded them all into the small kitchen and exhaled shakily. He was smiling though, a wide relieved smile as he took in his father standing next to Scott. Like just them being in the same room together had removed some enormous burden off him. It probably had and Scott felt a tide of guilt.

"You're Scott Hunter," George said.

"Yes, sir," Scott said.

"Okay," George nodded once. "Are you all right? Because that last game looked rough. That hit in third period had me wincing."

It was so unexpected and yet so Kip-like that Scott broke out in a nervous laugh. "Uh, yeah. It was a hard one. I'm fine though, just a few bruises and they're gone now. We weren't at our best."

"Your rookie needs to be sent back down," Ilya put in.

"No, no," George pointed at Ilya. "I can only deal with one of your existences at a time. Boyfriend first then you. You're on pause."

Ilya look so affronted that Scott almost started laughing again.

"So, yeah," Kip said, rocking back on his heels. "You can see why I couldn't tell you?"

"I see," George nodded a few too many times, still staring at Scott. "I'm a big hockey fan. So would've been hard for him to sneak you in with a disguise or something."

"Yes. That would've been…." Scott trailed off helplessly.

"I am now understanding his sudden interest in watching with me. Used to have to convince him all the time. Then all of four weeks into this season, he's very invested," George said, then started to smile. "Well. I guess I can say thank you for that and also, where do you get off breaking my son's heart?"

"Dad!' Kip groaned. "We made up months ago! We're good now."

"Yes, but I didn't get to say anything then!" George gestured at Scott. "He's here now, so I get to tell him off a little."

"I love your son a lot, Mr. Grady," Scott said earnestly. "My life makes his life pretty hard and I'm sorry about that."

"Yeah, I heard that bit outside," George shook his head. "Okay. Okay! You're sorry, my Kip is dating a man I sometimes yell at on TV and Ilya Rozanov is in my kitchen."

"My turn?" Ilya asked. "I am not sorry for anything. I'm only an extra body today. If Kip needs moving then I am here to help."

"Right. Right!" George glanced at Ilya then back at Scott. Apparently he found no answers there so he turned to his son. "Okay. Boyfriend, I get. Rozanov?"

"He's Scott's friend," Kip shrugged. "And he was already over so he schlepped him with and now we have two buff guys to help us carry boxes. I'm not seeing a problem here."

George turned back to Scott with a sigh. "You know he was a very well-behaved teenager. Always worried me. Teenagers are supposed to rebel and shock their parents. Then he came out and I was like 'Okay, now we'll see some wild times'. Nope. Lived at home, worked too hard to have exciting personal life, so I got too peaceful. Stopped worrying. And now I've got two all stars in my kitchen and I gotta say, if he had to do it, this is pretty much best case scenario rebellion for me personally. He's a good kid."

"Dad!" Kip groaned.

"What? I think I'm handling this pretty well!"

"I'm impressed," Scott offered.

Ilya made a disgusted noise. "Such a suck up, Hunter."

It was so utterly Ilya and so fucking wrong and what even was Scott's life? He laughed because he had no idea how else to respond to any of this.

"Crazy," George muttered to himself.

"We should go if we want to get there before lunch," Kip said and started shooing everyone along.

The drive down was reassuringly manageable. An hour and twenty-two minutes (though with Shore traffic, it might be nightmarish on the summer weekends) was doable even without a lot of forward planning.

Scott had, on occasion, driven four hours (at least and fuck the tree-lined Connecticut highways forever) for Ilya, he could definitely manage an hour and twenty for Kip. Even if it was under cover of night.

They arrived on a green campus, the parking lot sparse with cars just as Kip had promised.

"Okay, everyone grab a box," Kip said when he emerged. "Not you, Dad. You're on sandwich duty."

"What, you have two muscle guys and now you don't need me?" George asked. "I can still take a box."

"You can, but why would you?" Kip gestured at Ilya and Scott. "Let me make use of my very luxury, expensive, moving company. You go to WaWa and pick up the subs. Once you're back, we can eat and then maybe I'll even get some unpacking done."

George looked between the three of them and to Scott's surprise, just nodded. Not the posturing type. That tracked. "Good point. Okay, let me get orders. You guys probably do a full sub, right? No halves?"

So in the most surreal of moments, Scott gave George his sandwich order and then he was hauling boxes into a college dorm. As they went, Kip explained that the room was significantly bigger than his undergraduate dorm. The building was nice, a little utilitarian and rundown around the edges. It reminded Scott of boarding school.

The room was interesting if worn around the edges. The limited furniture was sturdy, the shelves plentiful. The bed was intimidatingly small.

"I can't tell if this is better or worse than the Olympic Village," Scott said as he sat a box down where Kip pointed. "It definitely smells better."

Ilya sat down on the bare mattress, considered it a second than lay down. "Bed is worse."

"Thanks for the review, guys," Kip rolled his eyes and then tugged at Scott. "Kiss me before my Dad comes back and you're too flustered for it."

Scott was not going to beat those allegations, so he kissed Kip in his empty dorm room. "I'm going to be honest, love, I don't know if I can fit on that bed."

"Who said you were invited?" Kip teased. "And you can. Trust me. Fitting into a really small bed with someone hot is a very important college experience that you missed out on."

"Oh? Well, I guess I should let you educate me," Scott murmured and kissed him again.

They maybe made out for a minute before Scott fully remembered Ilya's presence, but either he was giving them space by pretending to phase out again or he had subsided into that weird absent place again for real.

"On your feet, Rozanov," Scott said. "Luxury service comes with on-time delivery."

"I think this mattress is plastic," Ilya observed rolling off it.

"That's why I have an foam egg crate."

"What?"

"I'll show you later. Come on, boxes in before food."

"Taskmaster," Scott said amused.

"Good captain," Ilya corrected, giving Kip an aimless pat on the back.

They did manage to load all the boxes into the room, creating a new room inside it with cardboard walls, before George got back. They left George the single uncovered chair, the three of them sitting on the floor.

"So, I gotta ask," George started, leaning forward and Scott imagined a thousand horrifying questions about himself before, "as a father-of-the-boyfriend, do I get an insider hockey intel? I swear, I don't gamble and I wouldn't tell."

Scott blinked then grinned. "What intel are you looking for? I won't say a word about us, but other teams are fair game. I know a lot of very ridiculous personal details about people I don't respect very much."

"We all gossip," Ilya said around a mouthful of sandwich. "But people think Hunter is good boy, so they say too much in front of him. Very stupid."

"Yeah," Scott said though he hadn't known Ilya knew that, "that's pretty true."

"I don't want anything too bad either," George considered. "Just something fun."

"Tell him about the superstitions, babe, he'll love that," Kip encouraged as he cracked open a coke and passed it to Ilya.

Once Scott had a few good ones, Ilya, naturally, had to prove he had a few too. They got George laughing and it was nice. Normal.

This was normal in such an abnormal way.

Between the four of them, they got Kip's books on his shelves, his clothes in drawers, and hung the art pieces he'd brought with him on sticky-backed hooks. Kip showed Ilya the yellow foam layer that made the bed more comfortable and dressed it in clean new sheets. A bright area rug unrolled, hiding some of the dull carpet. The room became less utilitarian and more a space Kip lived, down to his glasses case on the small bedside table.

"Where did I put my contact solution?" Kip pawed through a bag. "I bet it rolled out in the car. Roz, come help me look."

It was done so quickly that Scott didn't have time to realize he'd been left alone with George. They had been collapsing boxes. Apparently these were going back to Brooklyn for a friend that was moving. Scott had conveniently had a knife in his car (Kip had given him a look so speaking that Scott's neck had gone hot. Their flirting was demented at this point), so he was slicing through tape then handing them off to George to fold down and stack.

"You seem like a nice enough guy," George said conversationally. "You have a reliable job. Good reputation. Kip likes you a lot."

"Thank you?" Scott ventured.

"I'm not going to give you a speech or something, is my point. You seem like you're waiting for one. You two are adults. Kip is happy. That's all I care about," George said. "We had a long talk in the car. About what it would mean for you two to be public."

Carefully, Scott drew the tip of the knife through the tape. "I think about it a lot. It doesn't make me sleep well at night."

"I think it'll keep me up a few hours too," George admitted.

"If anything should happen. If people found out, I'll do my best to protect him from what I can." The box came undone in Scott's hands, tape giving out and then it had no shape at all, wavering. "He's less visible than me by a lot."

"That's good to hear," George said, taking it from Scott and pressing it flat. "Though I hope…I don't know. You boys are just starting out. I don't know what your plans are or what the future looks like for you."

"Me either," Scott said softly. "But I know it's better with him in it."

"You're crazy about him, huh?" George examined Scott's face with a small smile. Scott could only nod in the face of that. "Good. Maybe you can talk him into getting off campus housing next year."

"I tried to offer rent money, but he's got a whole thing about it," Scott grumbled then winced. "I shouldn't say that probably."

"You've got money, he's a grad student. I do okay, but there's never been enough for things like this," George waved at the room. "He had to do all these things on his own. And he can. But if he doesn't have to…well. Let's see for next year. Maybe if we both work on him."

Maybe Scott didn't know much about fathers, but he definitely knew when he'd been recruited to a team. He couldn't think of a better one than the Make Kip More Comfortable team.

Kip came back up alone, contact solution in hand. "Roz took a phone call and I think some Russian woman is letting him have it? I couldn't hear much, but it wasn't English and he was kind of smiling about it?"

"Huh. I wonder if that's Svetlana," Scott said.

"A girlfriend?" George asked.

"He's the most secretive bastard alive, so I can tell you I've known him four years and I've got her name and that he likes her a lot," Scott said, which was safe and true. "What else needs doing?"

Not much more as it turned out. Ilya returned as garbage was being collected into a bag. He looked tired, but not blank and quietly helped gather the random bits of detritus they'd generated.

"All right," George declared with a clap of his hands. "I'm headed back, work tomorrow. You all good?"

"All good," Kip confirmed.

They hugged each other. It looked like a good hug. Scott averted his eyes like he'd walked in on someone in the bathroom and studied the line of battered books. One of them had been in Kip's lap the day they'd met. Dozy, handsome, smoothie shop man, with his perfect jawline and disrespect for his workplace. Scott had been done for from the jump and now he was here. A path he never could've seen before it was under his feet.

"Nice to meet you both," George said. He shook Scott's hand again, firm and with a grin. "Rest up this summer. We need you in fighting shape."

"On it," Scott said.

Then he was gone, the three of them left standing in Kip's little room.

"Order in dinner," Ilya said. "And then we must go too. Svetlana came to the apartment to surprise me and I was not there, so there were many questions."

"Give her any answers?" Kip asked.

Ilya shrugged. "Pizza. We should have pizza."

"It does feel right," Kip agreed.

Scott paid while Ilya distracted Kip and they ate on the floor again, ignoring the chairs.

"So. You going to tell us why you disintegrated in Vegas?" Kip asked.

That was one approach. There was probably a middle ground between Scott's fervent not asking and Kip's bulldozer, but here they were.

"North Americans," Ilya said darkly.

Kip ate another bite of pizza, his pretended ignorance perfect. Scott would've kissed him if that wouldn't have ruined it.

"What'd he do?" Scott asked because Kip couldn't.

"Nothing," Ilya said and gazed into the distance. "We had a good time. But I couldn't talk. Kip says we should talk. I tell him we need to talk. Then he was there and there wasn't any talking."

"Woof," Kip said around his food. "Was the sex good at least?"

"That is always good," Ilya said and he didn't even boast about it. Scary. "Maybe it's no good with the two of us. I don't know. When I come back, I'll tell him no more."

"Uh huh," Kip said. "And then what happens the next time you see him?"

Ilya groaned, dropped his slice and gave Kip a dead eyed stare. "I don't know."

"See," Kip picked up his diet coke and took a long sip. he put it down and seemed entirely poised to give some wisdom, "That's because you're both dickmatized. Guess you'll just keep fucking and not talking until one of you gets over it."

"Wow," Ilya said. "Thank you. I will definitely do that."

"I know you will," Kip shrugged. "That's my point."

"Or you could use all those words you worked so hard to learn and actually talk to him. He does know how to have conversations. Mostly," Scott considered that. "Okay, I'm not actually sure he can, but he seems pretty good at interviews. Maybe interview him?"

"You are both very useless," Ilya announced.

"Cool," Kip said and took another swig of his soda. "You going to actually tell us anything more about the whole situation?"

"No," Ilya said sullenly.

"Welp, then that's the best I've got. Any fun plans for the summer?"

Ilya grimaced, so Scott outlined an event he was getting ready for the charity which Kip already mostly knew about.

"Give me your keys," Ilya demanded when dinner was well and truly done.

Handing them over, Scott asked, "What for?"

"So I can run the air conditioner while you make out or say goodbye," Ilya gave him a look. "I do not have to stay and watch. Do I?"

"It'd be an honor and privilege, get out," Scott said.

"You will do well here," Ilya decreed to Kip and gave him a lightening fast hug before he was gone.

"He's a mess," Kip said affectionately.

"Yeah, little bit. He's right though. You're going to do so well."

"Thanks. Did you like my dad?"

"He's great," Scott said. "Did he hate me?"

"Shut up," Kip laughed and got his hands on Scott, drawing him in. "He said you were a good, if complicated catch. I'd take that as a win."

"I do like winning," Scott said.

They kissed for a long time, but eventually, Kip took a step back. "I'll be back home in two weeks for a party. I'll be done late, but can I come to yours after? Stay the rest of the weekend."

"Please," Scott said. "Any time, you know that, right?"

Kip grinned. "I do now. Thanks for all your help today."

"You're welcome. I love you."

"God, I love you too," Kip groaned. "Go away before we fuck and then you have to deal with him teasing you about it all the way home while also texting me to tease me about it."

"I could live with that," Scott said, running his fingers up Kip's arm to his neck.

"Go!' Kip laughed and swatted at him. "Away. Bye!"

"Bye!" Scott winked at him and Kip hid his face in his hands.

When he got in the car, Ilya was staring out the window again. This time into the growing darkness.

"She thinks I am still in Vegas," Ilya said. "She worries like you worry, but more quietly."

"Tell her then," Scott said and it came easy tonight. Kip's father knew. "As much as you want."

Ilya frowned, thumb stroking along the edges of his phone and then he started typing.

The Next Morning

BH: Back.

NYTY: Okay. Have a safe trip.

Three Weeks Later

North American Disaster: Hi. Sorry to be a bother. Have you heard from our friend?

Scarlett: We don't text over the summer.

NAD: We do sometimes.

Scarlett: Don't know what to tell you. You doing okay?

NAD: Fine. You?

Scarlett: Fine. I'll let you know if they reach out.

Six Weeks Later

Unknown Number: Sorry for cold texting you. My name is Svetlana.

Scott: How did you get my number?

Unknown Number: From him. We're both back in Boston. I think it would not be very strange for his friends to take him out to dinner for his birthday next week. What do you think?

Scott: No surprises. Only if he approves.

Svetlana: I think I might like you a little. Only a little. I will talk to him.

Ten Minutes Later

BH: She wants to meet you.

NYTY: How much does she know?

BH: I asked her to get something from my closet when we were packing. She opened the wrong drawer.

NYTY: That would raise some questions.

BH: She said she already guessed some things because she knows me.

NYTY: I'll do whatever you want.

BH: Buy us a fancy dinner. She deserves it.

NYTY: So do you. Name the time and place. I'm free until the 15th.

Five Minutes Later

Scarlett: Our friend is home and responding.

NAD: I know.

NAD: Thank you.

Scarlett: You're welcome. 

Chapter 7: Gold and Plans

Chapter Notes

A thousand thanks to Internerdionality for giving this chapter a good thorough shake down/beta!

NYTY: Got here too early to be seated, I'm at the bar.

BH: Of course you did.

Even the air of the restaurant tasted like money. Scott was grateful for the blazer he'd snagged at the last minute. Everything was dark wood and the kind of lighting that flattered nearly everyone. The glass in Scott's hand had whiskey in it older than him and Ilya put together, along with a fashionably enormous cube of ice. Every time Scott went to take a sip it smacked in him in the face.

That was what he was attempting to negotiate when a couple came through the doors that grabbed the attention of everyone in their immediate vicinity like a blast radius. Scott sometimes forgot how devastating Ilya could be when he gave a shit. The suit was perfectly tailored, his hair tamed and his face in that serious locked in expression that turned him into a model.

The woman at his side, her hand on his forearm, was equally flawless. The mysterious Svetlana was in a knockout off-the-shoulder dress that displayed delicate gold jewelry and flawless skin. Her bountiful curls swirled around her face, adding a playful lightness to her beauty.

Scott had no idea what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been her. Yet as Ilya met Scott's eyes with a nod and guided Svetlana towards him, it all made sense. They complemented each other in looks, so entirely different that neither stole attention from the other and they moved in sync. A duo of wolves on the hunt.

"They said our table would be ready in five minutes," Scott offered, even as he extended his hand. "You must be Svetlana. It's great to meet you."

Her hand was small in his, but her grip was sure. "And you are Scott. It's nice to meet you too."

Her accent was lighter than Ilya's. Had she been here longer? Scott wished he knew literally anything about her.

"What are you drinking?" Ilya asked.

"Overpriced whiskey cocktail. Get what you want, I opened a tab. You too," Scott said to Svetlana. "Please. Tonight's on me."

"Is it?" she asked, her held tilting slightly to one side, her gaze sliding up and down as if measuring his worth. "Ilya, you know what I want."

He nodded and leaned in to catch the bartender's attention.

"So," Scott said, grasping at small talk straws, "he never mentioned what you do for work."

"I'm sure he mentioned very little," Svetlana said, amused. "How unfortunate for you. Your life is so public that I know a lot about you."

"The public parts of my life are the least interesting parts," Scott said and surprised himself by meaning it. Hockey was important. It was interesting. But it wasn't the whole story anymore.

"No?" She gave an approving nod. "I work in high end sales. I started with cars, but I moved to yachts recently. Huge commissions."

"I can imagine," Scott said. "Do you enjoy it?"

"Mm, sometimes. I enjoy the game. Convincing people to buy things they already want. I don't know if it's forever, but what is?" she said with a shrug. "Maybe I will start my own business eventually."

"You should," Ilya said, handing her a glass tinted rose pink, obscuring its contents. "You would be very good at it."

"Thank you," she smiled at him. "And what kind of business would I be good at?"

"Private hockey lessons to terrible players, " Ilya smiled right back at her. "You give advice and they sit at your feet and take in wisdom. You could charge by the minute."

"Are you my first client?" she asked, raising her eyebrows in an expression that had come across Ilya's face so often that it had to be stolen. From who to who was the only question.

"I was," Ilya said, tilting his own glass to touch her own.

"When did you two meet?" Scott asked, fully expecting a non-answer.

He had forgotten Ilya was not on his own, dancing nimbly around questions.

"When we were fourteen, in a place we were not supposed to be," Svetlana said immediately. "Our fathers know the same boring men in boring uniforms. We were old enough to come along and be shown off as long as we were silent and good. Something neither of us wanted to be. I had a hiding spot, a coat closet where I could go with one of the bottles of champagne."

"My hiding spot," Ilya said, his attention all for her. "You stole it. I had used it before."

"So had I!" she said, an old argument, well-worn to a friendly dance. "There were all these old fur coats hanging in it. Pretty. Soft. We shared the champagne and made a little nest. Ilya got very drunk."

"So did you," he said. "Or were you sober when you laughed so hard champagne came out your nose?"

It was all too easy to rewind the clock and see coltish kids, all limbs and annoyance at a somber atmosphere. They would have been folded tightly together, the dusty fur coats battering against their faces and mussing their fancy party hair. Ilya pink-cheeked and Svetlana glassy-eyed.

Scott knew they must still have sex. There was something in the way they teased each other, the way Svetlana regarded Ilya as she sipped her drink that teased the line between sensual and playful. If it had started that night in the coat closet, and Scott would bet money that it did, that beat out Hollander and him. Nine years and two countries across the world from each other.

Seeing them together, Scott realized something profound about Ilya Rozanov that he couldn't quite name. It was a feeling, large and warm and misshapen in Scott's chest. He tucked it away for now as the hostess approached and guided them to a table. They were set to one side of the restaurant, visible, but not on display. Ilya confidently ordered a bottle of wine that was probably stupidly expensive on Scott's dime, but Scott had invited that. It had already been a more expensive evening than Ilya knew yet.

The menu was fixed, nothing left to order and only time to kill as courses came through.

"How long have you been here?" Scott asked Svetlana.

"On and off my whole life," her accent dropped away almost entirely. A flex, maybe, or just a habit. "My father brought me along with him every time he had to do work here. I missed a lot of school, but I learned a lot at his side. English, included. Long enough that I was able to apply for citizenship. I got it eight months ago."

"Congratulations," Scott said. "I've heard that's difficult."

Ilya snorted, "Fucking impossible."

"You haven't even tried," Svetlana said. "Even if you should."

"If my father knew-"

"Ilyusha," she said softly. "He will soon know very little."

Ilya's gaze cut to Scott, than skittered away.

"Did you go to school here or go straight to work selling people on speed?" Scott asked, guiding them away.

It would be easy to get information out of Svetlana. She seemed eager to talk to someone else about Ilya, just as much as Scott was. But he had spent too long dwelling in the hard, cold marble rooms in Ilya's intentional silences to shout into those hallways now.

Even in small talk though, Svetlana was delightful. She was quick and wry. Whatever lessons she had learned at her father's feet, they included being diplomatic without losing a playful edge.

And she knew hockey.

"Your problem is that you think hockey is all in the head," she said.

"That's what he says," Scott grimaced, indicating Ilya.

"And I am always right."

"You aren't," Svetlana said without missing a beat. "But this time, yes. Whenever you are more in your body, you do better, but you make mistakes and then knot yourself up."

He blew out a stream of air. "I'm aware. I'm working on it."

"Work harder. You are only interesting when you play well," she deemed.

"Okay, so being this mean is just a Russian thing?" Scott determined. "Because I thought it was just him being a rude prick."

Svetlana grinned. "It is an us thing. I do not speak for Russia, only for me. And sometimes Ilya because he forgets to say real things."

There was no defense from Ilya, only a shrug. It was true. As true as the issues with Scott's game. Moved firmly into hockey now, Svetlana gave devastating assessments of every team in the league, laying bare their flaws with the kind of eye that only a true fanatic could have.

Dinner was rich and drenched in wine. Tipsy, Scott found himself in the backseat of an Uber with Svetlana beside him, heading to Ilya's new house which was further out from the city.

"How many cars do you have now? Should I be braced for a parking lot instead of a house?" Scott asked.

"He sells them when he gets tired of them," Svetlana announced. "I tell him do not get such a big garage that you think you have to fill it."

"Four," Ilya said from the front seat. "I have to keep Ferrari for the brand deal."

"What a burden," Scott said.

"Yes, it is very terrible." Ilya grinned. "Svetlana likes the Spyder better."

"It is very smooth," she said and even though there was plenty of space between them, her hand alighted on Scott's. Momentary. An accident? "I like a smooth, fast ride."

Scott glanced up at Ilya, who was watching them with a faint smile. When Scott met his eyes, Ilya tilted his head and looked between them. Bemused, Scott turned to Svetlana, who met him head on with a sultry smile.

"Oh," Scott said, then winced. Very aware of their driver, who while very involved in some bluetooth phone call was a living person with ears, Scott chose his words carefully, "Don't get me wrong, it's a phenomenal car. I just don't drive anything like that. I'm more of an SUV guy."

"Big, meaty cars," Svetlana said slowly and then nodded, "I like these too. But sometimes speed is nice. I go between them like Ilya."

"Gotcha. Call me narrow-minded then, I like what I like. But if I was going to drive any sports car, I could see a Spyder."

"You wouldn't have to drive," Svetlana said, the flirtation turning playful now, "Being a passenger is fun too."

The idea of watching the two of them go at it was not something that turned Scott on, but it would be aesthetically pleasing most likely. How could it not? They were familiar with each other and both good looking.

It was funny, the idea of Kip with someone else made Scott wildly jealous (even though he knew it might be happening. Maybe. Kip hadn't said anything and Scott was terrified to ask). The idea of Ilya with someone else was almost comforting. To know that he had company when he and Scott were so often parted was nice.

There was likely something wrong with Scott, but that wasn't news.

"I guess I could learn a thing or two about driving stick from you," Scott settled on. "You seem knowledgeable. Like you know how to handle it."

"I do," Svetlana's eyes danced. "But I've heard you're not bad at driving a difficult vehicle. SUVs can be hard around turns. Top heavy."

Scott had to dig his nails into his palms to keep from laughing. Ilya's eyes were narrowing, sensing the shift against him.

"You know, I always found it's just a matter of slowing down at the right moment. Break going into a turn, hit the gas coming out of it," Scott said, proud that he was mostly straight-faced.

"It never gets away from you?" Svetlana asked, "You never lose control?"

"I didn't say that," Scott said. "Sometimes, I'm not sure I ever had any to begin with. I'm just glad I get to drive at all."

"Neither of you are driving shit tonight," Ilya declared. "You are drunk and ridiculous."

"Oh no," Svetlana giggled, "He is locking the garage."

"Does it have a lock?" Scott mused. "I kind of thought it was an open door policy."

Her laughter only got louder and Ilya growled at them, turning around to watch the road.

They didn't have much further to go, the Uber dumping them off at bottom of a hill by a gate. Ilya got out first and punched in a code, leading them up a driveway to a very large garage. Another code and there was the gleaming candy-colored collection. Two very sexy sports cars, an SUV, and a much less eye-catching sedan that Scott recognized. It was Ilya's quieter car that he used the few times he did drive to Manhattan.

"This is almost tasteful," Scott said. "I'm shocked."

"Wait until you see the house," Svetlana said. "It's lovely."

"It's not done," Ilya said, but he held the door open to them and whatever mock offense he'd had was gone. He was clearly happy to show off.

The house was immaculate, naturally, but it was also lovely. Ilya's taste was obvious in the floor-to-ceiling windows and abstract paintings. The furniture looked comfortable and suited for parties, the open floor plan inviting, and the rugs breaking up the wood floors just enough.

"It's gorgeous," Scott said, taking it all in.

"Yes," Ilya said. "The bedroom is better."

"I thought the door was locked."

"No!" Svetlana called from around a wall. "There's no door at all! You were right!"

"Your bedroom doesn't have a door," Scott said flatly.

"Why do I need one?" Ilya grinned. "The guest rooms have doors."

Sure enough, the wall from the living room created a very short hallway and around the other side was Ilya's bedroom. Svetlana had tossed herself on it, shoes already kicked off and her phone in her hands. The en suite door was cracked open, enough to show off a luxuriously large shower, and there was a matching one on the other side of the room that must be a walk-in closet.

It was minimalist in Ilya's way, quiet like his cars and clothes weren't. A refuge with solid blocks of color and light. A place where Svetlana clearly felt at home. Ilya shed his suit coat and opened the door, confirming Scott's closet theory. It was a deep room and Ilya disappeared into it.

"Come, sit," Svetlana patted the bed beside her. "You look tense."

"That's just his face!" Ilya yelled from the closet.

"Yeah, it is," Scott admitted. He took off his shoes and left them under the bed. He sat down beside her. "Were we joking in the car or serious?"

"Either way," she said warmly. "Really. We have sex like we drink. For fun and not every time we hang out, you know?"

"I do," Scott said. "Since you were fourteen?"

"Mhm," she sat up enough to slide her phone onto the nightstand, before laying back down, the hem of her dress rucking up a little. She had a tattoo, small and made of very thin black lines, a butterfly winging its way up her thigh. "I was very happy when he came to America. Then we both knew someone here. We were close always, but living here together made us much closer."

"You're the only name I have," Scott told her because he liked her and she knew about him. So why not? "From his past and even kind of now. Only non-hockey name anyway."

"He is like that," she sighed. "I knew you existed, but not who you were until you became friends publicly, then I mostly knew, but he didn't confirm until a few weeks ago. And Jane. You know about Jane?"

"I do," Scott said cautiously.

"That's all I have," she said. " The name which I know is a lie."

"Are you trying to get information out of me?" Scott asked. "Because I'm not doing that. I think I was clear."

"Ooh, yes you were," Svetlana grinned up at him. "Very stern. Very manly. Are you sure you don't like women even a little?"

"I tried," Scott smiled back her. He couldn't help it. "If I could, I would. Seems easier."

"It is not." Ilya stepped back into the room. His suit had been shed and in its place only a loose pair of pants, tied to show off the deep grooves that pointed like an arrow to one of his best assets. "Not if you still like men too."

"It would make tonight a little less complicated," Scott observed, trying not to give Ilya the attention he was so clearly demanding. "I could just enjoy myself with two deeply beautiful people."

"You still can," Ilya said, before tossing himself onto the bed behind Scott, narrowly missing Svetlana's hair. "Like theater, yes? You can still enjoy it."

"Is that what you want?" Scott asked, and finally let his eyes rest on Ilya's face. It was pulling his calculus expression.

Svetlana turned over on her stomach and folded her arms over Ilya's chest, resting her chin on them.

"I was just teasing a little," Svetlana said, her voice lowering. "You know you don't have to share your toys with me if you don't want to. Even if he does have a big, juicy…wallet."

"And still he does not buy me pretty things," Ilya complained, his hand landing on the Svetlana's back.

Oh good, that played into Scott's gambit, but that was for later.

"I keep telling you that you're too rich to be a sugar baby," Scott said.

"It is a state of mind, Scott. You are bad for my state of mind."

"Mutual, sweetheart."

Ilya's lips twitched, a real smile forming. Svetlana glanced between them, "Oh, he is your sweetheart?"

"When he's not being a brat," Scott confirmed. He might still be a little bit wine drunk.

"Our Ilya? A brat?" Svetlana mimed shock. "Not possible."

Our Ilya. Scott was getting recruited onto another team. He couldn't be happier. Kip was sort of already on the Ilya Support Team, but having another founding member was great.

"Shut up," Ilya groaned. "I liked it better when we were talking about threesomes. Go back to that."

"I'm not so sure how much you liked it," Svetlana said calmly. "Is it that you don't want him to see us fuck or that you don't want me to see you fuck him?"

Silence. Scott wasn't a hundred percent sure how he felt about having an audience. It was interesting as a fantasy. What would the reality be like?

"Seems like you two should talk about it," Scott declared. "I'm getting water."

"Filter is on the tap," Ilya said. "Get one for me too."

"I'd like one too, please," Svetlana chimed.

"So she has manners and you don't? I can't blame Russian nursery schools any more," Scott determined.

Ilya flipped him off and Scott left them to it. The kitchen had a similar layout to Ilya's old one. The glasses were still sensibly above the sink. Scott's black and gold mug sat amid other coffee mugs, but towards the front. He touched it once in acknowledgement, than dawdled over the sink, filling the glasses slowly, draining one for himself and then refilling it, before making his way back.

Svetlana had lost her dress in the intervening minutes, but gained one of Ilya's t-shirts which covered her almost as much. Her enormous presence had hidden how slight she was. Ilya had propped himself up against the headboard and she was sitting between his legs, using him in turn as a headboard. They were both looking at something on her phone.

"Water all around," Scott handed out glasses. Given the change in dress code, Scott shed his blazer, draping it over the enormous dresser. After a moment's hesitation, he sat down beside them, one foot still on the floor just in case.

"Highlights." Svetlana turned the phone a little so he could see very tiny players streaking around. Pittsburgh vs. Montreal. "Hollander scored four goals tonight."

"Of course he did," Scott sighed. "That's got to basically clinch him the Rocket this year, right?"

"No, " Ilya said firmly which was borderline delustional.

Svetlana snorted. "He is having a very good year."

"We play them in two weeks," Scott said, watching Hollander neatly slice through the Pittsburgh defenders. "Not looking forward to it."

"You can beat them," Svetlana tapped the screen. "I will show you."

By the time she'd finished dismantling Montreal, Scott's foot was off the floor. He was pressed against Ilya so he could get a better look at the screen and the three of them were hotly debating if Pike was actually any good. Svetlana and Scott thought he was, if a little sloppy, and Ilya kept making increasingly hilarious angry comments about it.

"You can both get out," Ilya steamed as they laughed at him.

It clicked for Scott as the highlights reel came to a close and Pike came in for a hug with Hollander. It was a quick thing, a back pat and a quick shake. Just teammates enjoying a victory.

Pike got to play hockey with Hollander and touch him casually without anyone saying a word. Of course Ilya hated him.

Maybe Scott needed to get a little more actively involved in this whole situation. He was gnawing over that so intently that he missed Svetlana turning over and kissing Ilya for a second. Only a slight smacking sound alerted him. Ilya's hands went to her waist, steadying her or himself or both. They kissed without any particular heat, just enjoying each other.

It was nice. She was pretty and Ilya's hands were enormous on her, covering a lot of ground. It was as aesthetically pleasing as Scott had imagined. Maybe it really would be all right to sit here and watch them. A story to tell Kip anyway. But then she was getting up, nosing into Ilya's curls for a second before placing a last kiss on his temple.

"I am going to sleep in the guest room," she said without any particular weight. "Do not keep me awake. I have heard about pancakes for breakfast and I want them."

"Wait. I only got her name and she gets pancakes?" Scott demanded.

"She asks better questions," Ilya sniffed. "I do not have pancake things, I don't think."

"I'll see what I can do," Scott said. She was conceding Ilya's bed for the night, she could have whatever she wanted.

She did lean over Ilya at the last second and kiss Scott square on the lips. He blinked owlishly at her, stunned.

"Sorry," she said without any hint of actual apology. "You are very handsome and I was curious. Good night!"

"Good night," he said, bemused.

Ilya didn't even wait for her to be out of sight before he rolled over, straddling Scott's thighs and kissing him right where she had. Judging by the bar of heat that pressed into Scott's stomach, Ilya had not been unaffected by her sitting between his legs or any of the kissing.

Scott skimmed his hands up Ilya's thighs to knead his ass in his palms. "Didn't want to share, sweetheart?"

"I don't like being watched," Ilya nipped at Scott's bottom lip. "And no. She cannot have you and you cannot have her."

"Greedy," Scott chided. "I'm gay, sweetheart. Very gay. I like her, but I don't want her. And I don't think she really wants me except to rile you up."

"It worked. You want to enjoy or talk?"

"Both, I think." Scott cupped Ilya's cheek. "All mine for tonight then?"

Ilya didn't reply, his eyes were on Scott's wrist, going a little cross-eyed trying to look. Ah. He'd almost forgotten his little gambit.

"You wear jewelry now?"

The bracelet was deceitful in its simplicity, thick gold links cut to catch the light. Masculine. And very expensive.

"I thought I'd try it," Scott said. "You like it?"

Ilya took Scott's wrist in his hands and bit down a little just under the bracelet. It wasn't a spot Scott had considered erogenous before, but the prick of Ilya's teeth sent shock-y heatwaves through him.

"I do," Ilya said, releasing him. "You are wearing too many clothes."

"If only someone could help me with that."

Stripping down, Scott left the bracelet on. The gold of it flashed in the corner of his eye as he trailed his hand down Ilya's side.

"I like your house," Scott told him as he pressed his lips to Ilya's neck.

"Good. You will come over then."

"Of course, I will. I'd come over if you lived in a dump, I'd just complain more."

They fucked the tidy bed into a disaster. Ilya was a whirlwind, his hands everywhere and his teeth following. Never enough to mark, but certainly enough that Scott got the message that he wanted to. When Ilya was buried in him, both of them sweat slick and stupid with it, Scott gave him his wrist again.

"No one will think it's a hickey," Scott said, the sentence shattered in half with a groan. "It'll be from practice."

Ilya didn't argue. He sucked a bruise under the bracelet as he picked up his pace, his hand braced on Scott's other shoulder. Scott threw his head back and came hard, whimpering a little as Ilya didn't slow, a handful more thrusts that bordered on painful. Then Ilya was shaking a little in Scott's arms, coming down hard. Scott wrapped himself around him, bringing Ilya into a tight embrace instead of letting him pull away.

"Just stay a second," Scott whispered in his ear and Ilya went limp and heavy, pressing him into the mattress.

The house was quieter than the apartment had been, maybe even quieter than Scott's place, no hint of traffic or distant emergency sirens. Scott traced patterns over Ilya's back.

"I liked hearing about that closet with the coats," Scott told him and Ilya made disbelieving noise. "I did. I want to know more about you."

"Why?" Ilya asked as if the idea exhausted him. "There's nothing to know."

"Svetlana isn't nothing and she's a part of you. Tell me something about your childhood, anything."

"You don't talk about this either," Ilya said, but he didn't pull away.

"I'll trade you then."

"I don't have nice stories."

"Neither do I, not really," Scott said. "Unless it's hockey."

"Why hear terrible stories after such a good night?"

"So don't tell me the worst one. Just something."

The sigh gusted past Scott's ear. The weight of him was reassuring, if a little crushing. The moles on his back caught Scott's fingertips like he was reading some message in a secret language that he didn't understand.

"I played hockey for the first time when I was seven. My mother took me to the rink, but it was my father's idea. Something to make me tough. I think I was not so tough then, but I don't remember. Maybe I cried once in front of him," Ilya said. His face was mostly pressed to Scott's neck. Invisible. "I don't think so, but I don't know. Mama stayed in the stands. She watched. Made sure I was okay. I knew how to skate because she taught me when I was very small."

"Did you like it right away?"

"I don't remember," Ilya said. "I think so. I know I kept going. And then I fell in love. Somewhere. You go now."

"Mom was a hockey person. She coached the high school girls' team in my town even before I was born," Scott said. Her face in his memories was a little blurry these days, but he remembered how she was on the ice with him. Steady and encouraging. "She took me with her even when I was a baby, got me in skates pretty early. The girls liked having me around. Like a pet. Until I was old enough to be annoying. Then she put me in the peewee league."

"The picture where you are in a blue jersey," Ilya nodded. "With your hair all sticking up."

"That's the one. She's the one hugging me."

"You look like her. Same face."

Did he? Scott was never sure when he looked at the photos anymore. If he was only hoping that was true or if it was.

"Do you have any pictures of her?" he asked instead.

"Not many." Ilya shifted a little, but he didn't get off. Maybe he was finding it as reassuring as Scott was or maybe he was dozing off which could get unpleasant. "Mostly they are formal. Stiff. No nice smiling ones like you have."

"That's a shame. I'd still like to see them."

"You are in a nosy mood," Ilya grumbled.

"I got a taste and now I'm addicted." Scott kissed the top of his head. "Sorry that I'm interested in you as a person. Want me to go back to talking about you as a car?"

"No," Ilya bit off. "No more car talk with Svetlana."

"All right," Scott said seriously. "No more. Don't fall asleep on me, I need to wash up."

"You were the one who would not let me move," Ilya sighed and kissed his neck then pushed up and off him. "I have a very good shower now."

"Show me."

Scott left the bracelet on as they washed up, the links teething a little over the pink mark that was definitely going to darken over night. Like Ilya was still nipping at him. It gave him the shivers even as the practicalities of borrowing a toothbrush asserted themselves. Scott had left his overnight bag in his car which was, naturally, several miles away.

"You can sleep naked," Ilya said with a leer. "Easy access."

"You want me to cook naked in the morning?" Scott asked, spitting into the sink. "Cause I think Svetlana would be into that."

A t-shirt smacked into his face, followed by boxer briefs. They had likely both been his once upon a time judging by the way they fit. He left the t-shirt off, ready for the morning and pulled on the underwear.

It had stopped being a surprise that he slept well with someone else in the bed. Scott accepted that apparently his sleep issues stemmed from the same fetid well all his other issues did and it was best to just move on. He dozed off with his forehead pressed to Ilya's shoulders and woke up on his back, Ilya's arm over his chest.

Scott studied his wrist in the warm morning sun that came in from every direction. The bruise was noticeable, but not too obviously mouth shaped, no clear impression of teeth. The kind of thing that happened when you banged your body around a lot. The bracelet shone against the blue and purple.

Carefully, Scott unclasped it. His plan no longer seemed so enticing. Originally, he was going to bait Ilya a bit, bribe him into giving back the Olympic gold. What did Scott care really? It was just a disc of gold that he had shoved under his socks and not looked at in years. The win was on the record books. He knew who he was and what he'd accomplished. If Ilya wanted it, he could have it. He could have Scott's mug and his shirts and his half of Scott's bed when he wanted it. If Scott was something Ilya wanted to hoard then he would let him.

It had been a late night with a lot of wine, so Scott was able to clasp the bracelet around Ilya's wrist without waking him. It looked good there. Maybe he wouldn't wear it, but Scott certainly wouldn't wear it if he kept it. It was for Ilya in the end, to do with what he pleased.

Carefully, Scott got out from under Ilya's arm and wandered into the still open closet. He might not want the medal back, but the idea of the drawer had captured him. Where did Ilya keep all his misbegotten goods?

The closet was large and not actually full. There was a lean chest of drawers set up on one end next to a line of suits. Scott wasn't surprised to find cufflinks in one drawer. His own were not among them. The next drawer was ties, then dress socks, then a row of very tasteful sex toys laid out on velvet. Scott stared at the gracefully curved vibrator and decided it must've been intended for female anatomy because otherwise the shape was baffling. He closed that one with some new thoughts and opened the next.

Empty. The one below it too. That meant it had to be in the larger set of drawers that looked a little more shoved in next to open shelving with neatly folded sweatshirts. Did Ilya really keep Scott's things under his socks like Scott did?

The answer was no. The top drawer was underwear, the next socks and then t-shirts. The one under that had a few things in it that must've been Svetlana's. Not trophies, but a practical assortment of underwear, a sports bra, and a single change of clothes.

It was only as Scott squatted down and opened the last drawer that he hit pay dirt. There was a small mound of clothing, a jewelry box with his cufflinks nestled in it, his aftershave, and a dozen other relics.

There was also a flat wooden box pushed all the way to the back and while Scott knew he should leave well enough alone, he pulled it out and opened it. Inside was a single white undershirt. Plain. Unremarkable. Scott would bet anything it was Hollander's. He stared at it for a long time, then closed the box and slid it back into the drawer.

It was so fucking sad that Scott was leveled by it.

He stood and came to eye level with some of Ilya's ridiculous designer hoodies. Scott took out the tan one with yellow plaid-lined hood and pulled it on. It was soft inside at least and not too ridiculous. If Scott was seen wearing it, no one would imagine it was designer. Hopefully. Whatever. He has designer money too and he didn't have to wear it anywhere. He could squirrel it away as easily as Ilya did.

For now he wore it to the kitchen over the borrowed boxer briefs and started going through Ilya's cupboards. Despite last night's casual concern, Ilya's pantry was well-stocked. Most of it still in packages and neatly lined up. A service then, paid for so that when he came home from his weeks in Russia, the house was ready for him. Smart.

Everything was tidy and sensible so it wasn't actually hard to whip batter up. The coffee maker was less intense than Scott's and he got that going too.

"You are a good houseboy," Svetlana said, coming in from down the hallway Scott hadn't been shown last night.

She was still in Ilya's t-shirt and some lacy black underwear that she flashed him as she stretched. Did she know about her own drawer? Scott decided she must and that she, like Ilya, preferred to show off her body rather than hide it, using it as a tool in her arsenal.

"Thanks, I think. You want coffee?"

"Please. You're not actually making pancakes?"

"Why not?"

"I like you," she decided, perching on a stool. Her hair was in a silky bonnet and her face was wiped clean of makeup. Still model good looks, but softened for a different kind of shoot maybe.

"I like you too. Sorry if you didn't get what you wanted out of last night." Scott took down two plainer blue mugs, leaving the black one for Ilya. "I found the sugar and a thing of whole milk. How do you take it?"

"Light and sweet. Who says that I didn't?" She asked, watching him move around the kitchen. "Good meal, hockey talk. Hot men in a bed. It was good."

Scott poured the coffee and doctored it for both of them handing her the mug. "So you weren't actually angling for a threesome?"

"I would have had a very good time." She accepted her mug with two hands. "But I knew my chances were slim. He prefers to focus on one person at a time."

"Can't complain about the outcome."

She glanced at his wrist then back to his face. "Mm, I can see that."

"Training accident," he said straight-faced.

"What is he training you for?" she asked back, equally dry.

Scott barked a laugh and knew his ears went red. "No fucking idea. But if you know, please clue me in. I used to think I was doing the leading, but these days, we're just walking in circles."

"No. Progress is being made," she said, waving a finger between herself and him. "Look. Here we are."

"Sure. Only took four years."

"But it happens quickly once it starts," she said. "I think, anyway."

What was happening? And what would happen if did gain speed? Scott shuddered to think.

"You really don't know anything about Jane?" Scott asked.

"I know he is a big secret," Svetlana said.

Scott took a sip of coffee. "Why do you think Jane's a he?"

"Oh, you are good," she said with a half-smile. "But I do not need you confirm this. He would not bother to hide a woman from me. He treats Jane like a big secret, even more than 'New York Thank You'. I knew he was friends with you, at least. Jane is nowhere. A ghost."

"He doesn't want you to know."

"Mm, I don't know," she said and took a sip of her coffee. "What I can do is take some educated guesses because I love hockey and I have loved Ilya for a long time. I know where all those things intersect. Also. He is very bad at picking fake names."

"Fuck, I know," Scott groaned.

"So what are we doing about Shane Hollander?" she asked him.

"Who?" Scott took another sip of his coffee.

"Idiot," she snorted. "But okay. We can do a very stupid game where we both pretend not to know or we can talk about the enormous fuck up he is making and how to make sure his heart doesn't get smashed over it."

Which once she put it that way….

"You think his heart is in play?"

"I don't know," she frowned. "But I know that he is like a dog burying a bone about him. That he could be with you and me and half the women in Boston and be happy with that. Instead of running after the most inconvenient person I can think of for him. I know that sometimes when they text, he smiles without realizing it."

"Yeah," Scott breathed out. "So he cares. Whatever word we put on it. He cares about…Jane."

"Fine. Yes. He cares about 'Jane', " she said with heavy sarcasm. "I have no access to him. You do. So what are you going to do about it?"

"I can't interfere with that. I won't risk either of their safety to play matchmaker."

She pursed her lips and considered that. "But you already make things safer for you and for him. You and your agent and you teammates. They make a whole thing that you can see on social media."

"Sure, but we don't have a marketing campaign about us hating each other."

"So we undo it," Svetlana said like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"We undo the MHL's grand marketing scheme about pitting two of the best and most noticeable players in the league against each other," he said. "Come on."

"Why not?" She shrugged. "Why shouldn't they be friends instead? It's stupid. Four years of this. Montreal will probably win the cup this year. The scales all balanced. They will have had five years of them hating each other."

"That's never enough for anyone."

"It can be. If the story is that the big peacemaker, Captain Perfect, sits them down and says 'now boys, why can't we all just get along?'," she said pointedly.

It was far-fetched and unlikely. But it wasn't too far from what Scott had been thinking either. He planted his elbows on the island and made eye contact with her.

"You've got my attention."

They were sketching out a few possible routes when Ilya meandered out from the bedroom. Instead of taking his own seat, he draped himself over Svetlana's back. He was naked except for his underwear, his necklace, and the bracelet.

"Give," he muttered and she gave him her coffee.

"There's more," Scott said.

"It's fine," she kissed Ilya's temple as he polished off the dregs of hers. "He can have the bitter bottom bits if wants. I want a fresh cup any way."

When Scott handed Ilya the black and gold mug with his own coffee, he didn't get a thank you, but he did get a heated happy look over the rim.

"All right," Scott started the stove. "Pancakes."

"This is a good day," Ilya declared. "When do you have to go?"

"I've got a few hours."

They wasted them eating a leisurely breakfast and letting Ilya show off the rest of the house. It was private, sheltered. Enough that only the chill in the air kept them from lingering on the back patio even in their collective state of undress. Maybe it would happen some day. Scott could see them sprawled around the wrought iron table, luxuriating in a warmer morning.

As Scott got dressed again, readying himself to go, Ilya circled in on him. There was a question on his face to match the bracelet, but he couldn't seem to ask it.

"It's yours." Scott kissed his cheek, getting in close so there was no way Svetlana could hear. She was rooms away, still poking around Ilya's trophies. "Good boys get good gifts."

"I haven't been good," Ilya said, no play in his voice at all, only confusion.

"You were. You talked to me. I met Svetlana. Sweetheart, for you that's downright angelic. I appreciate the effort and I'm proud of you."

Ilya pulled him into a tight hug and Scott returned it, kissing his shoulder and generally letting Ilya sag a little against him.

"I like it," Ilya mumbled. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, sweetheart."

The car service was discreet and dropped Scott right at his own car. No one to see the mishmash outfit or Scott's very dumb smile.

Scott: I have a plan.

LOML: That's terrifying. Where do you need me to bring the shovel and lime?

Scott: Bold of you to assume I don't already have both. Anyway, I need you to stay put to be my alibi.

LOML: Officer, this man was sucking my cock the whole time.

Scott: Perfect, that'll work.

LOML: Actual plan?

Scott: Got time for a call?

Kip approved of the plan. Scott should've known. Some part of him kept imagining Kip as the voice of reason, but it was seemed like that was actually Scott's job in this relationship and Scott's idea of reasonable was a career that routinely handed out head injuries. So basically the car had no brakes and they were probably going to crash.

Fine. So be it.

There was one tiny thing.

"Also," Scott said, "I think I need to tell Carter I'm gay."

"Related or unrelated?" Kip asked. Sensibly. Which was how Scott always got fooled. He sounded so reasonable.

"Unrelated. It might actually make everything harder, but I'm just…I got to meet Svetlana, you know? And I can't do that for you and I hate it."

Kip went quiet for a long minute. "Do it for yourself, not for me, okay?"

"No, I know," Scott said carefully. "I feel like…I feel like I've been holding on to a solid poker hand. Three of a kind. The kind of thing that could go either way. And I keep waiting for someone to give me a tell. To let me know if it's worth betting on. But it's not going to happen. I'm never going to get a sign that it's a good time to hold or fold. I just have to make the bet."

"It's a gamble," Kip agreed. "But you do have signs. He's your friend. He trusts you."

"I've been lying to him."

"Yeah, and? If he doesn't understand why, you explain it to him. And if he's still a dick about it…well then you know, I guess."

Losing Carter would hurt. It would hurt a lot. Scott was fairly sure that if Carter did wind up hating him, he at least wouldn't blow everything up for Scott. He'd cut him out, maybe. Scott would lose one of the best friends he had. A risk. A gamble. A big loss or a big win.

"I'm going to see if he's free tonight."

"Damn, okay," Kip said. "Why am I even surprised? I love that energy."

"Can I tell him about you if he's good about it?"

"Yeah, of course," Kip said warmly. "You really want us to meet, don't you?"

"I do," Scott admitted. "I think you'd get along and it would be…I would like that. "

"I'd like it too, babe. Let's get it done."

NYTY: Heads up, I'm telling a friend about me. Not you. But me and my friend.

BH: You meet my friend and you copy immediately? I understand. You want to be me.

NYTY: Brat. Do you want me not to? He might ask about you. I'll say you didn't even know if you want.

BH: Tell him I am a big ally. So supportive.

NYTY: I need you to be so clear if you're joking right now or not. Because I will do whatever you want.

BH: Then yes. I am serious.

NYTY: Okay. I can work with that.

Scott made Carter chicken parm because it was fairly easy, heavy, and reliable. No spaghetti, but enough lightly charred vegetables to satisfy their meal plans.

"Damn, Scotty," Carter said as he pushed an empty plate back a few inches like it might assault him. "You've gotten really fucking good at that. Thanks."

"You're welcome," Scott said, over his mostly untouched plate.

His nerves were in his chest and his stomach. But he kept thinking about Ilya and Svetlana walking into that restaurant together. Carter wasn't his Svetlana, but he was the closest thing Scott had. A steady friend for many years. A person that tried to make Scott feel comfortable as best as he knew how.

"You going to break up with me, kill me, or propose? Cause you've been staring at me all night like it's the last time," Carter said, wiping his face with a napkin. "It's freaking me out."

"Sorry," Scott winced. "I have to tell you something."

Carter froze. "Are you sick?"

"No! No. It's not bad. I don't think it's bad anyway. You might. I don't actually know."

"Okay," Carter frowned. "Why would I think it's bad if you don't? Shit. Are you leaving? How would that even-"

"No. I'm not going anywhere."

"Good," Carter said. "Fuck. Okay. Tell me."

It was so much more frightening than saying it to Ilya or Kip. Or Svetlana via car metaphors. They at least knew, basically. That had been more for Scott himself. Affirmation.

This was properly coming out. Actually, really just telling someone. And once it was said, it couldn't be unsaid. Scott thought of Kip in the Kingfisher with his little clique. Of Ilya with Svetlana this morning, draped over her back, trusting and warm.

Of Hollander.

Him and Hollander in that foul bathroom, equally lost and alone with their thoughts on the same man and entirely unable to connect over it.

No more.

"I'm gay," Scott told Carter.

Carter went silent, his eyebrows knitting together. "Wait. Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"You're gay," Carter repeated.

"Always have been."

Carter sat back and stared at him. Studied him. "Huh. The whole time?"

"That's how it works," Scott said.

"I hate how much sense that makes and I never even thought of it," Carter said, shaking his head once. "Wow. Okay. You're gay. Scott Hunter is gay."

Someone else saying it was wild. Like Carter had thrown open his bedroom door in the middle of the night and shone a flashlight in his eyes.

"Yep."

"Man, that makes so much more sense than you just being really bad with women. You're really good with people."

"Am I?" Scott wrinkled his nose.

"You know you are. Okay. Shit. Wait. Do you have a guy?"

"Yeah," Scott said, cautiously. This seemed to be going okay, but he couldn't tell yet. "Last eight months. It's serious enough. Part of the reason I wanted to tell you."

"Scott Hunter has a boyfriend."

"He does," Scott said.

"Fuck, is a hug weird? I feel kind of proud of you."

"I would take a hug," Scott said with a relieved laugh. "I don't know where the pride comes from."

Carter came around the island and he did hug him. A bro hug with backslaps, but a real one. Heartfelt.

"You're scared out of your fucking mind and you told me anyway. You're a brave motherfucker. So, I'm proud of you."

"I knew you wouldn't be like…awful," Scott muttered. "I wasn't scared of you."

"Thanks," Carter pulled back and smacked his arm lightly. "But I get it. It's fucking scary out there. I always had you. And who did you have? You been carrying this on your own?"

"Mostly. Don't be pissed, he found out by accident, but Rozanov knows."

"How do you find that out by accident?"

"Really shitty luck," Scott sighed. "It's embarrassing, I don't want to talk about it. I've wanted to tell you for a long time. You're not mad?"

"Ehh," Carter leaned against the counter, taking him in. "I guess, a little. I wish I'd known. But now I do. Are you going to tell Eric and Greg?"

"Do you think I should?" That seemed like a lot. That was a lot of people knowing all at once. The more people that knew the less it could be kept contained.

"I think so," Carter said frowning. "I mean neither of them have ever said anything shitty about people like that- about gay people. Wow. Okay, I'm starting to get a really good picture of why you weren't sure about us."

"It's not like that," Scott muttered even though it was a little.

"Scott, did I ever say anything really-"

"No! No. You don't owe me any apologies," Scott said quickly. "There's some guys that probably do, but they aren't the type that will."

"Yeah," Carter's frown deepened. "Shit. No wonder you had my back so fast. And now I can have yours better. That's good."

It was good. Scott breathed a little easier. Maybe it wouldn't be like having a brand on his forehead. Maybe it would be like having an even better ally in the room.

"Thanks, man."

"Shut up," Carter scoffed. "What's your boyfriend's name? Can I see a picture or something? Or is it a big secret?"

"It's a secret, but he said it was okay if you knew about him. I want you guys to meet. I'd like that."

"Yeah?" Carter's lips flipped into his easy grin, delight in his eyes. "I get to meet him?"

Like it was exciting. An honor. Scott resisted hugging him again and pulled out his phone. "His name is Kip. Well, it's Christopher, but everyone calls him Kip."

"Kip," Carter repeated. "Damn, that's adorable."

"He is pretty cute," Scott showed him the photo that he kept in a locked folder on his phone. Kip in his dorm room, sitting at his desk, books in front of him, glasses on, but turned to smile at Scott.

"Damn, he is very very cute," Carter accessed. "And a smartypants, huh?"

"He's getting his PhD in art history at Princeton," Scott boasted. He could do that. He could boast about Kip to someone. It made him a little dizzy.

"Fuck, man, you do have to tell Bennett about him! They can nerd out about art and leave us the fuck alone about it."

Scott laughed and it didn't seem daunting at all in that moment. Maybe he could just tell Eric and Greg. He could host poker night here. Ilya could come, so Kip had someone else in the room he knew. It didn't seem impossible or frightening for a few seconds. Just a rosy picture of a moment that could be.

"That'd be good. I do really need it to stay in the circle though. For now."

"For now?" Carter considered that. "So you do want to come out like big time at some point?"

The thought made Scott want to hide under his bed before. It seemed so unmanageable. Something he couldn't even think about until hockey was behind him. Who would he even be by then?

"Yeah," he said, imagining it for the first time. Just being entirely himself while playing the sport he loved. Not divided. Whole and seen for better or for worse. "Maybe. When the time is right."

"Okay then. I can keep it zipped up. You know Eric barely talks to anyone but us, anyway. Greg knows how to keep stuff locked tight. We'll be good."

They'd be good. Scott didn't have to lose something to gain something.

"I think I need a drink," Scott said faintly.

"Yeah, me too," Carter ambled over to the bar cart. "Huh, why do you have so much vodka?"

"Rozanov."

"Figures. Let's do whiskey though, right?"

"Please. There's something else I wanted to talk to you about. Nothing to do with this."

Carter started pouring with a heavy hand. "Lay it on me."

"It's for Rozanov. I think maybe it's time the rivalry between him and Hollander died."

"Aw, why?" Carter pouted like a kid. "It's just fun."

"I don't think it's fun for either of them anymore. They're adults, not rookies with a beef. I think maybe they'd like to be friends and can't be. Seems wrong to take that shit from them. They don't have a lot of people at their level, you know?"

"Goddammit, that's so reasonable," Carter complained. "You really think they're friendly? Hollander didn't seem to think so at the Olympics."

"Would he have told us?" Scott challenged.

"Probably not," Carter conceded and brought Scott over his glass. "You've talked to Rozy about it?"

"Not directly. He's not chatty about things."

"He shoots his mouth off all the time."

"Yeah, but how often does he actually talk?" Scott lifted his glass to Carter, who toasted him back before they both took a sip.

"Talk like what?"

"He knows all about all our families. You know anything about his?"

"Huh. No. I mean I know they're in Russia, but that's about it. Fuck, I'm not even sure about that." Carter took a long drink. "But you spend a lot more time with him than me. And you think it'd be good for him to not have the whole media thing going? Cause he always seemed to like the attention to me."

"Like the class clown in school," Scott say wryly. "All attention is good attention. But that's not really true."

"Fuck, probably. And Hollander is really fucking tense off the ice, huh? Maybe if we unwound the two of them, we'd have a fighting chance against them."

Scott laughed. "Yeah, sure. It's a real power play. Make their lives better so they calm the fuck down and let us get a chance at the puck."

"Brother, whatever works. Let's try it."

LOML: How'd it go?

Scott: Great very drunk with Carter call tomorrow

LOML: Amazing. Love you! Drink water!

Two Weeks Later

Scarlett: We've got an extra day in Montreal as it turns out. Want to have a meetup? Me, Vaughn, Bennett and Huff were going to treat ourselves to a decent lunch somewhere.

NAD: Why?

Scarlett: Let's call it inter-team harmony building exercise.

NAD: Are we calling it that or is that what it is?

Scarlett: It can be. I know you and me are solid where we are, but there's no reason trades can't happen. It's easier if you know people. So let's help our guys know some people. No assholes though. I don't eat lunch with assholes.

NAD: What about our mutual friend?

Scarlett: Exception to the rule. So? In or out?

NAD: Let me talk to some people first.

It had been Scott's hope that Hollander would talk to Boiziau at least. Carter had tentatively admitted to sometimes quietly meeting up with other Black players when they were amenable, exchanging useful information across teams.

"It's not like a secret network or anything. We're not talking about strategy, just…stuff," he'd said, glancing over at Scott like he might be upset about it. "And some of them won't talk to me, but it's helpful."

"I'm glad you have that," Scott said. "And Boiziau is one of them?"

"Yeah, a few times," Carter nodded. "So he'd be cool with it, I think. We're friendly, not friends, but it can't hurt."

Maybe it was Boiziau or maybe it was Pike, who apparently had a fondness for Greg.

"I dunno, man, he's a weird guy," Greg had shrugged it off when Bennett brought it up. "Like you wouldn't know he was weird. He's like Hollander, plays clean, but he's full of dumb jokes. I don't know that you could call it chirping with a straight face. Makes me laugh a little. But he knows all my stats. Who the fuck cares about my stats?"

"You're one of the best sharpshooters in the league," Scott pointed out. The little meeting had not included Scott coming out to all of them. He wanted a clarity of purpose for this.

Lucky for Scott all he'd had to do to get them on board was say, 'I think it might help Rozanov if-' and Bennett and Huff had agreed with only mild curiosity. It warmed Scott through, both their ready belief in Scott's plan and their easy irritated fondness for Ilya.

One day, maybe Scott would even be able to tell Ilya about it.

Scott's worst fear for the meal was that the Montreal men would rock up like it was a gang fight and he'd spend most of their precious few hours defusing the situation like a bomb. Instead, Hollander showed up, flanked by Boiziau and Pike, all of them in a seemingly mellow mood coming off a loss.

Svetlana's tips had been extremely helpful. Scott might not be able to call strategy, that was a coach's place, but he could optimize his marching orders and he had. He had texted her a thank you and she had sent him back several baffling emojis.

"Hey, man!" Carter greeted Boiziau. "How's it hanging?"

"Heavy and to the left," Boiziau grinned at him.

"Hey, Huff," Pike said. "Nice to see you again. Bennett. I like you better not in the net."

"Most do." Bennett nodded solemnly.

Which left Scott with Hollander. No fleecy sheepskin this time. Instead Hollander dressed like this might be a business meeting while Boiziau and Pike were in streetwear. Scott stuck out his hand.

"Thanks for coming," Scott said.

"Sure." Hollander shook his hand. Solid and steady, one steady pump, then dropping away. "Sounded like fun."

It was, actually, kind of fun. Hollander even relaxed after food was ordered and the conversations started to overlap. They had, intentionally on Scott's part, wound up sitting next to each other. It was only natural to leave their guys to entertain themselves and get down to the business of talking captain to captain. Scott had actually done this before and not just with Ilya. Some guys were dicks, of course, some simply stand-offish or disinterested, but the friendlier captains never minded a drink or two. A place to complain away from the rest of the team and without too much consequence as long as details were kept to a minimum.

He lured Hollander in with hockey talk, watching him relax into the subject until he almost sounded normal. With some calm about him, Scott could acknowledge that Hollander was a very good looking guy. When he spoke about the subject he loved, the passion was obvious and his encyclopedic knowledge even more so.

With a pang, Scott thought: Svetlana would love him.

And with a second, sadder wave: I see why Ilya already does.

Because all pretense fell away when Scott could see the better parts of Hollander. Ilya had to love him. The man who was kept inside a box, inside a drawer, inside a closet. Tucked away as if someone might be trying to find him and steal him back from Ilya's tenative grasp.

Midway through the meal, Huff got really into some story about his kids that had Pike piling on his own. Boiziau and Carter were doing something that involved moving everyone's water glasses, so was likely some replay of last night's game. Bennett was watching them like they might explode which was normal.

It was as good as Scott was going to get for cover.

"Listen," he said to Hollander, keeping his volume mostly conversational, but lowering enough that it hopefully wouldn't carry, "I want to ask you something and you can tell me to fuck off you want."

"Okay," Hollander said, stiffness working it's way back into him far too quickly.

"This rivalry with Rozanov. Do you want it?"

Hollander went quiet, still. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you actually want people to think you hate each other? Is it doing anything for you or is it making your life unnecessarily harder?"

"It doesn't matter," Hollander said, his shoulders starting to hunch in. "It's bigger than us."

"Maybe it's bigger than the two of you, but it's not bigger than everyone at this table," Scott said, indicating with his chin where Pike had Huff in stitches, a goofy grin on his face as he pressed his ridiculous point. "If you want it gone, I think we can get it gone. If you two were just…friendly rivals. You could maybe be friends. Like me and him are. Seen in public and not have it be the biggest deal in the world."

"Friendly rivals," Hollander repeated woodenly. "You think we can just do that."

"Yeah, actually, I do," Scott said and sat back in his chair to give Hollander some space. "If you let me help. If you let all of us help."

"Why the fuck do you care?" Hollander asked, eyes coming over dark, whatever temper he had close to the surface. What did Hollander's temper look like? Cold? Hot? Sharp?

"Because Roz is my friend," Scott said deliberately. "And he's fucking miserable most of the time. I can't fix anything for him. But I can try to make his life a little easier."

"He's miserable?" Hollander asked and all the anger, if that's what it had even been, was gone as as it had come. Now Hollander sounded miserable too.

Jesus Christ, being queer in this sport was a recipe for misery, wasn't it?

"Not all the time. He loves his cars and kicking around Boston. We have a good time together. He likes playing poker with us. There's hockey. I know he's always happy when he's playing. I know that he's happiest when he plays Montreal."

Hollander's hands clasped together in his lap, his eyes on the floor. "Is he?"

"Yeah, he is." Because it was true as far as Scott could tell. Ilya was happiest when he knew he was going to see Hollander. Not always afterwards (Vegas came to mind like a throbbing toothache), but at least before. "And I think he'd be happier if he could do this the next day."

Hollander glanced up as if taking in the table for the first time. It wasn't hard to imagine Ilya there with them. He'd be an asshole to Pike, probably, but he'd ease up a little if he saw how much Huff was enjoying him. Maybe he'd get Bennett to talk or he'd content himself with tugging at Hollander's pigtails for attention. Hard to know. Scott wanted to know.

"You think so?" Hollander asked almost in a whisper.

"I think so. I think maybe you'd be happier too."

With a hard swallow, Hollander shook his head once. Less like a no and more like he was trying to keep the sentiment from landing on him.

"I'm fine," Hollander said.

"Wouldn't it be fucking great if we could be more than fine once in awhile?" Scott asked wryly.

He might as well have slapped the guy for how the words landed.

"You're doing this for him," Hollander said flatly.

"For us," Scott corrected.

"There's no us."

"Not yet," Scott agreed. "But maybe there should be."

"Why?" Hollander demanded. "Cause we're all 'North Americans' whatever the fuck that means?"

"Because we're all decent people in a sport that's often indecent," Scott said. "And maybe if we can make them stop pitting us against each other like we're rabid dogs, we might actually be able to change some things."

"The competition is what makes it a game," Hollander said like Scott might've missed that.

"And I love the competition. I also like to have a locker room where no one calls the other teams slurs that make my skin want to crawl off or worse, slings them around at each other like it's a joke. We should be allowed to have both."

That landed a little better. It was the nicer of Scott's two motives and maybe he should've led with it.

"And me and Rozanov getting along in the public eye would get us there how?"

"Because it would be a damn good story," Scott said. "And you can use it as a platform. Start talking about how good sportsmanship is more than shaking hands at the end of a game. I don't know. Maybe it won't work. Maybe none of it will, but I know doing nothing isn't helping."

"Shane!" Pike called from the end of the table. "What was the name of the movie we watched on the way back from that one game? The one with the guy in it with the eyes?"

"The guy with the eyes," Hollander repeated back to him.

"Come on, you know what I mean! It had that other guy in it, whatshisface!"

"Is your brain full of holes, bro?" Boiziau asked Pike, elbowing him.

"Winter Soldier?" Hollander ventured.

"Yeah! That one," Pike beamed at him. "That's the kind of friendship I mean."

"The kind where you talk the guy out of murdering you because you used to be besties?" Huff was staring at Pike like he was an unusual bug. Pike seemed thrilled with that.

"Yeah, exactly! It's really touching, man, I'm telling you."

"This is our crack squad of guys that are going to make hockey better?" Hollander asked, almost under his breath.

"They're the best we've got. That's why we have to get Rozanov in on it."

"Oh yeah," Hollander said with a sigh, "he'll definitely improve this situation."

"Got any better ideas?"

"Just…tell me your plan," Hollander said.

"Thought you'd never ask."

Three Hours Later

NYTY: We play Montreal at home in six weeks.

BH: We play Tampa in five weeks. We can both say our schedules. Good for us.

NYTY: I'm hosting Hollander and some of his teammates here after. You should come.

BH: What the fuck.

NYTY: I want to start some inter-team alliances. Working out better locker room culture.

BH: What are you doing really?

NYTY: Got time for a call?

Boston Hottie Calling. Call lasted 1 minute, 14 seconds.

New York Thank You Calling. Sent to voicemail.

New York Thank You Calling. Sent to voicemail.

New York Thank You Calling. Sent to voicemail.

NYTY: Don't be a baby. It's a good plan. You can be seen in public together.

Boston Hottie Calling. Call lasted 5 seconds.

NYTY: That was rude. I'm being serious, you brat. Pick up and talk to me or I'm going to tattle on you to your girl.

BH: You wouldn't.

NYTY: Watch me.

New York Thank You Calling. Call lasted 2 hours, 10 minutes.

Chapter End Notes

If you're curious about the bracelet, it's this one .

Chapter 8: Growing Pains and Pleasures

BH: What if I don't come?

NYTY: I've heard every guy struggles with that sometimes.

BH: You are not funny.

NYTY: I'm hilarious and if you don't show up, I will drive to your house, knock you out, put you in the trunk and drive you here myself.

BH: What is wrong with you?

NYTY: Everything. If you get here early, we can fuck out the stress.

BH: Do you think that will work?

NYTY: Only one way to find out.

Between the enormous heaters the building had installed and an unseasonably warm day in March, Scott was able to hold the party on the roof. It was not a space he used much since it was technically open to the whole building, but he'd decided it was worth the bother of reserving it ahead of time and not cramming too many bodies into the apartment. It also left the apartment free for the potential after party, but he was not pinning too much weight on that.

"We could have used this before?" Ilya demanded, turning in a slow circle to take in the still half-dead potted shrubbery and wrought-iron furniture.

"It's not private," Scott said, watching the caterers set down the last of the food. "Thanks, I've go the invoice, but please take this."

He passed some cash to each of them. There would be a cleanup crew later too. Scott felt properly stupidly rich tonight, in a way he didn't usually bother with. Ilya brought that out him which he was not going to examine right now.

"Who would give a fuck about that in December? I could have smoked up here."

"Could you?" Scott asked mildly. "I didn't even think of that."

"You're a fucking dick," Ilya declared like it pleased him. "You do not want me to smoke so you do not tell me about the roof. I hate you."

"Hate you too, sweetheart. You want a crack at the appetizers before everyone gets here or what?"

"I cannot eat," Ilya admitted, staring at the food like it might bite back.

Scott sympathized. His anxiety about tonight had been poured into the planning of it. Now that it was here, he felt relatively calm. No one was coming to fight. They'd basically run all this once before in the restaurant in Montreal. Ilya was the only variable and while Scott had some concerns about him, there was only so much he could do to mitigate things. He'd be feeling that 'mitigation' for two days at least. At least Ilya had stopped touching his cross every ten seconds like it might fall off.

"What's the worst that happens?" Scott asked.

"We get into a fistfight and he never touches at me again," Ilya said promptly. "Or I punch one of his very stupid friends, then we get into a fistfight and he never touches at me again."

"Okay," Scott said. "So…we don't throw any punches. Keep our hands to ourselves. You've almost gotten sharing down, I think you can manage that one too."

"Eat shit," Ilya said, very tiredly. He rested his forehead on Scott's shoulder and Scott dropped a kiss on the top of his head.

"You're all right," Scott murmured. "You're good at this. Parties. It's just a party where you know everyone. Hang out with Carter, Greg and Eric the whole time if you need to."

"Not you?" Ilya asked.

"Me too, but I'm going to be working on the Montreal contingent a little. I didn't get to talk to Pike and Boiziau that much last time. I want to get a temperature on them. You're sure they don't know about Hollander?"

"They are both very stupid," Ilya scoffed and then a little less rage-motivated, "And Hollander says nothing about his life. He makes it look like there is nothing in his life. His friends believe this."

"Huh. So he smokescreens by being boring, the way you smokescreen by being an asshole?"

Ilya went stiff against him. "I hate that you are calm enough to be smart. Stop. Become more nervous immediately."

Laughing, Scott rubbed his back with one hand. "Poor brat. If you want a last kiss, you better get it in now. Carter is usually on time."

With a hum of consideration, Ilya did pick up his head and indulge them both in a long, tongue-filled kiss. When he touched Scott's neck, the bracelet brushed over it, a cool smooth counterpoint to the tip of the cross stabbing Scott a little through his sweater.

The elevator dinged and Ilya sprung back, rolling his shoulders as if he could shrug off the moment. Wouldn't it be nice if it was that easy?

"Hey, man, am I the first one?" Carter asked stepping out of the elevator. "Roz! What's up?"

"Not much," Ilya said, finding a smirk for him. "You?"

"Same old. Winning more than losing though, so I'll take it."

"So you know about Hunter now too? And Kip?"

"Yep," Carter said, bringing Scott in for a manly, smacking hug. "Cool, right?"

Scott laughed, hugging him back, then shoving him gently away towards the food.

"Vaughn," Ilya said, dripping in disapproval. "Hunter is very brave and good to come out, but it does not make him cool. Do not lie to him like this."

"Stone cold," Carter cackled. "But true. Sorry, man."

"It's fine," Scott sighed. "I don't think 'cool' was what I was going for, basically ever. I aim more for competent."

"You've met Kip already?" Carter asked, already browsing the table and making a plate.

"Yes. I like him very much. You will too," Ilya said with perfect confidence. "He is very small though. Don't step on him."

"How small are we talking?"

"Itty bitty. Pocket boyfriend."

"He is not," Scott rolled his eyes. "He's just not a professional athlete. You're too used to hanging out with giants."

"And you aren't?" Carter challenged. "Is he taller or shorter than Greg?"

"Same," Scott said at the same time Ilya said, "Shorter, he is two inches tall."

"Two inches?" Carter laughed. "Wow."

"Here, I have a picture," Ilya said.

"Scott showed me one."

"Of him by himself, yes?"

How had Ilya known that?

"Yeah," Carter said.

"Because he does not have one of the two of them together," Ilya said.

Shit. Of course he knew that. God fucking damn it.

"Really? Scott," Carter said heavily.

"Don't," Scott said. "It's not-"

"But I have one," Ilya cut them both off from whatever sadness-guilt spiral was about to happen.

"How?" Scott demanded. "Why?"

"Let me see," Carter said more practically.

Scott crossed the space to see it too.

The picture was off-center. Taken in a hurry, maybe. It was from the day they had moved Kip into the dorms. Scott had been putting books up on the higher shelves, and Kip was directing him. It was from the side, Kip's hand resting on the middle of Scott's back, drawing his attention. Scott was turning to face him, reaching to slide his hand around Kip's back too. Likely to draw him in for a kiss. They were both smiling.

That's what they looked like. Happy. Easy. How was that possible? Sure Scott felt that way when he was with Kip, but the idea that it was visible was both frightening and exhilarating. Other people could see them. Other people could know they were happy in each other's company, doing something utterly mundane.

Ilya had seen it and captured it and kept it for himself. Likely because he knew that if Scott had it, he'd only delete it in a fit of fear at some point or another. So he held it in trust like an inheritance. Like a hoard.

"Okay," Carter said, oblivious to Scott's complete obliteration over a shitty stolen shot. "My official ruling is that Kip is short, but not two inches tall."

"Wrong," Ilya said lightly. "But I understand. You will see when you meet him. He is very small. And also very large. Takes up a lot of space. He is also very funny, much funnier than you, Vaughn."

"Hey! I'm fucking hilarious. Scott, tell him I'm funny."

"Why do you want me to lie to him, Vaughny?" Scott asked, managing to sound nearly normal. Or at least normal enough that Carter didn't clock it.

Ilya kicked at Scott's foot. Not hard. Just acknowledging. And telling him to get it the fuck together. Right. It was not his night to lose his shit. It was Ilya's turn. Hopefully it was neither of their turn really, but Scott was trying to be realistic.

Maybe a little fatalistic.

The elevator dinged. Fuck.

It was Eric and Greg, at least, buying Scott a few more precious seconds to fully come back to himself.

"Roz!" Greg reached for Ilya, who went bemused in a hardy hug, then was shoved at Eric who slung an arm around him for a half-hug before releasing him.

"Hello," Ilya said, smiling a little. "Are you ready to lose all your money?"

"The tens of dollars we're going to be playing with?" Eric shook his head. "Don't get cocky, Roz. It's cards, not the ice. Scotty!"

And Scott took two more rough hugs with so much gratitude it shoved out the heartsickness the photo had left him with. Eric and Greg had taken his coming out to them well. A little too well in Eric's case.

"I'd always wondered," Eric had said, studying Scott over his beer. "You're a good looking, kind guy. I figured it was a choice you were making, not having anyone. Just wasn't a 100% sure why."

"Now you know," Scott had replied. And their eyes met. Eric transmitted nothing, seemed utterly calm, but Scott was stirred for the first time with a question. You too?

When he told Kip about the moment later, Kip had kissed him on the cheek and said, "Love, welcome to your first potential gaydar moment."

"He's married to a woman."

"Cause we all know that's a surefire sign."

So now Scott had question marks hanging over Eric's head, but at least he knew his friends saw him for who he was. In the locker room and in Huff's basement, they treated him no differently and still backed his plays on the ice. Maybe the world didn't know, but this part of Scott's world did. They even had a date to meet Kip. For a mad moment, Scott had considered having Kip here tonight, but he squashed the idea before even giving it voice. There were enough moving parts and Scott knew he only wanted it for his own comfort.

They had three minutes to get comfortable which was enough for Greg and Eric to get drinks and notice that Ilya was quieter than usual. Before anyone could say anything though, the elevator dinged.

The doors opened and the very scene Scott had worried about in Montreal played out. Hollander was locked down. Boiziau and Pike flanked him, tensed and ready like they were showing up to a shoot out instead of a party. They walked off together, silencing what little conversation had been taking place.

Beside Scott, Ilya went cold and remote. He squared his shoulders and stood straight, the massive hockey beast instead of the man.

Fuck.

Hollander took a step forward. So did Ilya. They met in the middle, staring each other down. Pike shifted like he might throw a punch. Boiziau rolled his shoulders back. Carter, without even looking at anyone else, fell in behind Ilya and crossed his arms over his chest. For a moment, Scott loved him so purely it was a taste in his mouth.

Then something totally fucking bizarre happened.

"Rozanov," Hollander gritted out.

And Ilya broke out into peels of laughter. Not his mocking laugh. Not the quiet chuckle Scott could illicit from him sometimes. Just the laugh of a man who found something very very funny.

Hollander stared at him, eyes narrowing.

Shit. Hollander was actually going to punch Ilya. In five seconds flat.

But that wasn't what happened at all. Ilya looked up, met Hollander's gaze and then started laughing harder.

And Hollander started to laugh too. It happened slowly, the smile cracking over his lips and then reaching his cheeks and his eyes last. He laughed more quietly than Ilya, but it shook him just as much. The sound of Hollander's laugh only seemed to set Ilya off more and he was quickly doubled over with it and Hollander was shaking all over with it.

Pike and Boiziau stood there, arms falling to their sides, both a little slack-jawed. Carter was grinning though he clearly had no idea what the fuck was happening any more than they did. Eric and Greg, off to the side, stared at Scott like he could provide an explanation.

"Like the fucking commercial!" Ilya wheezed.

"I know! Stop it!" Hollander commanded, but he was still going too.

In laughter, Hollander lost his solemnity and ferocity. His eyes shone. He radiated a brief incandescent happiness. He was, Scott saw for the first time, very pretty. Scott had been wrong. Ilya hadn't fallen in love with the living embodiment of hockey. This had to be it. This sparkling eyed, smiling boy was who Ilya loved.

Scott couldn't blame him one bit.

For a crystalline moment, they were both simply twenty-three year old idiots, instead of preternaturally aged men. Easy with each other and oblivious to their observers in their sheer giddiness.

That was it. That was what this was for.

Scott could buy Ilya a thousand bracelets, he could install Kip in a penthouse and make sure his father never had to worry about another bill. But this was the most expensive, dearest thing he could buy and he only had to sell a little of his own ego and sanity for it.

"Holy shit," Hollander said, sucking in another breath and expelling it again, leveling out. "You asshole."

"What did I do?" Ilya countered, his laughter also dying off, his smile slowly getting tucked back into a smirk. "You come in here like you will draw guns."

"I don't know how to shoot," Hollander said.

"Shane," Pike said, half a question, half an admonishment.

"Sorry," Hollander's smile got tucked away too, back into his quiet. Nerves twitched into his hands. "I don't think you guys have ever like…officially met? Rozanov, this is Hayden Pike and J.J. Boiziau."

"Hi," Ilya said.

Boiziau stared at him, but Pike said tentatively, "Hi. Um. What the fuck are you laughing about?"

Ilya opened his mouth, but Hollander beat him to it. "It's just so fucking dumb, Hayd."

"What is?" Pike asked blankly. It was a slower version of Ilya's doing calculus face. Doing algebra, maybe.

"We got invited here to drink and play poker and I'm supposed to do…what? Challenge Rozanov to a fucking duel over it? We've known each other since we were seventeen. He's just a guy."

"No," Ilya said in consternation. "I am better than 'just a guy'."

"Debatable," Hollander said without pause and Carter barked a laugh.

"Fuck me," Carter said. "Hollander is funny. Who knew that?"

"We did," Pike said defensively.

Boiziau frowned, then nodded, "Yeah, he kind of sneak attacks you with it."

"Who wants a drink?" Scott asked and was unsurprised when Boiziau and Pike said yes a little too fast.

They were all hungry too, the game leaving them calorie deprived, so food took precedent over too much talking for a bit. Greg drew Pike in and Carter blasted Boiziau with friendliness again until the guy's shoulders came down from around his ears. Eric stayed on Ilya like he'd been given an assignment and Ilya seemed content to finally eat while Eric talked his ear off about something he could probably care less about.

"What commercial?" Scott asked, standing beside Hollander at the table.

"CCM. After we were drafted. They wanted us to do this face off thing," Hollander said. He was tight all over again, but he was eating at least. " We were just..I don't know. It was hard to take it seriously. We almost couldn't get a clean take, we just kept making each other laugh."

It was easy enough to picture now.

"He's funny too. Even when he's being a dick about it."

"I know," Hollander said. "Fucking asshole."

There was no vehemence in it. If anything, it sounded suspiciously fond.

"Are we playing or what?" Eric called out. "I'm dealing. Who's sitting out?"

"I will," Scott offered. He needed a minute anyway.

"Me too," Pike said. "I suck at poker, I don't need to lose my lunch money over it."

Ilya opened his mouth to say something and Carter cut him off. Scott owed him big time.

"Works for me. Let's start with quarters though. I'm not upping into dollar bills until I see what you fuckers got."

The card table was set up right next to the heaters, chasing off the last of the March chill. Scott stayed close, one of the usual wrought iron chairs only a few feet away from the game. To his surprise, Pike sat down beside him instead of Scott having to call him over.

He was quiet too, watching the game as he rolled a bottle of beer between his palms. Ilya had had on his frosted card-playing face, unbreakable and stoic. Hollander sat to his right, matching it perfectly, solemn and coolly quiet. Scott risked a glance down and even though it was shadowy beneath the table, he was almost certain their shoes were touching. A single point of contact as they were otherwise angled away from each other.

Jesus Christ, Scott wished he could get drunk and stop noticing them right now.

"I thought Shane hated him," Pike said, almost under his breath.

"Why?" Scott asked.

"I mean he calls him a dick and gets pissed off when we lose to him. The whole rivalry thing, you know," Pike said, but he didn't sound certain. "Rozanov makes it easy to hate him."

"Does he? Cause I gotta tell you, we like him just fine around here."

The table wasn't getting too heavy, even as they got a few hands in. Greg was boasting about his latest fishing trip and Eric was razzing him about not having any pictures of his supposedly huge fish. Ilya made a joke about paintings being easier to catch and the laughter spread out to Boiziau, who looked almost mad that Ilya had made him grin.

"But he calls you old all the time."

"Yeah, and?" Scott shrugged. "So do other guys. At least he's funny about it. I'm not thirty yet, Pike. I'm not losing sleep over dickhead younger players pointing out I've got experience on them. What's he say to you that makes you so mad at him?"

Pike winced, "A lot. I think the latest one was if my mom know if I'm a charity stunt to represent untalented hockey players."

Scott repressed a grin. Cold, Ilya, cold. "Mm. And is that the worst thing someone's chirped at you?"

The quiet said it all. Pike was an attractive enough guy. Slimmer than most players. Wide eyed. Tender too, clearly, taking Ilya's chirps to heart like that meant that he probably took all of them hard. An easy target.

"No," Pike said eventually. "Guess it isn't. But it's not about me. It's what he says to Shane."

"Same question then. What's the worst thing you've heard someone say to Shane?"

"Things I won't repeat."

"Roz say any of those?" A mute shake of the head. "Yeah. So. Maybe save your hate for those pieces of shit."

"Pike sighed. "Fuck."

They lapsed into silence. The game ran on, money shifting around the table. Ilya won a few hands in a row, but before Scott could remind him to play nice, he lost to Hollander. He seemed a little surprised he'd lost to Hollander actually. Scott repressed a grin. Good.

Another round and this time, Eric took the win and Boiziau laughed, dropping his cards. "You fucking cocksucker."

It was a word that Scott had heard so many times, he barely even registered it anymore. Even tonight, even after talking to Pike around it, he didn't really hear it.

But Greg fucking Huff did. And he said with perfect calm, "Huh. You know, I never really got that one."

"Which one?" Eric asked, gathering in his chips.

"Cocksucker," Greg repeated like it was a new concept. "I mean, anyone at this table think that getting a blowjob isn't one of the best things in life?"

What was he doing? Scott sat up a little straighter, trying to take in every face at once and getting stuck on Hollander's blank face. The tightness around his lips.

"It is pretty fucking good," Carter agreed, mouth still smiling, eyes gone cold.

"Right, so why is it an insult? We should celebrate cocksuckers," Greg went on. "They're doing the lord's work. If no one would suck cock, our lives would be so much worse. So why is it an insult? We should be handing out plaques."

Next to Scott, Pike had also gone still and wary. No jokes.

"Well," Boiziau said reluctantly, "I guess because it's kind of gay? Not that that's a bad thing, but it's just…"

And it was said now.

"Just what?" Greg asked, utterly relaxed. The same game they'd played together against racist morons for years.

Scott loved his friends. He had known that distantly, but right now, he loved them ferociously.

"Just how we say shit, I guess. It doesn't mean anything."

"It does," Eric said patiently. "It means a lot if someone is gay in the room, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, but no one here is," Boiziau said.

"I am."

The words came out of Scott so calmly that he didn't fully process he'd said them until it was done.

Every set of eyes on the rooftop fell on him. Pike inhaled so sharply that he started coughing.

Scott lifted his chin, even as his stomach cramped and his mouth went dry.

"You are?" Hollander asked, strangled.

"Yes," Scott said, took a sip of his drink and set it aside. "My friends know. But obviously I'm not broadcasting it around, so I'd appreciate if the rest of you kept it to yourselves. I would also thank you to quit using shitty language around me."

"Shit," Boiziau said and then to his credit, "I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Scott said gravely and there wasn't going to be another window better than that one. "It's why I wanted to do this tonight, actually. Because we don't know who the fuck is on our rooms and I'm sick of not feeling safe in the place that means so much to me."

"Here, here," Carter murmured.

"You don't feel safe?" Hollander asked as if the idea had never even occurred to him.

"Not to be who I am. And I'm lucky. I blend in," Scott said, meeting Carter's gaze. "I know some of you can't for other things. I've been trying to shift it in New York with the help of these guys. We've made a little progress."

"Oh," Boiziau said softly and glanced at Carter, who gave him a nod. "Usually pretty hard to change the guys' minds about shit like that."

"It is," Carter said. "It sucks and it's fucking scary, actually. If you don't have someone at your back. But we're moving the needle."

"Takes time," Eric said. "And a fuck load of patience. And a few punches. Scott laid out a guy last season in the showers."

"You did?" Ilya's head snapped up, all at once in the conversation. "And no one told me?"

"Sorry, Roz," Greg said apologetically. "We really should've. You would've loved it."

"It wasn't a big thing. He was just mouthing off and wanted a piece of me," Scott said with a shake of his head.

"He was talking shit about that new guy on the Tampa team," Eric said. "Rodriquez. Wouldn't quit even after we shot him down a few times. So Scott just cold clocked him and said it was because Rodriguez wasn't there to do it himself. He got traded at the end of the season, so if you hear any weird rumors about Scott coming out of Vancouver, that's why."

"Jesus, you're serious," Boiziau said. "You punched a guy on your own team for being racist?"

"I try not to let it get that far, but some guys have a hearing problem," Scott mumbled. "I can get away with it these days. Weaponize your privilege or whatever."

After that, everyone seemed a lot more willing to hear him out. Pike kept looking at him with a nervy sort of reverence which was was, as Greg had said months ago, fucking weird. Hollander and Ilya were notably quieter as the conversation roved around them. In fact, Hollander was almost non-responsive. And his breathing was a little weird.

"All right," Scott said checking his watch. "It's getting late. You all are welcome to stay as long as you want, but I'm taking Hollander and Rozanov down to my place to iron out some shit, if that works for you two."

"Yeah," Hollander said roughly. "Fine."

"I will smoke first," Ilya said and he looked so nervous that Scott decided to let it go. "I will join you soon."

"We can say goodbye then," Eric declared. "I'm ready to go home."

Pike went Hollander, leaning down to talk to him so quietly it didn't carry. Ilya got up and walked off into the shadows, a flare of flame saying he really did intend to smoke. Probably more than one, but considering what Scott was putting him through tonight, he figured he was entitled.

"It's fine," Hollander said with a cutting intensity.

Pike seemed unbothered by the tone, simply nodding and straightening. "Okay, man. If I'm asleep when you get back, try not to be a herd of elephants about it. I need my beauty sleep."

"Tell me about it," Hollander said and Pike smiled like it was a love tap.

"We're sure about this?" Boiziau asked.

"I'm sure about it," Hollander said. "I'm just… J.J. I'm so fucking tired of it."

Boiziau frowned, looking to Pike for some kind of guidance, and Pike only shrugged and said, "It's his fucking life, man. C'mon. Hunter is here, he's not going to let Rozanov do something nuts."

Probably not. Depended on what Pike considered nuts.

"Thanks for coming, both of you," Scott said, getting to his feet. "If you want to give me your numbers, maybe we can get some kind of group chat going. Can't hurt."

"Guess not," Pike said and whipped out his phone. Boiziau followed him, only a little slower. Still taking the temperature. Scott couldn't blame him for that.

"Guys, can I put you in this too?"

"Yep," Carter said, counting out chips. "Don't leave before you cash out boys. You owe me three dollars."

"Let it go," Eric laughed. "We can wipe the slate clean for tonight. Next time we'll play for real stakes."

"You're the big winner, you say it, I'm fine with it," Greg said.

"Good by me," Boiziau agreed.

They kept going a good-naturedly about a potential next time which settled something in Scott. If nothing else, he'd formed some inter-team bonds that might survive longer than tonight.

"C'mon," he said quietly to Hollander. "Carter doesn't say goodbye fast."

Like a marionette, Hollander got to his feet and followed after Scott with perfunctory 'good nights' thrown over their shoulders. They rode down to Scott's apartment in silence, Hollander vibrating on a frequency that the rats in the subway could probably hear.

As soon as they step foot into Scott's apartment, Hollander's head was on the swivel. He took in every angle of the place, ascertained the elevator they came through was the main entry point. He paced the length of Scott's living room and came to rest at the kitchen island, so tense that Scott's shoulders ached for him.

"You must think I'm a fucking idiot," Hollander snapped out, each word over articulated.

"I don't," Scott said, studying him. He'd stayed by the book case, watching this procession, uncertain of where it was end. Now he thought that Ilya was right and it might very well end in a punch.

"North Americans?" Hollander asked incredulously. "Why didn't you just say it?"

Ah. So that penny was the one that had dropped. Scott breathed out slowly. "Because I thought you might lose your shit on me in a place we couldn't afford to have that happen. You want to do it now, you're welcome to."

"Did he tell you?" Hollander demanded. "Am I a joke you two tell each other?"

"No! Not even close, Hollander, Jesus. First off, I take all of this very fucking seriously. Second off, I guessed about you and he didn't even know I knew until after the Olympics and only because I had to tell him that I'd run into you so he knew I didn't tell you anything either. I've been trying to keep everyone's secrets from touching for fucking years, actually. It's a headache and a half let me tell you."

Hollander stared at him. "Explain."

"Fuck, fine," Scott said. Ilya was somewhere on the roof, capable of arriving at any moment, but he would just have to deal with whatever Scott said now. He could've come down with him, he'd engineered this little moment for better or worse. "But I want to be so fucking clear right now that the only reason you didn't have this information were choices he made and I made because we're just as scared as you. Him most of all. You understand me? None of this was hidden because we thought it was funny or cute or to punish you."

"I'm not scared," Hollander said reflexively, his arms crossed over his chest like he was holding his internal organs in place.

"Okay," Scott said. "Fine. Then it's just me and Ilya who are terrified. He won't say that. You know he won't. But I promise you that he is."

"You call him by his first name."

"Yeah, well, I do that when I care about someone," Scott said.

Hollander wasn't looking at Scott. He didn't appear to actually be looking at anything, but trying to bore a hole in the floor with his gaze. "Tell me."

"I went to a club to get laid. Years ago now. Dark back room. Met a guy, didn't exchange names," Scott said carefully. "Then who shows up on the ice? This fucking rookie with curls and shit English."

Oh. Shit. Now Hollander's eyes were on Scott and he would be much more comfortable if they weren't.

"You and Rozanov," Hollander said heavily.

"Yes. We're friends. We made a friendship out of it. We fuck, we spend time together. I have a boyfriend. Not a hockey guy. A doctoral student. Art history- never mind. He knows about Ilya. Ilya knows about him."

Hollander's expression gave nothing away, only a pure raging heat in his eyes that was fixed on Scott's neck. Yikes.

"I knew about the women," Hollander said. "I figured there were other men. I just never- fuck. I mean-"

"It's all right," Scott said gently. "I know, remember? There was that first All Stars. I thought I heard you through the walls. And then it was just how he was when he thought about you. Whenever your name came up."

"You said he was happy before our games," Hollander said, his voice dull and flat now. "Shit. You were trying to tell me you knew, weren't you?"

"Little bit," Scott admitted. "I almost came out to you like three times at Sochi, but you stonewalled me so hard, I didn't think it was the time. And…well. I hadn't actually come out to anyone except my boyfriend and Ilya at that point. No offense, you didn't seem like the first person on my list for the third one."

Hollander shook his head, turning to press his hands against the edge of the kitchen island. Then he was bending over it entirely, gripping the granite like it was the only steady point in the room. Scott watched him for a second, listened to the raggedness of his breathing. Circling around him, Scott went to the fridge and pulled out a can and set it in front of him.

"What?" Hollander asked.

"Ilya said I needed to stock it for you. He keeps acting like he hates my plan, but then he adds things to it. Like that I need to have ginger ale. Seemed pretty specific about it too."

"He told you to buy me ginger ale." It wasn't even a question. Just a hollow statement.

"Yeah," Scott said with a shrug. "Specific like I said."

"He's fucking you. Has been for years. And he wants to make sure I have fucking ginger ale. I think I'm having a stroke," Hollander said.

"Do you smell burnt toast?"

"Fuck you," Hollander said tiredly, reached for the ginger ale and opened it. He took a sip, then just put his hands around the can and hung on. "I feel so stupid."

"Why?" Scott asked. "You didn't have all the information. Now you do. Welcome to the club of people who Give a Shit about Ilya Rozanov. We don't have enough members and he makes it fucking impossible sometimes, but we're here. If you want to punch me about it still, I'll give you a free hit, but I'll tell people who gave me a black eye and refuse to explain it."

"I'm not going to punch you," Hollander said. "I don't do that off the ice."

"Maybe you should," Scott said. "Might help."

"With what?"

"All the feeling you've got built up around him."

"I don't give a shit about him," Hollander lied through his teeth. "And he doesn't fucking care about me, I can tell you that much."

"Wow," Scott said, studying him. "There is so much wrong there that I don't even know where to start."

"What-"

The elevator opened and Ilya walked in. The cold rolled out from the doors and with it, the faint smell of cigarette smoke. He took in the scene, acknowledging Scott still standing a foot back from one side of the island and Hollander mostly bent over the other side.

"You talked," Ilya surmised.

"I fucking hate both of you," Hollander said to the granite.

"It's going great," Scott said wryly.

"Useless. I could make him hate me on my own," Ilya growled at Scott.

"I told him the truth. It's not my fault you didn't want to do it yourself."

"I didn't say you could," Ilya countered, eyes flashing.

"He was going to figure out one way or another. He was halfway there already. I think he's having a panic attack."

"I can hear you," Hollander said. "I'm fine."

"Shit," Ilya sighed and crossed to Hollander. He put a hand between his shoulders and for a second, it seemed like Hollander would shake him off. Instead, his head dropped lower. "Hollander, is okay, yes? Just me and Scott here. He is not so bad. Blunt like a hammer sometimes, but not bad. Safe."

It was odd and Scott almost didn't catch it, but Ilya's English had slid backwards. Losing all the finesse he'd worked so hard to gain over the past few years. It was blunt. It was young. Something for Hollander only.

"You didn't tell me," Hollander said. "About- even after Sochi."

"I did not," Ilya agreed softly. "To tell you was to give him up. I would not do this to you. I do not do it to him."

"He said you were scared," Hollander challenged.

"I am," Ilya said. It was so simple and stark that it startled Scott too.

"This is a nightmare," Hollander said. "Our nightmare, huh?"

"It is not for me," Ilya said softly, "It is like a dream I have had."

"Really?" Scott asked. "What dream?"

Ilya's mouth went tight. Maybe he hadn't meant to admit it at all. But instead he said, "I do not want to say in English."

"Okay." That was new. Scott weighed his options.

"Say it in Russian then," Hollander suggested, still bent over his soda. Ilya's hand still on him. "We won't understand, but maybe…I don't know."

"Translator app," Scott said," I've got one for one of the rookies. He can understand English pretty well, but he's catching up on speaking it. It's not perfect, but maybe that'd do it?"

Ilya's eyes darted between Hollander and Scott and then he nodded once. "I can do this. You read it. Make me sound more like me?"

"I can try," Scott said and got his phone out.

He sat the phone down between them. Ilya spoke. It was not news that Scott liked to listen to Ilya's Russian. He hadn't heard much of it. The abbreviated phone call to his brother years ago and more recently in snatches with Svetlana. This was a lot of it, thick and fast. Natural and beautiful with it's unfamiliar cadence. When Ilya paused to let the app catch up, Scott scanned the lines and did his best to polish up what the machine had managed.

"My mother died, ten years ago. I dream of her sometimes. I don't believe in ghosts, but I see her in my sleep," Scott read. Ilya nodded. Close enough. Scott paused to ask, "I wish I did. Is it comforting?"

Hollander picked his head up, his eyes were a little watery. Ilya held out a hand and wavered it back and forth. Yeah, that made sense.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Hollander said and it was the pat thing, the thing Ilya and Scott had shared years ago, in a hotel room. The uselessness of it. But maybe not when it was said so softly, despite the anger and panic still crackling around Hollander like a storm.

And Ilya stared at him and shook his head once, turning his gaze back to the phone, Russian even less careful, spilling out of him. The app struggled to keep up and a few times he frowned at it, not approving maybe, and said something again. The paragraph of text was daunting, but Scott gave it his best.

"When I came here, I stopped dreaming of her for awhile. I forgot that I had at all. Then all at once it comes back. After the Olympics, I don't know why. I talk to her, try to tell her about my life, but she can't hear me. Or maybe she can and she can't respond. I don't know. She hugs me sometimes. Other times, she walks away. Gone. And I go to look for her. I chase her. But never find her. Instead, I walk into this apartment. And you are both here on the couch. Sometimes Svetlana too."

The block ended there and Scott's chest was tight, his eyes hot. "What are we doing?"

Ilya grimaced and looked away, but he answered.

"You are just talking. Just being there. You tell me to come sit with you, sometimes Hollander says it, sometimes Scott, Svetlana once or twice. I want to keep looking for my mother, but I come and sit because I am very tired. That's it. I wake up. It's stupid. A foolish thing. But when I walked in just now, it was like that dream, even if you are both upset. And it was nice. For a second."

The wetness in Hollander's eyes didn't become tears. Didn't spill free. But they did well up pretty spectacularly. Scott was absolutely not going to start sympathy crying. Or cry for himself or Ilya or for the whole pitiful mess of them.

"I'm not upset with either of you," Scott said. "For the record. This seems inevitable."

"I'm still pissed off," Hollander said, his voice surprisingly steady in the wake of all the feeling his face was giving away.

Ilya took a breath and then leaned down. He spoke in English again. "I am sorry."

"For what?" Hollander demanded and Scott wanted to shake him and say I've never heard him say that word before. Take it and run.

"That I am like this," Ilya said.

"I like you like this," Hollander said and the words seemed to pull out of him, almost choking him with their ferocity.

"You do not," Ilya denied immediately and he was welling up too.

Jesus fucking Christ, the two of them. Scott took a step back, pressing himself to the cool metal of his fridge. They were a picture of sorrow.

"I do," Hollander said softly. "God, I really fucking do. I like you. Even though you're such an asshole."

"Because," Scott supplied, despite himself and they both whipped their regard to him so hard it felt like a slap. "For me, anyway. I like you because of who you are. I think maybe, Hollander, you do too."

"Don't put words in my mouth," Hollander said, but he nodded. "Yeah. Because."

Ilya shook his head again and he finally dropped his hand away from Hollander to stalk away. He walked out of the room entirely and Scott stopped himself from chasing after him.

"It's your turn," Scott said to Hollander.

"My turn," Hollander frowned at him.

"Give him a hug. Kiss him. Tell him again. He won't believe you the first time. I'm not sure he believes me now."

"You do that a lot?" Hollander challenged, all jealousy and rage.

"As often as he's done it for me."

Silence. Scott couldn't blame him. This night must've been like being tossed unceremoniously into the deep end of the ocean for him.

"Rozanov comforts you when you're upset," Hollander said blankly.

"My boyfriend calls him my emotional support twunk," Scott offered.

"What the fuck is a twunk?" Hollander's exhaustion made the word even funnier than usual, but Scott stayed composed.

"It's a young queer guy, who spends a lot of time at the gym."

"Queer," Hollander frowned. "That's not-"

"It's okay if we say it," Scott assured him. "Reclamation or something. My boyfriend has a lot to say about it."

"I'm not. That."

"You're not," Scott said, baffled. Even at his most closeted, Scott had been out to himself. He'd known what he was. The way Ilya had likely known it too.

"No," Hollander said with less certainty.

"Okay," Scott said. "But I'm not misinterpreting this whole night, right? You've had sex with him?"

Hollander didn't say anything. He just flushed and stared down at the counter. Right. Of course he had. Ilya had said he had and that was not the kind of thing he was going to lie about.

Scott said as softly as he could, "It's okay, you know. In here, at least. I can't speak for out there. That terrifies me. But if you don't have any place where it's okay, I don't know how you're even breathing. It's impressive."

Hollander drooped further. And then, in almost whisper, "It's okay when I'm with him."

"Then go. What the fuck are you still talking to me for?" Scott asked. "Actually wait, one second."

Scott got the envelope he'd tucked behind the toaster out and slid it to him. It said Ilya on the front. "Give that to him. It's got a key in it and the door codes. Place is yours for the night. I'm going to Brooklyn."

"Why?"

"Because I want to sleep with my boyfriend. Leave, stay, whatever. But give him the envelope. There's a note in there for him too."

Hollander took it reluctantly, holding it like it might bite. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because he's my best friend. He'd do it for me. He did, basically. I like you too. It'd be nice if you were both not miserable, like I said."

"Rozanov is your best friend," Hollander said incredulously.

"Listen, man," Scott said, heading for the door. He leaned down to pull on his sneakers. From this vantage point, he could see straight through to his bedroom where Ilya was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded in lap. He looked up, catching Scott's eye, watching him get ready to go bemused. Scott pitched his voice loud enough to carry. "I have this rule and you might want to consider taking it on for yourself."

"What's that?" Hollander asked.

"If a guy has stuck his tongue in my ass, he has to call me by my first name," Scott said and Ilya threw his hands up in the air in annoyance. Scott fought down a hysterical laugh. "I'm headed out. If you make a mess, clean it up. Ilya knows where the laundry machines are."

"I wouldn't- we're not-" The flush all over Hollander's face was pretty too. Ilya must fucking adore getting that reaction.

Getting his coat out of the closet, Scott pulled it on. "Do whatever. Please be kind to each other though, for the love of all things good in the world. Good night, Ilya! I like you!"

"Fuck off!" Ilya called back. "I hate you!"

"Brat!" Scott did grin and he tossed a wink at Hollander for good measure.

Hollander was still mouthing 'brat' to himself as Scott got on the elevator and pressed the 'G' button.

The drive was a somber one. Scott kept his attention on the drunken streets, watching for pedestrians and cars with white-knuckled vigilance. It was a reaction he'd mostly overcome these days, but it had been a long night.

He parked a few blocks from the Grady's place, but only because there was no spots open on their street. Tonight, Scott wouldn't have cared if fifty reporters were outside filming the front door. Taking the steps two at a time, he knocked quietly instead of using the doorbell.

"Thank god," Kip said as he threw it open. "I was beginning to think you died in the crossfire."

"It was so messy," Scott groaned and stepped inside, the door shutting behind him. "Is your dad asleep already?"

"Yeah, he had a long shift. C'mon, we'll go right up so we don't wake him."

Scott followed Kip up the stairs, to the little room he'd only seen once before. It was a mish mosh of Kip's entire life, toys and childhood awards still on higher shelves of his bookcase, while the lower shelves were crammed with the texts that hadn't needed to move with him. There was a teenage art projects on the walls, some better than others and a collection of pictures taped beside them. Some were newer and Scott spotted Elena and Maria and Shawn and Kyle dashed through them.

Scott wanted to be in those. He wanted the picture on Ilya's phone.

He set his overnight bag by the door and took off his clothes. Kip smiled at him and took off his own. They made love, quiet and careful in Kip's twin bed. Trips down to Princeton had taught Scott how to do that without spilling them onto the floor. At first, he'd been annoyed that Kip wouldn't let him get a hotel room for them, but now he appreciated the coordination. It was a little like something he'd missed. Something he went on missing when he left.

They had a way to sleep in these small beds too, Scott flat on his back and Kip draped over him, head tucked under Scott's chin. It wasn't amazing for Scott's back, but the stiffness was worth the intensity of the closeness.

"Tell me about it?" Kip asked.

"Jesus fucking Christ, where do I even start?" Scott grumbled.

"Are they okay?"

"No? Maybe? Shit. All right, it started before anyone even got there."

And Scott told him about the whole night. It was even more tiring to relive it and by the end, he was wiped out. He left nothing out, only warning Kip that Ilya's dream had to stay between them. Kip was excellent at keeping Ilya's secrets by now. If anything, Scott suspected he had a few that Scott himself didn't know. That was fine. Scott had told Kip things Ilya didn't know. That's just the way it was sometimes.

"Wow, so Jane is very repressed."

"He wins that round," Scott agreed. "I don't really know how you fuck a man for five years and not know, but like…I also get it, I guess."

"Do you?" Kip asked incredulously.

"Yeah. If you don't name it, then you don't have to think about it. I told myself I was gay, at least. But the first time I said it out loud it was wild. Like it hadn't fully been real until then."

"Huh."

"When did you know?" Scott realized he'd never asked him that.

"I was twelve. Lifeguard at a public pool," Kip said with a grin in his voice. "God, he was so hot. I figured out how to use my dick two hours after I saw him. What about you?"

"I was fourteen." The memory wasn't bitter anymore. Scott could almost laugh about it now. "There was a teacher at my boarding school, on the younger side. He was really smart, too smart for all us hockey idiots, maybe. But he always talked to me like I could understand him. Let me linger after class and I didn't even care about physics very much, but I pretended."

"Aw." Kissing his chest, Kip wiggled a little, getting newly comfortable. "Did he clock you?"

"No idea. He was only there for a few months, before he got another job. I thought about him for two years afterwards though. I put a word to it somewhere in there. I knew it was a problem."

"And now?" Kip asked. "Is it still a problem?"

"No," Scott said and in saying it, made it real all over again. "What other people will do with it is a problem, but I'm good."

"You're working on that part."

Scott nodded. "I am. I'm going to solve it eventually. Thanks for waiting while I do."

"The waiting is pretty easy these days. I'm too busy to worry about it. But don't make me wait forever."

"I won't," Scott said and kissed the top of his head. "Promise."

They fell asleep not long after. They woke up early, but George was up even before them. Scott self-consciously pulled on pajama pants and a t-shirt when Kip rolled his eyes at him reaching for his jeans.

"It's 7am, love. He's not expecting you to stand on ceremony."

"Good morning, boys!" George greeted from the couch as they came down. "I got the good bagels, Kipper. Scott, he told me you can't do that much carbs, so I got you one of those healthy egg bowl things. Next time, come over before I fall asleep so I know what you want in the morning."

"Yes. Okay. Thank you," Scott said, words falling over themselves in bewilderment.

They ate at the kitchen table and after a few minutes, George came in to get another cup of coffee and sat down with them.

"Turkey bacon," George said skeptically.

"You should be eating it instead of the regular stuff," Kip scolded.

"My doctor says my cholesterol is fine," George reminded him. "And I eat bacon once a month. Let me enjoy myself."

"I would if you ate fewer cheeseburgers."

"Those are medicinal."

They bickered with smiles on their face and the conversation quickly switched to if Kip should go back to Princeton tonight (too early, deemed George) or Sunday (too much traffic, Kip's argument) or Monday (no, Dad, I have a paper due). Scott listened and then all of a sudden, George said,

"Scott, tell your boyfriend that he can start his paper here."

"I think he could also start it in my apartment," Scott said earnestly.

"You're both as bad as each other," Kip said with disgust.

George winked at Scott and Scott grinned at him.

"Sorry that we want more of your time and love you," Scott said.

"Oh, he's good," George said with a nod. "I like the hangdog eyes, really sells the guilt."

It was nice. It was more than nice, but Scott couldn't take it all in at 7am on Saturday morning when he hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep and abandoned his best friend to his potentially feral angry semi-permanent hookup/lover/friend/rival…thing.

"I should probably go see if everyone's still alive," he said an hour later, cuddled up with Kip on the couch. George was in his armchair. They were watching the news apparently though Scott was mostly dozing off, only kept awake by Kip's thumb tracing circles over his knee.

"I'll come with you," Kip decided. "Unless I shouldn't."

"Might as well," Scott said. Ilya hadn't answered his are you alive? text so it was really on him.

"God speed," George said. "Sounds complicated over there."

"You told your father?" Scott asked, suddenly very awake.

"Not the gory details," Kip assured him. "Not like I have names."

Oh. Right. Technically Kip didn't know it was Hollander yet.

NYTY: Kip wants to come over. Is your friend still there?

Silence. Okay then. Kip could stay back in the car if Scott hadn't gotten a response by the time they got there. That'd be fine.

They took it slow anyway. Kip showered and changed and Scott stayed downstairs. He and George complained about traffic and the mayor and the weather. It was nice. And Scott was not thinking about it. He got up to get dressed when Kip came down and then they were saying goodbye and gone.

They reached Scott's place at nine with no word from Ilya. Scott had told him when he'd be back, so Scott just sent a prayer to his obstinate brat that he'd actually read the note and remembered it.

"Can I come up and keep my eyes closed?" Kip asked. "If the coast isn't clear, I'll come back down, but I don't want to sit in the car. It's too cold for that."

"Yes, of course," Scott said immediately.

They didn't need to worry. When they arrived, the apartment was empty. Ilya's overnight bag was still in the bedroom. The bed had been remade with fresh sheets and the dryer was going, hopefully a good sign and not evidence of a crime cover up. His wallet was still on the dresser too, along with his phone which was…less good.

"Why would he leave his phone?"

"Maybe he just forgot it?" Kip suggested, but he didn't look calm about it.

Before they could panic, the elevator opened again and with it Ilya. He looked rumpled, last night's pants and an undershirt on with his coat hanging open over it.

"Hello, Kip," he said with a slight frown. His curls were a mess. "I did not know you were coming over."

"Yeah, well you would've if you took your phone with you," Scott said. "What the fuck?"

"Dead," Ilya said. "I did not plug it in last night."

"I guess you had other things on your mind," Scott allowed.

"I went to smoke before you came. You're early."

"We're always early," Kip reminded him. "Why do you look like shit? Was the sex bad?"

"It was good. It's always good. We talked."

"How much?"

Ilya made a face. "It's private."

"Until you make it all our problem," Kip pointed out. "Come on. What's the deal? Where did you leave things?"

"He needs to think, he says. I don't know. He left quickly," Ilya muttered to the floor.

"Think about what?" Scott stepped in behind Kip.

"I say that maybe…maybe things are not simple. Me and him. That maybe that is okay? We can be complicated. No words yet if he doesn't want. I don't even know what words I want," Ilya bit his lip. "Then we fuck. Sleep. Fuck again. I made him coffee, but he does not finish it. Just leaves and says he is thinking."

"That sucks," Kip declared. "I mean good that he's taking his time, I guess, but I wish he could've stayed."

For a second, Scott was sure that Ilya was going to recover from that. The smartass remark was forming on his lips. But then he met Scott's eyes and there was that terrible emptiness from after Vegas.

"Oh, sweetheart. C'mere."

And Ilya went, burrowing onto Scott's arms without even hugging back, only pressing all his weight to him.

"Was it all too gay for him?" Kip asked wryly, even as he stepped in closer to rub Ilya's back.

"I don't know," Ilya said into Scott's shoulder.

"Was it my fault?" Scott asked and Kip shot him an exasperated look.

"Not everything is about you," Ilya sniped. "And maybe anyway it was. A little. I think the women were one thing in his head and you are something else."

"I mean, I am. Like Svetlana is something else."

"I did not tell him about her. That seemed like too much."

"You know, normally I'd disagree, but yeah, probably enough communicating for one go," Kip said. "Did you eat?"

"I'm tired," Ilya said.

Shit.

"How about we lay down for a bit?"

"Kip just gets here and you want to go to sleep on him."

"Kip didn't sleep well either," said Kip. "Someone had a blocked nose and wheezed in my ear all night."

"Oh, shit," Scott winced. "You could've woken me up."

"It was kind of cute."

"It is not cute. He sounds like like dying dog," Ilya countered. He had still not lifted his head up. "You two sleep, I will lay on couch and watch the fire."

That seemed not good. Staring into the flames was nice for a bit, but Scott could only remember the blank version of Ilya that watched them for a hair too long. With a frown, he looked to Kip, who shrugged.

"Bed fits three," Kip said. "And it conveniently has nice fresh sheets. Thanks for that."

"He does this, not me."

"Someone told him where I keep the clean sheets then," observed Scott. "And the trick with the washer door."

"He is very smart," Ilya whined. "Leave me alone."

They did not leave him alone. Everyone got into various stages of undress and got under the comforter. It occurred to Scott that this should be terribly awkward, but he was exhausted. Kip tucked himself up under Scott's left arm and passed out immediately. Ilya's breathing leveled out quickly.

It wasn't awkward at all. It was so fucking nice that Scott maybe, finally unobserved, cried all those tears that had been building through last night and this morning. He cried them quietly so he didn't disturb his bedmates and he dried them on the pillowcase he was sharing with Kip, then fell into a deep tunnel of sleep.

Some unknowable time later, he resurfaced. For a frantic second, he wondered if he was late for practice, but today was an off day, the knowledge returning his breath to him.

"I hate when you wake up already worked up."

Kip's voice filtered into him. Scott pried his eyes open and found his boyfriend sitting up in bed with a crossword just visible on his phone.

"Sorry."

"I hate it for you, love, not for me." A hand went into his hair, rubbing at his scalp. Scott pressed his face into Kip's side happily. "Ilya is still sleeping. Well, he woke up for a minute, looked at me like I was a ghost, put his arm around your waist, then passed back out."

"I think he might be…upset. Again. Like Vegas," Scott floated.

"I think he needs therapy," Kip decreed. "Not because of the other guy. Just in general."

"Probably," Scott said with a sigh. "He won't go."

"He will if you go first."

The sentence fell heavy onto the bed, and rolled a little.

"Are you…are you trying to get me to go to therapy by telling me to be a good role model?"

"You won't go for you." The hand in his hair went on being tender and thorough. "So yeah. Little bit."

"I'm the happiest I've ever been," Scott said.

"Yeah? I'm glad, love. You're also anxious a lot. And you're only taking on more responsibility with this whole project of yours. Please. For him. For me too. For the other guy, even."

"This is low," Scott muttered. "Really low."

"Is it working?" Kip asked.

"Yes," he admitted. "But I don't want to talk to the team doctor. Or go through the team at all."

"Oh yeah, no, I don't think you should either. I think you need someone who specializes in LGBTQ stuff, honestly. And someone who practices online so you don't have to wait until you're home for sessions ."

"You've thought about this."

"A bit."

Was that a bad thing? No. Kip loved him. Kip wanted him to be okay. It was scary and maybe a little annoying, but probably okay.

"I'll look into it. Someone discreet."

"Therapists are supposed to be discreet. That's their whole thing."

"Smartass."

"Spank me about it."

"Don't tempt me."

"Shut up," Ilya grumbled. "You two flirt so loud. I am napping."

"What time is it?" Scott asked.

"Eleven-ish."

"Ilya, if you sleep more, you'll screw your schedule. You have to leave soon, don't you?"

"No." Ilya smashed his forehead against Scott's shoulders. "I have tonight too. Practice was optional. I am optioning 'no'."

"The bracelet looks good," Kip said, reaching out for Ilya's wrist and studying it. "Nice pick, love."

"Thank you," Scott said smugly.

Without protest, Ilya let Kip manhandle his arm. "I can stay tonight? Or are you here, Kip?"

"I should go be with my dad for a few hours. He's been complaining I'm not home enough. But I miss both of you. We should hang out this afternoon if you both have the time."

A few hours would be good, but Scott was feeling greedy.

"How about we make your dad dinner here? Would he put up with the Upper West Side for a few hours?"

"Really?" Kip's excitement was palpable. "He can come over?"

"Yes," Ilya said. "I want to see him. Nice man."

"You don't live here," Scott reminded him. "Stop inviting people over."

"You invited people over. You told Hol-him about you and me. I can do things," Ilya said tartly. "And you give me a key!"

"You didn't have one before?" Kip asked bemused. "Scott."

"What?"

"You gave me a key after like a week."

"He does not trust me," Ilya sighed gustily against Scott's shoulder. "I am nothing to him."

"Yeah, that's definitely it," Scott said with an eye roll. "You live four hours away. When would you need to let yourself in before now? But it's yours. You've got the key and the codes, so fuck my life, come over whenever."

"I will," Ilya said with some satisfaction.

"Great. I have regrets."

"Not as many as you would have if you made different, worse choices." Kip started rubbing his scalp again. "Will you make us that salmon thing? I can do the side dishes."

Scott made the salmon thing. Ilya was definitely not right, but it wasn't quite as bad as Vegas at least. He stuck to Scott like glue, but he also draped himself over Kip at one point, in the guise of reading something off Kip's phone.

"Okay," Kip said in the middle of that. "Babe, I gotta ask, do you two talk at all after sex?"

"Scott does not shut up after sex, you know this. It is awful."

"Fuck you," Scott said around a mouthful of yogurt.

"Not right now. Kip is here," Ilya said to him. "Rude."

"Okay, focus," Kip snapped his fingers in front of Ilya's face. "You and Jane. Or whatever the hell we're calling him today."

"Jane is fine," Ilya groused. "We do a little. A few things. Then we usually have to go. Or one of us gets all…bad in the head, maybe. And we go."

"The bad in the head part," Kip said. "You know how we talked about orders and stuff?"

"Yes. Do not say in front of Scott. His brain will melt."

"Should I leave?" Scott asked the open air.

"Only if you're afraid of mild kink," Kip snorted. "It's nothing that exciting. Ilya is a little bit of a dom with Jane. I think he's having top drop. Only occurred to me because Elena was talking to me about it a few weeks ago. She's in this new relationship- doesn't matter. She won't care if you know, but talking about it gives me brain worms. Anyway, subs sometimes feel crappy after scenes, but tops do too, apparently. You need to tell Jane to hug you before he runs away."

"No," Ilya said. "And I am not mild."

"Sure extra spicy borsht, if you say so. My point is you need aftercare. I'm sending you some articles and you're going to read them. We can't be there every time you crash as much as Scott would probably like to be."

"Hey! Why is this my problem?"

"Because you took him in from the cold and gave him a collar and a dog tag, love," Kip said.

"That is very kinky. Very spicy salsa," Ilya said, eyebrows in his hairline now. He was still sitting practically on top of Kip, apparently not offput by that description. "It was both of us. He is also stray dog."

"No argument here."

"I really hate this conversation, for the record. If anyone's interesting my opinion," Scott said, scraping the bottom of the yogurt container with extreme prejudice.

"We're not," Kip said. "Articles. You will read them."

"Yes, yes, fine," Ilya grumbled. "Top drop. English is worse when it rhymes."

"It's useful. You want to play with fire, fine. It's fun and exciting, but you better learn how not to get burned. And take better care of him too. I bet he's having a pretty shit time right now, wherever he is."

That got to Ilya and he went stiff. "My fault?"

"No, babe, no," Kip went soft again, reached up to rest a hand on Ilya's neck. "The two of you need to educate yourselves, so you can take better care of each other. Okay?"

"Okay. I can't make him read things, but I can do this," Ilya determined.

Fuck, Kip could play them both like violins.

The afternoon went on less eventfully. Scott made the salmon thing and George arrived early. Because that's that they did. He liked the apartment. He made a fuss over Ilya being ahead in the points race and praised Scott's cooking. He and Kip recounted an ill-fated trip to Maine from years ago.

It was comfortable. It was nice.

No. Not just nice.

Something like family.

That Afternoon

Scarlett: I know I'm the last person you probably want to hear from today, but all things considered, not sure who else you've got to talk to about things. Message, call. Whatever, whenever. You know I'm good for keeping things to myself now.

Three Days Later

NAD: I don't know how to talk about it.

Scarlett: I get that. Best way seems to just start and see where it goes.

NAD: If I told our friend to stop with you, would she?

Scarlett: Going for the jugular. I don't know. Probably. Please don't.

NAD: I don't understand why. You've got someone already.

Scarlett: You can have more than one person in your life. Sex is more than a thing that happens between two committed people. It can just be fun or comforting or a way to say you care about someone. My person is someone I'm in love with, but they're not my entire life. Our friend is someone I deeply care for. They made my life better when I felt alone.

NAD: How can you be lonely when you've got so many people?

Scarlett: How can you?

NAD: I'm not lonely.

Scarlett: Okay.

NAD: I think we're very different.

Scarlett: Funny. I was jsut thinking that we're a lot alike.

A Week Later

Pike: Hi. This is probably weird. To just text. But I don't want to use the group chat.

Scott: Its fine. What can I do for you?

Pike: J.J. and me talked it over and we want to help. With the rivalry thing. Rozanov is an asshole, but you're right, he's just a normal asshole. Bigger fish to fry out there.

Scott: Happy to have you on board. Going to be tough to get anything done until after the season ends. Maybe another public meal somewhere. Hollander doesn't need to show if he's not up for it.

Pike: He disappears to his cottage for a few weeks in post-season, but he'll come back for marketing stuff.

Scott: How is he?

Pike: Fine. Hat trick in Pittsburgh didn't you see?

Scott: Not really what I'm asking.

Pike: I don't know you well enough for the rest of it.

Scott: Fair enough.

A Week Later

Scott: I have an idea for Underarmor.

Todd: I have an idea for life on Mars. Not doing me a fuck load of good and no one is listening.

Scott: You said they were interested in my contributions.

Todd: Lots of people are interested. Score a few more goals and maybe interested becomes contracts.

Scott: What if it was more than just me?

Todd: If you think I don't offer you and Rozanov up like Bennifer every time I get the chance, you're not as smart as I think you are.

Scott: You don't think I'm smart.

Todd: Of course I do. All my best earners are brilliant. They're half-hearted on Rozanov. He wears a lot of Adidas for their taste.

Scott: Think that's cultural. Tell them it's discrimination.

Todd: Maybe I'll give it a shot. What's your idea?

Scott: What do you think about framing it as playing a good game overcoming intense rivalry if I bring in a third guy?

Todd: Fuck me. Do you have Hollander? You have to disclose if you have Hollander.

Scott: I don't have him yet, but I think maybe I can get him.

Todd: Fuck Underarmor, I'm going to fucking Nike.

Scott: I don't think they like Adidas either. And Hollander has a Reebok thing.

Todd: Do you have Yuna Hollander's number? I've been trying to get it for years. That woman is a goddess. I want to have her babies. I can seduce her away from Reebok.

Scott: I'll see what I can do. But if you break up his parents' marriage, I don't think Hollander will work with you.

Todd: Good point. Scott. I love you. You're my favorite.

Scott: I haven't done anything yet.

Todd: Which is why I'm also reminding you that my love is fickle.

Two Weeks Later

BH: Nike.

NYTY: Nike.

BH: You make tiny plan in your stupid head and now Nike. Why are you so lucky?

NYTY: I just lost my playoff chances, don't talk to me about luck.

BH: NIKE

NYTY: Only if we can get your friend on board.

BH: Buy me plane tickets right now and I will get this done.

NYTY: You two are talking again?

BH: Who cares?

NYTY: Me.

BH: He says he is still thinking.

NYTY: Gotta go through his manager first anyway.

BH: Okay, plane ticket to Ottawa instead. I will meet her and talk to her.

NYTY: No, you won't.

BH: I won't. One day. Maybe. For now, other plane tickets.

NYTY: You have a game tonight. Flight out to L.A. day after. Just call him.

BH: No. I am kidding about tickets. He wants to wait, I will wait. I will die, but I will wait.

NYTY: That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard you say.

BH: I hope you get hit by the Zamboni tonight.

NYTY: That's what starting therapy feels like, actually.

Boston Hottie Calling. Call lasted 54 minutes.

Chapter 9: Keys, Fireworks, and Tipping Points

Chapter Notes

Many thanks once more to the irreplaceable Internerdionality, keeper of hockey knowledge and all around fantastic beta. You're the best! All remaining errors are my fault entirely.

BH: That was very sad.

NYTY: Fuck all the way off

BH: I am so upset. Our beautiful game and this is what you do with it?

NYTY: Kick me while I'm down, why don't you?

BH: I will win the next round of playoffs for you. All my goals will be for you. No. I'm lying. Some of them for you. Most of them for me. But at least one or two for you.

NYTY: Thanks so much. That's so meaningful. I hope you trip and break your nose. Worst of luck.

BH: Will you come watch me win?

NYTY: I'm going to take my friend and go somewhere that doesn't know shit about hockey.

BH: During finals weeks? You will have to find him under all the papers he is grading.

NYTY: Fucking fine. I'll come.

A Week Later

NYTY: That was rough, but you did the best you could.

BH: Do not pity me. Come out with us to mourn.

NYTY: Your team does not want to see me.

BH: We are all losers together, they will not care.

NYTY: Fine. I'll buy everyone a round so I don't get shot on sight.

Two Weeks Later

Scarlett: Best of luck tonight! Seems ripe for a game five win.

NAD: Thank you.

Scarlett: I know these games come with a lot of pressure. So, I thought this might be helpful. It's from your last game. Please never tell him I sent it to you, I'd like to keep all my fingers.

[Video: Ilya is sitting on his couch at home, elbows planted on his knees and eyes trained forward. A woman off camera asks, "Do you want another drink?" and Ilya doesn't seem to hear her. An announcer says, "Hollander has the puck, he's unstoppable tonight, folks! He's making the pass- no! He took the shot! It's another goal! SCOOOOOOOOOOORE!"

Ilya explodes onto his feet, punching the air like he sunk it himself. The woman and Scott, unseen, also cheer.]

NAD: I didn't know he was watching.

Scarlett: Bad or good?

NAD: Good.

Scarlett: Okay. Then know we're watching tonight. You don't need more fans, but you have a few in Boston tonight, against all odds.

Three Hours Later

Scarlett: Congratulations! That was a hell of a win, well-deserved. Can't wait to meet that energy on the ice next season.

NAD: Thank you.

Two Weeks Later

LOML: Babe.

LOML: I know you're in the gym right now being very hot and intense, but I need you to look at your phone.

LOML: I'm going to keep texting and buzzing in your pocket because I can't call you right now, I'm supposed to be paying attention to this seminar.

LOML: Two more minutes and I'm walking out and calling you.

Scott: Everything okay? Sorry.

LOML: Did you check your alerts or anything yet today?

Scott: No, why?

LOML: Shared a Link- STAR OF THE STARVATION PARADOX TRILOGY ROSE LANDRY CAUGHT CANOODLING WITH CUP WINNER SHANE HOLLANDER

[Photo: Quality is poor, very blurry. A redheaded woman, presumably Rose stands very close to Shane, one hand on his arm and her lips next to his ear. He's smiling, maybe even laughing. The setting is nebulous, a bar or club. Both are holding drinks.]

Scott: Fuck my entire life.

LOML: At least it's postseason? Our friend isn't gone already, right? I don't have the dates wrong?

Scott: I don't think he is. He's changed his flights before.

NAD: Hey. Do you have a second?

Scarlett: Yes. What's up?

Scott: Holy shit, Jane just texted me.

LOML: What? Why?

Scott: I'm finding out!

LOML: How am I supposed to focus on the underlying sexism in research trends now?!

NAD: Do you know how you said I could talk to you about this stuff? Is that a real offer or just being nice?

Scarlett: It's real. If you need an ear, I'm here.

NAD: Okay.

Scarlett: Do you want me to call you?

NAD: Not right now. I'm surrounded by paps. They're camped out outside my apartment building. I know they can't hear me, but I feel like they can. Does that make sense?

Scarlett: Sadly, yes. What would make you feel comfortable? Do you have somewhere else you could go?

NAD: Are you going to the awards? I'm headed out to Vegas in the morning.

Scarlett: I was invited. I might've said no, but if I reach out they'll probably flip it to a yes. They always need butts in seats.

NAD: You don't have to rearrange anything. I figured it'd be convenient if you were already going, that's all.

Scarlett: Don't worry about it. I should probably go anyway.

NAD: It's too much. It's fine. I don't really need to talk that bad.

Scarlett: My choice. If we both show and you change your mind, what's the worst thing? It looks good if I'm there, we can have a drink together. Works for the plan anyway, right?

NAD: I guess so.

Scarlett: You let me know when and where you want to talk. I usually get a room at another hotel if that helps.

NAD: It might. I might change my mind. You'll come out here for nothing.

Scarlett: Okay. I'm coming anyway.

NAD: Why? For him?

Scarlett: A little. For you too. For me. You asked. I'll be there.

NYTY: Hey, sweetheart. You good?

BH: I'm packing. I'm fine.

NYTY: You want to talk?

BH: About what? Nothing to say.

NYTY: Is your girl with you?

BH: No. She is not going back home until the end of July.

NYTY: Okay.

Scott: Any chance you could check in on our friend?

Svetlana: Already tried. He's very busy apparently.

Scott: I'm surprised you took that for an answer.

Svetlana: I have a job. I cannot go running out at 10 am to deal with drama. Also, it is also not my job to dry all men's tears, even his.

Scott: Right. Sorry. Just not sure I can do much, I have a flight out tomorrow.

Sveltana: I can go to him tomorrow night, maybe.

Scott: It's okay, you do what you need to do. I have another idea.

Scott: Here's the deal. Jane reached out to me and wants to talk. But Jane is being shadowed by paps right now, so we'll try to shake them off in Vegas. Our mutual friend's girl has an actual person job. He's giving me the short sentences, no feelings treatment. Little worried. How's your week looking?

LOML: Put me in coach! I'm ready to play.

Scott: I love you so much.

LOML: Love you too! I need to be back by Wednesday, but otherwise I'm open.

Scott: Your Flight Information from Newark International Airport to Boston Logan International Airport

Scott: You leave pretty early tomorrow. Do you want to take the train to Newark?

LOML: Yep! I'll take an overnight bag, no need to check anything.

Scott: I'll have a car service get you on the other end. He's out in the suburbs.

LOML: I'm going to tell him I'm coming once I'm in the car. That seems like a fair amount of warning.

Scott: If he's a dick about it, just let me know, I'll get you a hotel room.

LOML: This is a first class ticket. The flight is forty minutes long! I don't need first class.

Scott: Finger slipped. Use the lounge. It's got free food.

LOML: My one weakness. You monster.

Scott: Travel safe.

LOML: You too! Text each other when we land?

Scott: Absolutely.

"This is Scott Hunter, I know Miranda is probably really busy today," Scott said. "But if I could just-"

"Oh! Mr. Hunter! You were on my list of calls, hold on, I'm sending you through right now."

"Scott!" Miranda answered the phone. "I'm so happy you called."

"You are?" Scott said. This was already going better than he could've hoped.

"The guy we had lined up to present Rookie of the Year got hospitalized with appendicitis or something. I know you declined coming this year, but we were hoping to change your mind. You're so dependable on stage."

"Thank you," Scott said automatically. Was the universe trying to tell him something? He tried to stop being superstitious after playoffs. The off-season was meant to be a vacation from that stuff. That didn't mean it was taking time off from him apparently. "That works out because I was going to ask if anyone cancelled on you, so I could grab a seat. Things got moved around."

"Wonderful! I'm going to email you your lines. Nothing complicated. I was hoping to save you for next year so it'd be the whole 'a decade ago it was my turn' schtick, but I think we can make it work as is."

"Yeah, sure," Scott said. Nine years? Was that right? The thought was unsettling. "Send them my way."

"Do you need us to handle your travel?"

"I've got it. When do you need me for rehearsal?"

"You don't really need it," she declared. "We'll have the prompter. Read your lines, get familiar. It's the same old stage and you're doing me a favor as long as you turn up."

"Of course, I will."

"Great!"

That first hurdle so neatly cleared, Scott set about finding a flight and getting a room. Twelve hours later, he was in the air and wondering what Kip made of how little first class got you on a puddle jumper. He'd probably write Scott an essay about it. Scott couldn't wait to read it.

Vegas was scorching in June, but it was easy to hide from the blaze. The Bellagio let him check in early which gave Scott a little time to fuss over things. He'd gotten a suite so there was a place to sit that wasn't in full view of a bed. He checked the minifridge, made a phone call, then went for a walk through the hotel mall. There were dozens of luxury stores selling their wares to flush tourists, the implication of easy come, easy go wealth dripping from the faux marble columns.

LOML: Landed, in the car now. Texted him. He seems neutral to good on me coming over.

Scott: If he's even a hair too dickish, say the word and I'll get you out of there.

LOML: He's my friend too. I can put up with a little bit of bad behavior.

On impulse, Scott ducked into one of shops and did a quick turn around the place. He picked a few things in rapid succession, the saleswoman in his shadow radiating pleasure at her commission ticking up without doing much work.

"Can you overnight these for me?" He asked.

"Of course, sir," she said with a smile. "Just fill this out for me."

The money was substantial, but Scott had it and it felt good to use it. He'd get yelled at, probably. Oh well.

Scarlett: I'm here. Not going to rehearsal. Free after the event too and tomorrow. Your choice.

NAD: Maybe today would be better. They haven't figured out where I am yet, I think.

Scarlett: Call down and ask about back exits if you're worried. Get a car service to meet you there. They do it all the time. Practically what Vegas is for. Bring your tux, we can go straight from here.

NAD: Together?

Scarlett: What are we doing this all for? No one will think anything of it.

NAD: You think so?

Scarlett: If two captains from the Western Conference rolled into tonight together would you assume they were up to something or they just met up and sometimes hang out? What do you want for lunch?

NAD: I don't need you to get me lunch.

Scarlett: I'm ordering food for me. Do you also want food or do you want to just watch me eat?

NAD: Grilled chicken salad. Dressing on the side. Thank you.

Scarlett: You're welcome.

The food got there only a little before Hollander did. Scott had only settled the tray on the coffee table when there was another knock. He went to answer and Hollander slipped inside like he was being chased by the devil. To Scott's surprise, he really had brought his garment bag with him. He'd been positive that he'd pushed too hard.

Hollander looked like shit. His hair was uncharacteristically mussed, his color was bad and his eyes were a little red like he'd been crying or he'd missed out on a lot of sleep.

"Damn," Scott said. "Post-cup celebrations take you through the wringer?"

"It's been a long two weeks," Hollander said stiffly.

"You can hang that up in the coat closet if you want," Scott said, gesturing to it. "Lunch is here already if you're hungry."

"I could eat," Shane said.

They both sat on stiff armchairs designed to look good instead of cradle bodies and ate decent salads in silence. Scott wasn't even that hungry, but he ate to do something with his hands and because if he didn't, he'd be starving later. Across from him, Hollander ate with mechanical efficiency, not even looking at the container of dressing. When he'd polished off most of the salad, the bowl went back down on the table. He picked up the ginger ale that Scott had gotten him with a sigh, opened it and took two small sips before putting that back down too.

That seemed like a signal that Scott was willing to follow. He put down his own, far less completed meal.

"Okay," Hollander said, then stopped.

Scott waited and nothing was forthcoming. "Do you…can I ask you some questions? Would that help?"

"I- yeah. Maybe."

"Okay," Scott considered that. "When did you meet her?"

"At the after party when we won. She likes hockey, she was in L.A., so she tracked us down. Just to make her brothers jealous, she said. We talked. I don't like clubs much and she found us a quieter table. It was nice."

A starlet who liked hockey would certainly zero in on Hollander and then finding him reserved, but pleasant, would try to draw him out. That all tracked.

"So two weeks ago."

"Yeah," Hollander said, knotting his hands together. "She took me back to her place after."

"Okay," Scott said gently. "Did you have a good time?"

The look Hollander gave him lived in the extra vowel between hunted and haunted.

"Sure."

"Sure," Scott repeated.

"Yeah. She's fun. Nice. And when I got home, she asked if she could come out and see me. She had a gap between filming and I liked her. So. She came to Montreal for a few days. Stayed at my place."

"Sounds fun," Scott said, trying not to make it a question.

"Yes," Hollander said a little more defiantly.

"Am I barking up the wrong tree?" Scott asked, bemused. "Is this not what you wanted to talk about?"

"No. Sorry. It's just- I wanted to try something and I hate that I can't even do that," Hollander said, despair sweeping in. "Rose is really sweet and funny and it would be so much easier if that could be it for me. Why can't it be?"

Scott sucked in a breath. "Yeah, that's one of the big questions. Why do they get to have it so easy?"

"Who's they?" Hollander asked.

"Straight people, in this case. I'm not saying you're not straight," Scott added in quickly. "Just. Yeah. If you're a guy who sometimes fuck guys, life gets more complicated and it doesn't feel fair."

"I'm trying so hard all the time. With everything." Hollander's expression was closed down, but his voice was tight with feeling. "I won. I fucking won and I met a beautiful actress who wanted me to be her boyfriend. It's supposed to all feel perfect right now."

Scott was too far away. He got up and he sat on the edge of the coffee table. He could lower his voice now and still be heard. It also set Scott a little lower too. Gave Hollander the high ground.

"There's no win I've ever had that made me feel good for longer than a day or two," Scott admitted to him. "I love winning. It's a huge high. But it doesn't really sustain, you know? Always chasing the next hit of it."

"Yeah," Hollander mumbled.

"Then I met Kip," Scott said. "That's my boyfriend, by the way."

"His name is Kip?" Hollander's head came up a little to regard Scott like he might be fucking with him.

"It's a nickname," Scott said a little defensively. "And it's perfect for him. Anyway, I met Kip and I was happy for like…days at a time? Instead of hours."

"Sounds nice," Hollander said flatly.

"It was wild. At the time, I thought it came from falling in love. Some of it was, that does feel really great. But a lot of it was being honest with someone else. Seen." Hollander gave him nothing, an echoing silence, which made Scott nervy. "Sorry, what do you-"

"I think I'm gay," Hollander said, gaze snapping back to the floor.

Scott sat with that for a second, then nodded a little. "Thanks for telling me. Was it spending time with Rose?"

"She told me, pretty much," Hollander cut him off, with a humorless laugh. "She was nice about it. We were fooling around. Trying to anyway and she stopped dead in the middle. Held my hand. Asked me some things until it came out. She stayed over too, kept me company while I freaked out. Then the next morning, our faces are all over the world and we had to stay together the whole next day talking publicity. I didn't get to even think about it for more than a few hours."

"Shit," Scott said. "That fucking sucks."

"It really does. Or I don't know. Maybe it's good. Distracting. Rose said she didn't mind pretending for a bit longer. Make it a summer long thing. She said she had fun hanging out as friends, so we could let the paps take a few pictures and enjoy ourselves."

"Oh, wow. She really is nice," Scott said, a little stunned by that.

"I don't think she has a lot of people to talk to either," Hollander said and he finally actually looked at Scott. "You said having someone who wasn't a hockey player helped."

"It did," Scott confirmed.

"I like her. I want to be her friend. I don't want to have sex with her again," Hollander said as if those clear neat sentences were a horrifying revelation.

"I get that. Did you want to tell someone else? Is that why you wanted to talk to me?" Scott checked.

"That, a little. I don't know. I have questions and I don't know where to start." Hollander reached for his ginger ale and took another sip, then set it resolutely back down.

"Okay." Scott planted his elbows on his knees. "Then start with the first one that comes to mind."

"Are you in love with him?"

"Ilya or Kip?"

"Both, I guess," Hollander hedged.

"I'm in love with Kip," Scott said and it had the tinge of warmth and reverence he simply couldn't keep out of it. "With Ilya, I don't know how to explain it exactly, but we're friends. We have sex. I…hm."

"What?" Hollander asked, a little strangled.

"Cherish," Scott settled on. "I cherish him."

"That sounds like love."

"Maybe it is," Scott said. "But I haven't used that word with him, so I'm not going to start here where he can't even hear it."

"And your boyfriend doesn't care?" Hollander asked. "How?"

"He cares a lot," Scott corrected softly. "Just not the way you mean, I think. It helps that he has his own friendship with Ilya."

"Have they…"

"No," Scott said. "They're comfortable with each other though. If you hang out with us, you'll see Ilya throw himself all over Kip and pretend it's not cuddling."

"Cuddling," Hollander repeated dully. "He likes that?"

What the fuck had they been doing for years? Scott truly couldn't wrap his head around how two people who were clearly insane for each other seemed to have barely scratched the surface of their real desires.

"He does," Scott said, then went quiet for a second. Was it betrayal to say it or helping? He sat with it and then decided that if it was betrayal then it was likely worth it. "He thinks people only like him for his body. It's what he's decided is the easiest thing to give away, I think."

The sound Hollander made was pained and he sat back in his chair, unglued at last from his slouch.

"I can't get him to talk to me."

"Yeah, me either," Scott admitted. "Kip is better at it. I think it's because he's not a part of all of our shit and he's really direct."

"He'd fucking kill us if he knew we were talking about him like this." It wasn't a question.

"Maybe," Scott said with a shrug. "He's welcome to be mad at me. You didn't do anything. Just asked questions."

"You're trying to make things easier for me and him. Make it simpler," Hollander glanced at him then away like it was dangerous. "Why?"

"Why do you two need to suffer to give the world another shitty storyline to follow?" Scott asked. "Ilya's my friend. I think you could be too. I like when my friends are happy."

It was excruciatingly hard to read Hollander's face. Could Ilya do it? He was good at reading people when he focused on it.

"You asked me not to shut you guys down."

"I did," Scott said. "I'm selfish."

"But you know I might anyway and you're still helping. You came to Vegas to help. Knowing that I might ask him to stop and you think he would listen."

"Yep."

Hollander studied him. "You're a weird guy, huh?"

Scott was startled into a laugh. "Yeah, I think so. And I haven't gotten you with the murder stuff yet."

"Excuse me?"

"I haven't actually killed anyone! Or thought about seriously. I just have intrusive thoughts, apparently, which I'm working on and it made me think I might be a potential serial killer. I'm not, but - you know what, not the time," Scott said, wincing.

"No, this is good," Hollander said, actually relaxing a notch. "You know, I used to really think you were untouchable. This guy that I could try to be like, but couldn't ever be."

"Me?" Scott blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah, I mean you were rookie of the year when I was starting to get noticed. People compared me to you all the time. All that buzz around you like you were America's Golden Boy. It was everything I was working towards and you were so good with the press. I don't know. You made it look easy."

"Jesus," Scott tried to picture that. He knew kids looked up to him, he wasn't dense about it. But it was one thing for it to be kids that he squatted down to meet in the eye for a second, scrawling his signature over something and asking if they played hockey. It was another for Shane fucking Hollander to say it him. "I'm sorry? Must be a let down. I'm just a guy."

"A weird guy," Hollander said with a faint smile. "A weird gay guy."

Scott smiled back at him. "Yep. It's not the worst thing to be."

"Huh," Hollander said then nodded. "Yeah. I guess I am like you after all."

"Told you," Scott said with only a little gloating.

"I don't think I get to say what he does and doesn't do," Hollander announced as if this decision had freshly clicked into his brain. Maybe it had. "Especially when we haven't agreed to anything yet. But I think I want to do some shit too."

"Why not?" Scott agreed. "Go for it."

"Yeah, how the fuck do I do that though? People know my face. I can't- I'm not ready for anyone else to know."

"I hear that. I can give you a list of places I used to travel to. Safe spots where no one watches hockey," Scott offered.

"Seems like a risk."

"It's all a risk," Scott agreed.

It took him a second to realized Hollander was giving him a look over. An evaluation. Scott met it with an amused grin. Hollander found him staring back and challenged: "What?"

"You're incredibly hot," Scott said with some feeling, "and I think it'd be interesting, but I also think it's the worst choice we could both make right now."

"I didn't say anything!" Hollander flushed beet red. "You're not even- oh my god."

Scott laughed, "It's fine. It's a natural leap. We're both here, we both know. It'd be easy, but also like…the worst."

"Yeah! Holy shit. I wouldn't have to worry about whatever else we talked about. He'd just- I don't even know."

"Let's not think about it," Scott decided.

"Fuck, yes, okay," Hollander groaned. "But I don't know. Sex tourism doesn't sound…I don't think I can do that. Strangers in general seem hard."

"You want someone a little vetted first?" Scott hazarded a guess.

"Yeah, I think so," Hollander said.

"Okay," Scott said, leaning back on his hands. "What if we can find someone safe then? If you want to meet someone, see how it goes?"

"How would you know they were safe?"

"Kip's friends know about me for months. Sort of. I mean, we haven't said words to them about it, but I'm not stupid, I know they've put it together. And not one of them has said anything," Scott said, already flipping through their faces in his mind. "Do you mind if I ask him?"

"You want to ask your boyfriend if he has anyone he can set me up with?" Hollander asked. He was at sea again a little, but less visibly upset.

"Why not? You can't exactly get on the apps."

"Fuck, no. What a nightmare, can you imagine? How long have you two been together?"

"Eighteen months. I trust him. He doesn't know your name, but he knows about Ilya's Jane. Which, can I finally just say, you two have the worst code names on God's green earth, what the fuck is that about?"

"He chose them," Hollander said mutinously. "Blame him."

"I do," Scott assured him. "But you don't have to stay married to them."

"Why? What do you two call each other?"

"Boston Hottie and New York Thank You. Hookup names."

"Boston Hottie. And you call him a brat." Hollander was almost laughing, there was a hint of it around his eyes anyway. "I can't believe you call him that."

"Brat, sweetheart. Depends on his mood and mine."

"He told me about 'sweetheart'. I think he was worried I'd hear you say it to him and lose it."

"Would you?"

There was a small pause, Hollander gathering himself. "I would've then. I don't know about now. I think I understand a little better now."

"Good. Up to you, you don't owe it to him all things considered, but if you're really going to do a PR thing with Rose Landry, maybe clue him in? Set a good example about open communication?"

Hollander nodded and got out his phone. Scott hadn't meant right this minute, but that was a vast improvement and he wasn't going to interrupt it. It also gave him a chance to get his phone out.

Scott: How's it going in Beantown? Good news incoming if things are rough.

LOML: We're getting a lot of pacing and muttering, but he's been a good host. He made dinner.

Scott: Are you serious? The only thing that man has ever fed me is bread and strawberries.

LOML: I'm cuter?

Scott: True. I'm still jealous. What did he even make you?

LOML: Spaghetti bolognese. Ground turkey though, not beef.

Scott: Fucking brat. I taught him that.

LOML: Good job, it was delicious. Svetlana is coming over, apparently. She got excited when she found out I was here? Can't wait to meet her!

Scott: She'll love you. She may hit on you.

LOML: She can try! Always up for some scientific experimentation that will doubtless continue to prove I'm profoundly gay. Our friend is smiling at his phone now.

Scott: Good. Jane is having some revelations. They do want to explore hooking up, but they've got some nerves about secrecy etc. I was thinking about your buddy though.

LOML: Are we doing hookup matchmaking right now? Is that happening? If so, I love it. And YES. OMG, you're a genius! Two birds, one stone. I adore him, but I'm so not interested and half my appeal to him is that I'm not actually available. It's PERFECT.

Scott: Yeah? Okay. I don't think our friend is going to be thrilled with us.

LOML: He'll just have to suck it up. That's how this goes. It can't be good for one person and not okay for the other. Or they have to talk about closing things down and it doesn't seem like they're there yet.

Scott: Agreed.

LOML: You two must be getting along if we got to matchmaking.

Scott: I think once we're through this, I might like him a lot. I want you two to meet.

Kip: I'd love to. When he's ready.

There was still a little time to kill before they had to put on suits and Scott felt pretty much done talking. Hollander was lost in his phone, so Scott turned on the TV and flipped around until he found a Yankees game.

"Baseball?" Hollander asked incredulously.

"Greg likes it. I try to keep up a little so when he talks about it, I know what's going on," Scott explained absently. "I like it more than basketball, at least."

"But it's so slow."

"That's what I like about it," Scott said. "It's different, you know? Sometimes basketball gives me the jitters. Like I should be doing something. Too close. Baseball is just a whole other rhythm."

"I don't think I've ever watched a full game."

"Do you follow any other sports?"

"No," Hollander admitted. "Does…I don't know if that's okay to ask."

"You want to know if Ilya watches baseball? I think that's fine. And no, absolutely the fuck not," Scott laughed. "He's like you. Hockey only. But there, he knows fucking everything. It's eerie."

"You know a lot."

"Not like you and him. Maybe that's why you're both already racking up cups and I'm empty-handed."

"You think too much," Hollander said, then winced. "I mean-"

"No, you're right," Scott grinned. "He says that too and Svetlana."

Shit. Had Ilya gotten around to telling Hollander about Sveltana? Judging by the nod of acknowledgement, he had. Thank fuck.

"She's got a lot of hockey knowledge?"

"Hoo boy, okay. Let me tell you about that game before we met up for the first time."

Hockey talk was a saving grace once more. They got lost in particulars, the Yankees losing interminably in the background. In silent agreement, they concentrated on teams none of them had ties with. It was a pleasant way to pass the time, now that some of the tension had leaked out from between them.

Then Hollander clued back into the game playing out over the screen and started asking pointed questions about why some of the guys were just standing around and Scott had to explain the outfield to him with poorly concealed amusement. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

LOML: Svetlana is awesome I love her

Scott: I had a feeling you'd like her.

LOML: She made fun cocktails. Pre-gaming then a club maybe

Scott: Have fun!

"The Boston contingent is going out," Scott told Hollander.

"Because your boyfriend and Sveltana are there," Hollander said with an edge of triumph. Because Ilya had told him what he was up to? Cute.

"Yep. First time with all three of them hanging out, so you know. Let's hope someone has a hand on the wheel."

"Rozanov makes your boyfriend sound sensible."

Rozanov? Still? Okay then.

"Compared to Ilya, he probably looks it. Kip is the same age as you guys, really smart and- anyway. He's sensible sometimes, but he likes to have fun too. In college, he went clubbing all the time. I know he misses it while he's being a well-behaved grad student."

"You don't think Ilya is sensible?"

"Ugh," Scott rolled his eyes, trying to find a good answer to that. "When it comes to hockey, yes. Everything else? Toss up. Sometimes he's like the smartest, wisest person I know and sometimes I worry he's going to drown himself in two inches of water just to spite the universe."

The answer seemed to align with whatever Hollander thought too because he only nodded and then asked about what a shortstop did again like Scott was making shit up.

"I have to get ready," Hollander said about twenty minutes before Scott would've bothered.

"Oh sure, you can have the other bathroom if you want," Scott said, pointing behind himself.

"Why'd you get a place with two?" Hollander asked, bemused.

"It made sense at the time," Scott said. "You ever do shit because you were overthinking so hard that you way over corrected?"

"All the time," Hollander said with a gusty sigh.

"Yeah, it was one of those."

"Got it."

Getting into a tuxedo was second nature to Scott in a way he never could've predicted at eighteen. The layers went on and he smoothed things down, tying his bow tie (the stolen one a distant memory these days), and gelled his hair into something approaching tamed. Hollander was already dressed and waiting when he got out, apparently itching to move. They'd be a little early if they left now, but that would probably soothe Miranda and Scott owed her.

"Okay, out the back or the front?" Scott asked him.

"Back," Hollander said. "Nothing personal. I just want a few minutes before I get mobbed again."

"Fair."

And if Scott had thought Hollander was being paranoid, he would've been quickly proven wrong. The usual red carpet was rolled out at the entrance, but there were three times as many reporters as usual clustered there.

"Hey," Scott said to the driver. "Can you take us to another entrance?"

"I should be seen or something," Hollander muttered. "I'm supposed to take photos."

"Fuck them. They can get their pound of flesh another time."

"But-" Hollander started then stopped. "Fuck it. Thanks, let's do that."

They got into the ballroom unscathed. Miranda, a crisp middle-aged woman who Scott had never seen without a clipboard, hugged him like he had raised her from the dead.

"You're a lifesaver, Scott. Mr. Hollander! Nice to see you."

It was a nice enough night. Scott trotted onto stage and read his stilted lines with as much fluency as he could give them. Hollander presented too and he read the lines like someone was holding a gun to his head about it, but Scott could hardly blame him. The things they shoved into their mouths at these events were terrible.

Then it was circulating and chatting and shots with some friends and chatting and circulating until Scott's hand was starting to feel weird from so much shaking. It reminded him why he'd said no in the first place. Would it be better if he had a date too? If Kip was here to smile and whisper things in his ear?

In a way, Kip was there. Scott's phone buzzed a few times, the idle tap of Kip texting about his night. After the first few times, Scott stopped checking it, so he could concentrate on looking mostly sane to his colleagues, but it was a nice reminder.

"You good?" Scott checked in on Hollander as he circled around to the bar again, this time for something that only looked alcoholic. He didn't need more of a buzz here.

"Yes. Ready to go to bed. Why are these things so long?"

"So we don't get too full of ourselves, I think. You can be as good as you want, but you can't escape small talk."

"I'm going to disappear in fifteen minutes," Hollander declared. "At least my room is here. No more gauntlet."

"Did you want them to get a pic this weekend or stay off radar?"

"My publicist said one wouldn't be a bad idea," Hollander admitted. "Something normal-ish so it doesn't look like I'm hiding."

"Want to meet for breakfast? We can eat somewhere visible. Talk hockey. Works for the greater plan and it'll be hard for them to tie that to Rose either way."

Hollander considered that. "Yeah, all right. You sure you don't care? They're annoying."

"It's fine. Hardly the first time. My agent tells me that it's lucky I'm so boring or I'd be dealing with them like flies on a fresh kill."

"Your agent calls you boring?" Hollander asked instead of latching on to the rotting detail. Scott decided he liked him a lot.

"Yep. His happiest day with me was when I recommended him to Rozanov. You would've thought I handed him a golden goose."

"That's when he got the Ferrari deal," Hollander said, a slight tick of a smile. "Your agent. Todd, right?"

"That's him."

"My mother says he's been annoying her."

"Sorry?" Scott offered. "I mean not really. I can't control him. It's like having a contract with a helpful mosquito."

"You mentioned me to him."

"Possibly. A little."

Hollander took a sip of what Scott was reasonably sure was more ginger ale. It was almost as pathological as Ilya and his cokes.

"My mom thinks turning our backs on Reebok now would be disloyal."

"What do you think?"

Hollander shrugged. "Nike is Nike, you know? We'll see. Let's get through the off season."

Not long after that Hollander masterfully ghosted the event. Scott followed his lead, stepping out into the desert night air and heading back to the Bellagio. It was only when he was safe from any prying eyes and finally out of his tuxedo that he sat down to read his texts.

10:49 PM LOML: Betrayal! It's a straight club. I don't know what I was expecting. Haven't been to one in forever.

11:05 PM LOML: They keep giving me shots. Wish me luck, I may die.

11:30 PM LOML: I love you so much, you would never ever say I was a bitch for not putting out what the fuck is wrong with straight men I hate this bar

12:05 AM LOML: Lost Ilya. Svetlana is so cool I said we should go find him and she was like lol he's like a stray cat he'll turn back up when there's more food except food is more shots

12:08 AM LOML: Found him! He was calling a too drunk girl a cab and over tipping the driver so he'd make sure she got home very sweet and he was very pissed we caught him at it

12:30 AM LOML: I flirted with the bartender he was definitely into it but said not here like he might get fired. This place is making me sad-horny

12:55 AM LOML: Ilya and Sveltana made me the meat in a Russian sandwich on the dance floor and I will never be the same again so sorry love I am fundamentally changed

1:20 AM LOML: More shots all the shots I am so drunk the drunkest it's great

1:30 AM LOML: Ilya has never been to a foam party should we take him to a foam party? Have you been to a foam party?!

1:55 AM LOML: Headed back to Ilya's place neither of them seem drunk the world is deeply unfair

2:15 AM LOML: Ilya in bed very drunk actually I think just better at hiding it Sveltana asked if I'm totally gay like you and I said yes but then we made out so science is in progress

2:30 AM LOML: Update still gay but she is a good kisser

2:33 AM Svetlana: Your boyfriend has terrible manners, but he's an excellent kisser. Does he pause during making out to text his friends about you?

2:45 AM LOML: Update boobs are pretty good still gay tho

2:47 AM Svetlana: He went to the bathroom. Why are his hands so good? You're hoarding wealth, Hunter and I'm going to steal it back for the people.

3:04 AM LOML: Update still not into girl cock but it seemed mean to blue balls anyone when they've been so cool all night so I learned how to finger a vagina! New skill unlocked! She said she came and I think she isn't the kind of person who say that to spare my ego so that's nice

3:05 AM LOML: Still like penis better but there is something nice about making your own lube we need to look into that

3:07 AM Svetlana: I hate you.  No wonder you smile so much when you talk about him.

3:30 AM LOML: Watched and criticized straight porn together very strange bonding experience I think we are best friends now

3:45 AM LOML: Going to pass out next to Ilya so we can hold each other's hair and vomit in the morning Svetlana says she doesn't get hungover the world is unfair love you sleep good

Scott laughed to himself over all of it. Here he was shadowboxing carefully with Hollander and meanwhile Kip was politely fingerbanging Sveltana. That seemed about right for them. Scott normally didn't ask for details or really anything at all about Kip's hookups, but he was definitely curious about this one.

Scott: Good night, love. Call me when you feel human again, I'd love to hear more about your recent experimentation and how your hypothesis held up.

It was late, but Scott didn't even pretend he was going to easily find sleep. He put on a podcast, listening to a woman gently and softly explain the flaws in the criminal justice system as he counted through his breaths. Somewhere across the country, Ilya was doubtless turning to sprawl over Kip, both of them drunkenly dreaming.

Scott fell asleep with a smile on his face.

Arranging breakfast with Hollander was pleasantly simple. The guy liked a plan and not a lot of excess chatter about it. They both turned up at the restaurant, a few people with 'discreet' phones filming him as he met Scott at the door.

"A table in the back, please," Scott said to the hostess.

"We have your reservation request noted," she assured him and led them deep into the restaurant and into a high backed booth. It was a little much for breakfast, probably, but Hollander's eyes looked less tight so worth it.

"I talked to Rose this morning," Hollander said as soon as the hostess left. "Checked again that she was comfortable with the fake relationship thing. She thinks it's hilarious, so we're going to do it for a bit."

"What will that look like?" Scott asked as he scanned the menu.

"Just showing up together a few places. She's got a lot of filming in Europe over the summer, but we can do a lunch or two or something and call it good. Apparently people don't publicly break up anymore unless it's really bad, they just never confirm the relationship and when they stop getting seen together, pretend they were never together in the first place. It sounds nuts to me, but Rose said it's normal for Hollywood."

"Shit, I guess she would know, but that sounds kind of fucked up," Scott said. "Then again, all of this is, so why shouldn't that be?"

"Right?" Hollander said tiredly.

They put in their orders and before it could get awkward, Scott's phone buzzed.

"Sorry, I think Kip might've woken up. Sounds like they had a very drunk night."

But it wasn't Kip.

Svetlana: Your package arrived. We talked your friend off the cliff about it. I think it's a lovely gesture. So, as a thank you, you get this.

Scott: Jane is with me.

Sveltlana: Jane can watch too.

"Looks like we've got mail," Scott said, tilting the phone between the two of them.

"What's that?" Hollander asked.

"No idea. Video from Svetlana. I told her I had Ilya's 'Jane' with me and she gave the thumbs up for you to watch too."

"Uh, okay?"

Scott pressed play.

The opening strains of Iggy Azaleia's "Fancy" played. The phone camera was pointed at the huge windows that faced the lawn, the empty corridor part of Ilya's house that ran past the living room and into the bedroom. Svetlana slid into frame, her new Prada bag over her shoulder, sleek and sexy. She was in sweats, but made them look glamorous with her curls bouncing as she mouthed along to the opening rap. Somewhere off screen someone was already laughing.

The someone was definitely Kip as he swayed into view, sunglasses and black leather Prada backpack on in a huge mismatch to his fuzzy plaid pajama pants and ancient undershirt. He didn't know the words as well, but was willing to try as Sveltana pulled him close to dance with her.

"That's Kip?" Shane asked.

"Yeah," Scott said, unbearably fond as Kip lowered his sunglasses to point at the camera playfully.

The two of them swung around each other. Then Ilya used his well-cared for polished wood floors to Risky Business his way into frame. He was visibly hungover, curls a wild tangle and sunglasses firmly on. He was only wearing his usual ridiculously small briefs, cross, bracelet, and the even more obnoxiously large leather backpack that Scott had gotten him.

He was also holding a Dunkin cup like a lifeline and using it as a microphone to sing along with the words very clearly,

I'm so fancy, you already know

I'm in the fast lane, from L.A. to Tokyo

I'm so fancy, can't you taste this gold?

Remember my name, 'bout to blow-oh-oh-oh

Then he sank down out of sight and Svetlana and Kip kept on dancing, the video cutting out unceremoniously a few seconds later.

"Oh my fucking god," Hollander laughed quietly. "Are they all still drunk?"

"I think just that kind of hungover that makes you slaphappy and delirious," Scott said with a grin.

"It'd be nice to be there," Hollander said after a few seconds.

"Yeah. Probably why she sent it to us. So we could be."

"She sent it to you. She doesn't know me," Hollander pointed out.

"Not yet," Scott said, leaning back and the first tantalizing hints of the future rolled out in front of him.

A Month Later

LOML: We're here!

Scott: Come straight up. Carter got here an hour ago. He's so excited I think he might become a firework.

Securing the rooftop on a firework night was surprisingly easy. Apparently the people in Scott's building were the type to have a second home to watch the July 4 celebrations or were, perhaps rightfully, not inclined to enjoy the noise that went the spectacle. Whatever the reason, Scott's bizarrely assembled soiree had come together easily.

Hollander had seemed more comfortable knowing Carter would be there instead of less even if it meant hiding more. Maybe it was just knowing Scott wasn't his only hockey ally. Hard to say.

"Scott, man, stop doing laps," Carter called out to him. "I swear to fuck, you're going to make yourself dizzy one of these days."

"The roof is too big for that," Scott grumbled.

The elevator dinged. Kip, Elena, Maria, Shawn and Kyle all piled out in a cacophony of talk and color. Elena was still dressed for work, slick black shift dress and sensible high heels, but the rest of them were in their casual plumage. Kip had shimmied into bright red shorts and a cute striped tank top.

"Kip!" Carter said excitedly, jogging up to him and sweeping him into an effusive hug which Kip returned with a laugh. "How's summer break?"

"Less of a break than I'd like. I'm doing some research for my advisor and it keeps piling up."

"Yikes," Carter said, wholly without understanding, but supportive. Bless him. "Glad you could get a break to come hang out with us."

"Me too," Kip said, then went sideways to approach Scott.

Kip almost reached for a hello kiss and stopped just short.

Fuck.

"Hey, love," Scott said low enough to slide under the radar.

"Hey," Kip said with a crooked smile. "I may have casually left my bag inside your front door. They didn't ask me anything."

And why would they? They all knew, essentially. They were Kip's people. Carter knew. What the fuck was Scott doing?

Josh, Scott's therapist, had been very gentle with Scott about coming out. He rarely brought it up, only following Scott's rambling fears about it when he wanted to discuss it and offering soft little comments like 'That's interesting' and 'How likely do we think that is?' until Scott's head spun.

"Hey," Scott said even quieter, then ducked his head down and kissed Kip lightly.

"Scott," Kip breathed out against his lips. "What?"

"They know, right?"

"Yeah," Kip admitted. "Basically. I don't confirm or deny, but…you know."

"Okay then," Scott smiled at him, even as several alarms went off in his head. "Confirmed then."

"Confirmed," Kip said and then he was breaking out in an enormous grin. "I love you."

"I love you too," Scott kissed the corner of his mouth again because he could. Because he had kissed Kip in front of several people and the world hadn't ended.

"Are you having a full heart attack right now?" Kip asked.

"Oh yeah. Kinda dizzy. Fuck, Carter was right."

"Okay, let's get you sitting down before you pass out."

"No, no, I gotta do the host thing."

No one had waited for them. Instead, Elena was already talking to Carter, who was bending down a little to hear her better.

"Nice to see you," Maria said brightly as Scott and Kip came in closer. "Thanks for having us over."

"Of course," Scott said. "Nice to see you too."

She glanced between Kip and Scott, then grinned. "I bet. What are we drinking?"

Everyone was one drink in by the time Hollander showed. He arrived in a steam of anxious energy and Carter, who Scott was lightly considering elevating to friend sainthood tonight, rushed to greet him too.

"Hollander! Great to see you, man. How's your summer going? You've got to meet everyone!"

It was a slightly dazed Hollander that wound up encircled by Kip's friends, who were all lazily interested in him. He was dressed like he might be going to the gym: loose shorts and a sleeveless hoodie. On a normal person, it would signal some kind of disinterest in the intended point of the night, but Hollander's arms and legs (and face) were impressive advertisements that didn't need a lot set dressing.

"Hello, I'm Elena," Elena said, giving him a quick assessment. "You're a pretty big deal on the ice, huh?"

"That's what they say," Hollander agreed.

"What else do you do?"

"Um." Poor Hollander. That was just meeting Elena. Godspeed, Scott thought and pretended to be very interested in mixing Shawn a drink. "Yoga?"

"Really? I just started taking this great hot yoga class. Do you ever do hot yoga? It's like a sadomasochistic experience, but you can submit it to your health insurance for reimbursement."

"I haven't," Hollander said bewildered.

And Kip slid in, almost in between them, because he was a good person. "Hey, it's really nice to finally meet you. I'm Kip."

"It's nice to meet you too. I've heard good things," Hollander said seriously. Like Kip was a highly recommended contractor. He basically was for Hollander, now that Scott thought about it.

It was an odd moment. Both of them had (officially) learned about each other at last through Scott over the last few weeks. Hollander had finally caved with a broken 'he pretty much already knows doesn't he?' that broke Scott's heart a little. He vowed to do his best to ensure that Hollander got to tell only who he wanted from there on out with no more vagaries.

"Oh yeah?" Kip smiled. "I think you've also seen me dance for which I apologize. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"I liked it," Hollander said. "You were having fun."

"We were," Kip agreed. "Come on, let me introduce you around. Elena, please don't eat Carter. We like Carter."

Carter, who had started to drift back to Scott, stopped dead, staring at Scott, who could only shrug.

"Understood," Elena said. "I'll stick to nibbling."

"Oh my god," Carter mouthed to Scott, eyes wide and then he was turning on his heels to circle back to Elena with his best flirtatious look.

Unintended consequences. Scott poured Shawn's drink. "Kyle, you want something?"

"Nice to be on this side of the bar," Kyle said. "What can you make?"

"Nothing complicated, but if you tell me what you want in it, I can muddle through."

"Vodka tonic is fine, thanks."

Honestly, Scott would never have clocked a lick of resentment from Kyle if Kip hadn't pointed it out. Pre-Scott, Kyle had apparently worked up quite a crush on Kip (Scott could relate), and was now very politely pretending it had never happened and that he was totally fine with Scott (apparently he was not). Scott was happy to believe that polite fiction. Which meant Scott was also happy when Maria said to Hollander,

"And this is Kyle. He's bartending and picking away at a masters degree in history and letting me be his roommate. We like Kyle. Hi, Kyle!"

"Hi," Kyle laughed and held out his hand. "Nice to meet you Hollander."

"Nice to meet you too."

The pumps had both been discreetly primed. Hollander more directly because Scott wasn't going to North American this for him, he'd learned his lesson. Kip had danced around it with Kyle, not willing to reveal anything to potentially expose Hollander if things didn't click.

Across the world, Ilya was as silent as ever. Russia had stolen his voice from Scott's ear again and all he could do was hope that he was all right. And that he wouldn't be furiously angry with Scott for all this. Hollander had a right to play the field, but jealousy didn't always listen to reason as Scott well knew.

"Things are looking up," Kip reported an hour later. Scott had ensconced himself with Maria and her phone, getting a very thoroughly confusing education on K-Pop. At least all the band members were nice to look at.

"Good to hear," Scott said, glancing up at him. Kip had been drinking slowly so he was only a little pink.

Everyone here knew. It was done. Scott reached up and put an arm around Kip's waist, resting his head against his side as Maria regained his attention. Kip stayed, his hand landing Scott's shoulder. Scott didn't learn anything further about BTS. Instead, he memorized the feeling of that moment, the humidity, the scent of a neighbor's dinner drifting upwards to them and the press of Kip's fingers through his shirt.

A vision came to Scott, clear as everything spread out in front of him. It was a decision he had wavered on for years and it was made in a snap. He smiled, at Maria, at Kip, at the whole roof full of people.

By the tiny bar, Kyle alighted his hand on Hollander's wrist and when Hollander didn't draw away, he left it there. Whatever they were discussing had put a crease in Hollander's brow, but he wasn't any more or less tense than usual. When the fireworks began, crashing in their thunderous beauty over the Hudson, Kyle moved in closer and got up on his toes a little to shout something into Hollander's ear that still couldn't be heard by anyone more than a foot away from them.

Scott kissed Kip under the crash of the heavens.

Hollander and Kyle left within fifteen minutes of each other.

"Hey," Carter said, approaching Scott and Kip with fire in his eyes. "I'm just checking bro code here. Is it weird for you if I ask Elena back to my place, Kip?"

"Uh, no? Why would it be?" Kip asked, baffled.

"She's your friend, I don't want to make it uncomfortable or something," Carter said with a shrug.

"If I stood in the way of Elena and something she wanted I would be dead five times over," Kip said with a snort. "Have fun."

"Thanks, man," Carter said and clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going to go shoot my shot."

Kip waited for Carter to be out of earshot to whisper to Scott, "Am I a bro now? Is that a thing?"

"I think you have been officially bro'd," Scott said with a repressed laugh.

"Wow. I never thought I'd see the day," Kip giggled a little. "I will never tell Elena he even asked."

"Probably for the best."

Elena and Carter did leave together, so that was nice. Hopefully.

The party well and truly broken up by then, Maria and Shawn said their goodnights. Scott and Kip gathered up some leftovers for a late night snacks. In the apartment, they sat next to each other at the island knees knocking together.

"You were really brave tonight," Kip said.

"Nah," Scott said. "Low stakes, right? They basically knew. Carter knows. Hollander knows. I'm sick of jumping at shadows."

"That's brave," Kip affirmed and kissed his cheek. "Very hot behavior."

"How hot?"

"Mm, I'd say lava level. The kind of thing that might get you some carte blanche permissions."

"You don't say?" Scott said.

So he didn't tell Kip about his decision right away. It would keep until morning.

Three Weeks Later

NAD: What's the etiquette for saying 'thanks that was fun, but I'm not interested in meeting up again' for these kinds of things?

Scarlett: Out of my wheelhouse. Mind if I pull in my expert?

NAD: I guess it's okay. All things considered.

Scartlett: Great, give it a minute, he's got office hours right now. Could go either way if he's available or not. 

Scarlett added LOML to the chat.

LOML: Hi! So I guess things didn't work out? Sorry to hear that.

NAD: It was good. We had fun, but I'm not really feeling it? Sorry.

LOML: Why are you apologizing?

NAD: Because you set us up and it didn't work out?

Scarlett: Did you have a good time?

NAD: Yes. Mostly. It was a learning experience.

LOML: Glad to hear that. I think you can just say: Thank you, you were great, but I'm not feeling it. K will understand, I promise.

NAD: Okay. I've broken up with people before, but it's been a long time. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings.

Scarlett: This is a little different. You both went in clear about what you were going for. That's not working for you. It's done. It happens.

NAD: Thanks. I don't know what to do now though. Try someone else? Just wait for Lily to come home?

LOML: Depends on what you want. Just because we're living the open door policy dream doesn't mean that's something you want. If you do want it, I'm sure between the three of us we can figure out a way to make it happen for you.

NAD: It was better doing it this way than meeting someone at a club or something

Scarlett: I get that.

LOML: It's like apples and broccoli to me. I like both, but they're doing different things for me when I eat them.

Scarlett: I hope I'm the apples.

LOML: You are, love. Focus.

NAD: What if I don't see people and our friend does? That feels wrong too.

LOML: Open is open. You can not see people then see people. It doesn't have to be always having someone else. It can be when you get a craving. That's how I do it. Quick point of clarification, how do you have my friend in your phone, so it's easier to talk about this?

NAD: Scarlett.

Scarlett: Jesus Christ.

LOML: I like it. You do wear a lot of red. Very on theme. Okay, so me and Scarlett, we have different approaches. Scarlett has me and Lily and that's usually it these days. For me, I have Scarlett and sometimes when I'm lonely or horny, I go looking for someone on an app or something. Which I know you and Scarlett can't do, so sorry I have not-famous privilege.

NAD: And you're both okay with that?

Scarlett: It takes some talking and negotiating. But yes, mostly.

LOML: Scarlett is more jealous than me, but deals with it better when it does come up. I get like hot flashes of it, Scarlett's is more sustained.

Scartlett: Therapy helps.

NAD: It does?

Scarlett: Turns out it helps with a lot of stuff.

LOML: I don't think we solved your problem, but I have to get going. There's a pack of scared freshman eyeing me up through the door. Scarlett, if you don't hear from me within the hour, I've been devoured by fallen gifted students. Think of me fondly. Jane, text later if you want to talk more, okay?

NAD: I have to think for a bit any way. Do we have a return date for Lily?

Scarlett: Never do. I get a text eventually.

It wasn't a text this time. Though Scott spent the rest of the summer getting all sorts of interesting correspondence. The group text he'd formed stayed mildly chatty as Hollander worked through his thoughts and some exchanged pleasantries. Svetlana returned from Russia well before Ilya and she pulled Scott and Kip into her own little three-way chat that was entirely about what everyone was eating, wearing, and doing that day. Scott got better at taking selfies and bought himself some new clothes after Svetlana dragged him for how much Admirals merch he wore.

If Scott bought a few pieces that were too obnoxious and designer for him, then that was only prudent. He wanted to protect the things he liked from Ilya's sticky fingers and misdirection was a good strategy.

The three of them converged in a restaurant when Svetlana found a reason to be in the city and it was a giddy evening. With the veil of a woman present, Scott's nerves dropped away and he could enjoy a restaurant with Kip beside him in a way he hadn't before.

"I'm a chaperone," Svetlana announced with a laugh when he confessed it to her later. "Maybe that will be my business. Professional third wheel!"

"Only if you charge astronomic rates. You're worth your weight in diamonds," Scott told her.

"I like you so much," she said and kissed his cheek. "Keep talking."

Scott also made a new acquaintance to help him with his fresh decision. When the time was right, he picked Kip up in Brooklyn and drove them out to Sleepy Hollow.

"What's here?"

"A surprise. If you hate it, no problem. It's just an idea I had."

Kip didn't hate it. "You should do it. I love it."

The process got underway.

And still no text.

Instead, on a sticky August evening, Scott came back to his apartment with a folder of paperwork to find several matching pieces of luggage tucked to the right of his front door. It was topped off with a black leather backpack, the Prada nameplate still immaculate and shining.

Bemused, he set the paperwork on the kitchen island. The living room was as empty as he'd left it. When he stepped into the bedroom though, he found a familiar lump under his duvet. Asleep and mostly covered, Ilya's breathing reached Scott's ears like the return of the sound of waves after a long time away from the ocean.

It was late afternoon and Scott wasn't even a little tired. He shucked off his clothes anyway and got into bed, sitting up against the headboard. He futzed around on his phone, killing time. Eventually, Ilya turned and moved closer, pressing his face to Scott's waist.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said softly. "Did you just get in?"

"Yes," Ilya said.

"Long flight?"

With a sigh, Ilya planted a kiss where his face was smashed. "Very."

"You want to tell me why you're here instead of Boston? No complaints. Just surprised."

There was a long silence and just as Scott was resigning himself to not getting an answer, Ilya said, "My father is doing very badly. He has dementia."

"Oh shit, I'm sorry."

"I am too. All very sorry," Ilya said heavily. "I pay my brother to take care of him, but I don't think he does a good job. What else can I do? I have to be here to earn the money that keeps them all alive. So now what? I am wrong when I'm here. Wrong when I'm there. I'm so fucking tired."

Scott couldn't imagine what it had cost Ilya to say. He rubbed Ilya's back in circles, putting that all together in his head.

"No one else can take care of him?" he settled on asking.

"No. He was a very proud man. He will be too mean to anyone I hire even if I could. His wife helps a little, but she is not very good at it either."

"That's hard," Scott said. "No wonder you always come back upset."

"Home is hard. Here is hard," Ilya closed his eyes. "I wanted- I don't know. I texted with Hollander and I did not tell him everything, but I told him a little. And he said I'm not very nice to myself."

"I kind of agree," Scott said. Hollander would not appreciate gifts, but Scott would bet he'd like some honest nice words. Scott would have to come up with some good ones. "You're not always."

"Don't team up against me," Ilya grumbled a little. "But it made me think. About what would be nice to have when I got home. I thought company would be good. Sveta is away still. So I came here."

"I'm really glad you did."

"Too much feeling," Ilya said and that wasn't a grumble at all, but a real pained complaint.

"What do you want for dinner?" Scott said, taking pity. "I was just going to do leftovers, but I can make something."

"Before that, I want-" Ilya said then stopped.

"Name it, sweetheart, it's yours."

"We talked about control once. In bed. Do you remember?"

Scott cast his memory back and it did snag on something. "Yeah, I remember."

"I would like less control tonight. Now," Ilya hesitated, then tacked on, "please."

"I can do that."

As far as Scott knew, Ilya hadn't bottomed again since that first time. Maybe he had with Hollander, but Scott wasn't going to ask. Instead, Scott treated it like it was the first time all over again. With a gentle shove, he got Ilya on his back and he kissed him, relearning him again after their time apart.

The air conditioner kicked on as Scott finally skimmed down Ilya's chest, lapping at one of his nipples. Goosebumps broke over both of them. Ilya's hand sunk into Scott's hair as he went lower. He took his time, kissing every inch of the taut stomach and the point of Ilya's hip. The thick proud stand of Ilya's cock drew Scott in and he spent a happy few minutes sucking on him.

"Stomach or back?" Scott asked as he sunk another inch lower.

Wordlessly, Ilya turned over, dropped his face against his crossed forearms and got up on his knees. Scott could definitely work with that. He licked over the tight furl of Ilya's hole with reverent attention. The contrast of the heat around his tongue and the cold air brushing over the rest of his body was electric. Scott's eyes fell closed as he turned all his attention to wringing pleasured noises out of Ilya's throat.

Reverence overcame Scott. For the man under his hungry mouth, for his own lustful body, and the joining of the two. They were building a prayer together, a request for ease and joy in the dark strain of the day.

A bottle of lube hit Scott in the shoulder.

"Fuck!" Scott pulled back startled and then groaned. "Brat."

Ilya only chuckled and didn't move. "Enough. You have a river of spit down my balls already"

"You like it," Scott said, pressing a kiss to one well-rounded ass cheek. "You want to fish out a condom too?"

Without stirring more than his arm, Ilya snagged a condom out of the nightstand and winged it unerringly back at him. Thumbing lube over Ilya's hole, Scott carefully tore the packet with his teeth. Condom applied and lube generously added to the already slick latex, he got his hands on Ilya's hips.

"Tell me to stop if it's too much."

"Shut up," Ilya groaned. "Do it."

Who was Scott to argue?

Pushing into Ilya was a revelation all over again. He was all the usual good things that came with a fuck (tight and hot and gorgeous) but it was also Ilya. Maddening, beautiful, soft, and hard Ilya. Who hadn't gone ground to lick his wounds in Boston this time, but come to Scott instead hoping for a bandage.

"Okay?" Scott asked quietly.

"Yes," Ilya breathed out. "Don't move. Stay."

Scott stayed, smoothing his hands over Ilya's back. It wasn't quite right, he decided. When Ilya started to cautiously move a little himself, Scott slid down, crossed his arms over Ilya's chest and hauled him upwards. Pressed chest to back and Ilya's neck now perfectly accessible to kiss, Scott felt right at home.

"Very bossy," Ilya muttered, even as he tilted back his chin, welcoming the attention.

"This is better. I like to see you," Scott murmured.

The pace Scott set was slow and shallow. He kept one arm around Ilya's chest, anchoring him close. The other he dropped so he could palm Ilya's cock, languidly stroking him in time with his thrusts. Tiny gasps of pleasure passed through Ilya's lips and his head lolled back against Scott's shoulder. As Scott worked him from both directions, Ilya's body unraveled its tensions to rest against him.

Scott rocked them both until he was too close to maintain the careful metronome of it all. He moved his hand from Ilya's chest to his cheek, tilting his head for a devouring kiss as he sped up. He ate Ilya's gravelly moans, working his cock harder until they were both breathing too hard to keep kissing. Instead Scott mouthed at Ilya's jaw and buried himself deep, coming with a broken off cry.

That set Ilya off too and he was painting Scott's fingers pearly white as he shook apart in his arms.

"Fuck," Ilya mumbled and made no attempt to move, slack in Scott's grip on him.

"Was that what you wanted?" Scott asked, kissing his shoulder and neck. "Feel better?"

"Mm. A little, yes," Ilya said with a faint smile, then he kissed Scott's cheek. "Get the fuck out of me."

"Move then," Scott said with an eye roll. He did carefully pull out and reached for the tissues to clean his hand. "You want a shower or should I got get a washcloth?"

"Shower," Ilya said and stood straight up the bed, walking off and onto the floor, all the spoiled prince for the moment. "Your mess, come clean it."

"It's only my mess now?" Scott huffed and followed after him.

He wasn't surprised that Ilya was clingy in the shower. Scott let him do what he wanted as he got them both perfunctorily clean and then stood under the hot water with him until Ilya was ready to get out. That took a long time. They were both pink by the time they were done and toweled off. Necklace and bracelet glittered as Ilya moved, catching Scott's attention whenever in threatened to waver.

"You can make dinner now," Ilya announced.

"Oh, can I? Lucky me. Just for that, you don't get to choose what we're having."

"Scott! Rude! I am the guest!"

"You let yourself in and have a key. That's not a guest. That's a tenant."

"But what if I don't like it?"

"You've eaten everything I've ever put in front of you. Very low, by the way, to woo my boyfriend with a meal I taught you to make."

"Very low of you to send him to me when I could not refuse him or be very very rude," Ilya pointed out right back.

"You had a good time."

Ilya stalked back into the bedroom to claim his underwear which he must've shed before he even got into the bed for his nap.

"I know what you're up to," Ilya said tartly. "You are trying to fix everything. You cannot captain me and Hollander into being okay."

"I can take care of my friends," Scott countered.

"You and Hollander are not friends."

"My text history begs to differ."

Ilya narrowed his eyes. "Scarlett."

"What about it?" Scott challenged.

"You fed him Kyle."

"I did."

The face off was less tense than Scott had been anticipating. He had assumed Ilya would be explosive about this, had been ready for it, but instead Ilya only shook his head.

"You think we are a game of cards. That if you play everything right and have some luck that you will win."

"It's not a game," Scott protested. "I know that."

"This is not poker with your friends. It's the casino," Ilya said gravely. "And the house always wins."

"Ilya," Scott said heavily. "That's not true."

"Then why does it feel like this always?" The question was bitter.

What could Scott do? He sat down beside him and put his arm around, drawing him close. Ilya went as limp as he'd been after they'd fucked and collapsed against Scott readily.

"You know that conversation we had a few months ago about the Zamboni thing?"

"You think I need therapy," Ilya muttered.

"How long have you known your father was sick?"

"A long time," Ilya said. "Since before we met."

Ouch. Shit.

"And your mother died a long time ago. You were young. I know that's not easy either."

"It was not like your parents," Ilya said and then he took a stiff inhalation. It sounded like it hurt. "Not something that someone else did or a sickness."

That didn't leave a lot of other choices. Scott rubbed Ilya's shoulder. "Did she do it herself?"

Ilya's silence was its own answer. The long blank stare that Ilya had leveled at Scott many times played over and over in his head.

"Okay," Scott said and ached for him anew. "Yeah, sweetheart, if nothing else, I think that's enough to justify talking to someone. It'll be okay. We'll find someone good."

"Someone who speaks Russian," Ilya mumbled, but he did say it. "And is okay with men that fuck men."

"I bet we can find someone," Scott said. "If I do the research and things for you, will you try?"

Ilya nodded. "Yes. Fine. Once."

"All I can ask for."

"Can I choose dinner now?" Ilya asked, a little plaintively.

Scott wished he could laugh, but he mostly wanted to cry. "I was going to do a chicken stir fry. It's that or spinach ravioli."

"Stir fry," Ilya said with only a trace of his usual smugness.

Scott didn't get up right away, he hauled him a little closer and kissed his forehead. "All right. You're my good boy tonight. You can have whatever you want."

If they didn't separate for awhile and Scott's shoulder was suspiciously wet where he had definitely dried off from the shower then that was all right. A little rain had never done either of them any harm.

Later that Night

Scarlett: Lily is back. Hard summer.

NAD: Is she okay?

Scarlett: Not really.

NAD: I don't know how I can hide a trip to Boston. I want to see her.

Scarlett: Nike is a big conversation. You might want to come talk it over with me. Plenty to do in New York, do some sightseeing.

NAD: The three of us?

Scarlett: You two can decide that. If not, take the apartment for a night. Or even if you do.

NAD: I can't kick you out of your own place.

Scarlett: You're not. I've got other places to go.

Chapter 10: The Royal Flush

Chapter Notes

You may have noticed that this story is now part of a series. Originally this was meant to span the entire time frame of the show, but as I got closer to the end, I realized I could only stay true to the spoiler promises up until this point. So this story closes out in the 2015-2016 season. The sequel will cover Scott's Big Year (2016-2017)/episodes 5 and 6. It will also move the POV around quite a lot. But mostly what I want to be clear on is that the sequel will no longer stick to the original pairing tags. If you are distressed by the polyamory of it all, then I say a warm goodbye to you at the end of this one and a thank you for reading. If you're into following along for working through new configurations, go to the series page and hit 'subscribe' and I'll see you in the next one!

A thousand thank yous to Internerdionality, who beta'd and cheerleaded this story through it's second half. Could not have done it without you! <3

Scott: Wish me luck. 

LOML: Babe, it'll be fine. 

Scott: You really think so? 

LOML: You all like each other. You just all have to like each other at the same time in public. 

Scott: I think I bit off more than I can chew. 

LOML: Definitely, but you did that like six years ago and you've mostly managed to swallow it down so far. 

Scott: Sometimes I have to spit. 

LOML: You're really polite about it. Very cute. How's Lily handling waiting?

Scott: Badly. Ever seen a big cat at the zoo in too small of an enclosure? 

LOML: Yikes. Well. Love you! 

Scott: Love you too! 

The entire city seemed eager to show off for Hollander. They left the apartment and were greeted with giddy autumn air, a strong breeze blowing in the first wave of sugared hot nuts and the suggestion of clean air dragged from the river. The sidewalk-bound trees had gone orange and yellow, dropping their leaves in artful twos and threes. 

Beside him, Ilya turned his face up to the sun, gold light dripping down on him and rendering him ethereal for a brief moment. The outfit was very Ilya, painted on black jeans and a deep v-necked long sleeve shirt with dizzying patterns swirled in blue and cream. Scott had no doubt that it had been a belabored decision even if he'd pulled it on with little evidence of care a half-hour ago (after a very long time in the bathroom which Scott was certain had been spent mostly on his hair and panic). 

"Six years," Scott said. 

"What?" Ilya asked, dropping his attention from the heavens to Scott. The nerves were all over him for someone who knew how to spot them. Tight lips, thumb rubbing over his jaw as if to check for a missing shaving spot. 

"Kip mentioned it this morning and I hadn't done the math in a bit. You'll be the same age that I was when we met in a few weeks." 

"No," Ilya said reflexively, but then he groaned. "This is terrible." 

"Twenty-five doesn't seem so old now, does it?" Scott said with a little glee. 

It no longer made him paralytically anxious to walk with Ilya down a sidewalk. There had been a few candid shots of them tossed on the internet over the last two years and they had made very little splash. They were known friends, barely notable. If anything, the tweets about them were generally fawning, pleased at this showing of 'healthy male friendship'. 

They had had a very long, sweaty round of healthy male friendship that morning to take the edge off both their nerves. It had worked slightly better for Scott than Ilya apparently. At the very least, Scott could feel the small tinge of pride that had sneaked in as anxiety ebbed out. Walking beside Ilya on a beautiful day felt like something he had accomplished, as silly as that might be. A win. 

"You're almost thirty. Thirty is old," Ilya declared.

"Move the goal posts all you want, you're playing a losing game," Scott said with amusement. "You'll always get there eventually." 

"But you will always be older." Smugness cracked through the tension a little. 

"You've got me there. Means I'll always be wiser too."

Ilya went quiet for a moment. The noise of the street filtered in instead and Scott people-watched until they reached the corner, assessed the lack of traffic and speedwalked across in defiance of the orange hand. 

"Sometimes you are not stupid," Ilya said as they crested back up onto the sidewalk. 

"Wow," Scott said. "Careful, you might give me a big head about things."    

"Six years," Ilya frowned. "Is this right?"

"Yep. How'd that happen?"

As if it were a real question, Ilya considered it then pronounced, "We are both very stubborn."

"Huh. That sounds about right, actually."

The restaurant was ahead, their accidental usual spot for these apparent periodic reconfigurations. Hollander was already standing outside in a light blue button down and khaki slacks. A decade or more ago, Scott would've called him preppy. Did that mean anything now?

"Yes," Ilya said, warmth curling under the word. "All very stubborn."

Catching sight of them, Hollander attempted something like a casual wave. He looked so unsure of the situation that Scott started to question it himself all over again. Ilya sucked in a breath like he needed the extra air to strengthen his spine.

Right. Not Scott's turn to panic. Ideally, no one's turn to panic. It was fucking lunch for fuck's sake. Who panicked at 1pm on a Friday afternoon meeting colleagues for lunch?

"Hey, Hollander," Scott said and found some genuine warmth. "How was the flight?"

"Not bad," Hollander said with a twitch of a smile for Scott. And then a fleeting, but real one for Ilya. "Rozanov."

"Hollander." Ilya sing-songed, delight emanating off him like a dog that had been told to sit in front of his full bowl. All knowledge that the devouring was imminent if he would only just wait a little longer.

Holy fuck, this was going to be a long meal.

Hollander glanced around like someone might arrest them. Ilya was almost bouncing.

"We've got a reservation." Scott strode inside, aware of the two of them falling in behind him.

The table they got was fairly close to the windows. So be it. That was the point and for once Scott wasn't the most vulnerable one. The two of them wavered behind him as they approached. A four-person table. Any configuration was theoretically a mess, so Scott took one of the seats closer to the window and then decided to enjoy the dance that followed.

With the startlingly speed that made him a force to play against, Hollander snagged the chair next to Scott, forcing Ilya to either sit at the farthest point from him or have to play footsie with him.

Unfortunately for Hollander, he was playing chess and Ilya was playing strip poker. He sat down across from Hollander without a moment's hesitation and manspread himself right into Hollander's personal space under the table.

"What can I get you to drink?" asked the waiter without any recognition.

The predictable round of sodas ordered, Scott said, "Just water for me, thanks."

And then there were at least the menus to consider. Scott opted to peruse his though he had no intention of getting anything, but a burger as a reward for all this. Ilya had his open and wasn't looking at it, Hollander had his up like a shield. Ignoring both of them very intentionally, Scott's attention drifted to the window. He watched a woman walking a laberdoodle dodge around a guy in an expensive suit powerwalking along, a handful of teenagers taking up too much space on the sidewalk and talking loud enough to carry through the glass, and someone on an ebike almost wipe out against an opening car door.

The city was a heinous mess and Scott loved it so much. There had been a time where only the sheer noise and chaos of it had reminded him he was still alive as he rattled around like the last piece of cereal in the box. Now, it was mostly only texture. He couldn't say when he stopped feeling so profoundly alone. It wasn't any one person or anyone singular event. It was as if he had transmuted slowly from one state to the other. Maybe he was a snake that had shed its skin. Fundamentally the same, but fresh and clean. Still a little tender around the edges.

Their drinks arrived. Scott ordered his burger and Ilya went for the BLT per usual. Hollander got some grilled fish thing that Scott hadn't even known was on the menu.

"So," Scott said when silence descended again. "What's it take to get a Hollander to discard years of loyalty in favor of a better deal?"

There was a moment of silence and then Ilya started laughing, Hollander's blank mask twisting into consternation.

"He means Nike, not me," Ilya said through his chuckles. "Your face!"

"Stop," Hollander groaned. "I knew that."

"You did not," Ilya said.

"Did so," Hollander said and then seemed to realize what he'd descended into with a wince. "You're an asshole."

"Yes," Ilya said beaming. "But I am also curious. Nike. Yes? No?"

"It's a big thing to toss away, but Reebok has been a very consistent supporter of my career."

"We could pitch to them instead," Scott considered. "But I don't think they like Ilya's media persona."

"Even shoes think you're an asshole," Hollander surmised and this time it was Scott laughing.

"Scott," Ilya complained.

"What? He's funny! And not wrong."

"Not all of us can be safe sweater people," Ilya rolled his eyes.

"What's that mean?" Hollander seemed pleased his joke had landed at least.

"Eddie Bauer had me model sweaters for them for a winter campaign a few years ago. It was very…wholesome," Scott settled on. "But it paid pretty good for afternoon's work, even if they did have to sweat mop me every twenty-two seconds. I've never been more jealous of all your underwear ads."

"They've got the opposite problem," Hollander said with a shake of his head. "Fucking freezing every time."

"I like the one for orange soda. They spray you with what? Baby oil?" Ilya asked.

"You saw that?" Hollander's voice cracked. "I didn't even think that aired in America."

Repressing a smile, Scott turned slowly to Ilya whose neck was going pink. "What soda is that?"

"Creme something," Hollander frowned like was trying to remember. "I think it's an indie brand? I don't know. Only did the one shoot with them."

Scott stared at Ilya. "You don't say."

"Must have seen it while I had a game in Montreal," Ilya shrugged, so smooth and easy that Scott didn't blame Hollander for simply nodding.

"You are way too good at lying," Scott deemed. "Hollander, he absolutely googles you. He might even have an alert set up."

"Hunter, please don't make me kill you," Ilya gritted out. "Kip would be sad and text me angry emoji chains for a week."

"Only a week, you think?" Scott grinned. Why had he been worried about this? It was already a great afternoon and they didn't even have food yet.

"He didn't," Hollander said. "You don't google me. Do you?"

"No," Ilya said too quickly.

"Yes," Scott contradicted. "I googled you for that matter. Just to see what was what ad-wise, which like…damn, your mom is great at her job. I did it once though. Didn't find the orange soda."

"This is a trial now?" Ilya demanded. "I want a lawyer."

"Rozanov, it's fine," Hollander said warmly, tiny smile teasing. "It's just ads and things."

"A lot of ads," Ilya said. "Many in your underwear. Is this a fetish?"

"Fetish," Hollander repeated. "I guess I'm not surprised you learned that one. Bet that wasn't in the New Yorker."

"Maybe it was," Ilya contended. "In one of the little cartoons."

"Wait. You actually read it now?"

"No, he just leafs through mine and makes fun of me for having it," Scott said. "I don't read it either. I think if you live in a nice enough apartment in this city, it just starts showing up."

"You got it for Kip," Ilya said dismissively. "So he will think you are smart."

Now Hollander was staring at Scott who sighed heavily, "I'm not proud of it. He's getting a doctorate and I didn't even go to college. At least you two can't dick measure over a crossword puzzle."

"Debatable," Hollander said, giving Ilya a sly glance.

"He tries to show me Sudoku on his phone once," Ilya said. "And he did not like that I was good at it."

"You were not good at it. You got lucky," Hollander complained. "You couldn't do it again."

"It is a puzzle. What does luck mean with puzzles? I was tired after the first one. And bored."

They didn't actually talk about Nike over lunch at all and Scott couldn't have cared less. It was clear that even if they hadn't done it much yet, Hollander and Ilya were equally matched in conversation. They sparred like they did on the ice, riddled with swears and insults, warring back and forth on any number of topics. Agreeing on little, but it seemed like the disagreement was the point, both of their eyes alive with interest. More than once they turned to Scott to arbitrate. First only Ilya demanding his input, but when Hollander sensed that Scott was fair enough not to simply agree with Ilya, he looked to him too.

When Scott got up to use the bathroom, he also paid for lunch. On his way back out, he slowed on his walk to the table, taking in the picture of them. Hollander and Rozanov, the great rivals, their feet mixed up under the table, knees touching. They were talking a little too loud, Hollander making a sound of disgust as Ilya's smile crept a hair too wide. Would anyone else know looking at them?

No, Scott decided, probably not. They would see what they wanted. Two bro-y guys being dicks to each other over a meal. They would miss the warmth in their voices and shy smiles between chirps.

Group Chat: Tri-State Connection

Scott: You'd love this. Laugh your ass off. Like two puppies gnawing on each other's ears.

Svetlana: I knew it! Disgusting. I want to see.

Scott: Next time maybe.

Kip: Take them on a walk, I hear that's good for exuberant pups.

Scott: Good plan.

"Ever been to Central Park, Hollander?" Scott asked, not bothering to retake his seat.

"Driven through it."

"Good day to see it."

"Yes," Ilya said, already standing. "It's good weather for it, but there will be many people."

"With cameras," Scott said. "So."

Hollander glanced between them, grimaced, then nodded once. "That's the point, right?"

"Only if you're up for it," Scott said. "The apartment is a block away too. Or quieter parks. Or nothing, if you're fucking sick of both of us. Whatever."

Hollander glanced at Ilya then away. "It's okay?"

"Yes," Ilya said, far more gently than he'd said anything over lunch. "Very okay. We have done this the two of us a few times and people do not care. Three men and they think nothing at all."

"Buddy system," Scott said wryly. They both joined him and headed towards the door, Ilya's voice dropping as they stepped back out into forgiving autumn breeze. "If they ask, Scott is a very good host. Very nice to show you around and let you do tourist things even though it's crowded and stupid."

"Hey, even people that live here like Central Park. Anyway, you fucking love the fountain, so shut it."

"I do not. It's fine," Ilya said. "But Hollander will like it. Very boring. Angel of the Waters."

"Angel?"

"You tell," Ilya said, nudging Scott with his elbow. Scott leveled him with a look and Ilya blew out a stream of air. "Please, Hunter, tell Hollander about the angel."

Hollander's eyes went a little wider and Scott mouthed 'another time' to him with a small cut off gesture and Hollander nodded bemused.

"I only know what I learned from a Wikipedia article when I first moved here," Scott said, before Ilya could notice a pause. "And going to a Catholic boarding school, I guess. You grow up religious?"

"Not even a little," Hollander said. "My Dad said religion was a nice idea, but not for him. Mom is a firm atheist. Really firm."

"Ilya?" Scott asked.

"Eh," he said. "Churches are nice to look at, not be in for services. I went when I was small."

"Do you believe though?" Hollander asked, speeding up a little to come level with him.

Scott considered letting them pull ahead, but he was curious too. He fell back when someone needed to go around them, but for the rest of the walk found himself in line with them.

"I think there is something," Ilya said after a moment's pause. "I do not know what and I do not waste time worrying over it."

The cross around Ilya's neck had to be his mother's. Scott had been fairly certain of that for years, but even a few bare sentences strengthened his conviction.

"I could do without hell," Scott said. "But I like the idea of something peaceful after."

"A long sleep," Ilya murmured.

"Yeah, something like that."

"Sounds better than compost," Hollander said. "Okay, so the angel of the waters?"

"Oh! She's blessing the waters of the fountain. Basically, there's a bible story about Jesus healing someone in the Pool of Bethesda. The statue of the angel is meant to be blessing the waters sort of like that. Symbolic. The woman who sculpted it was really representing the Croton Aqueduct. It's the water that flowed into the fountain, but it was also this clean source of water that was a real lifesaver at the time. Before that there were a lot of waterborne illnesses in the city."

"So not a blessing," Hollander said, weighing that. "Just actual good water."

"Why can't it be both?" Scott asked. "Sometimes good things are done with hard work and they're miraculous, you know?"

He could feel the duel weight of their regard and concentrated on moving them forward.

"You believe in miracles? Like in sports movies?" Ilya asked.

"I do," Scott said. "Not like sports movies though. Or maybe. I don't know which ones you mean. I just think sometimes astoundingly good things happen and it's okay to feel like they're bigger than you."

"I think your therapist is better than mine," Ilya decided. "What is all this optimism?"

"I like it," Hollander said softly. "You got a therapist?"

Ilya grimaced, but he nodded once. "Yes. I have gone only two times so far. On the computer. She speaks Russian and she's very mean."

"So you like her," Hollander determined.

"Yes," Ilya allowed. "I don't know. What good is it to talk about it? It happened. Now it's over. And I don't like to think about it over and over."

"You do anyway," Scott shrugged. "That's kind of the thing, right? Like we're not thinking about it, but we're constantly thinking about it."

"I am not."

"You are though." Hollander said thoughtfully. "Or it seems like you are sometimes. I don't know what you're thinking about, but you sort of check out for a second. I thought it was me. That I'd fucked up, but I dunno. Sometimes maybe not."

Scott wished to hell they were sitting for this so he could see Ilya's face better, but maybe it wouldn't have happened if they were sitting. Maybe this needed to be something that happened on a beautiful day as they crossed the street into the bubble of greenery in this island of blacktop and glass.

"It is not you," Ilya said as they moved with the crowd away from car exhaust and into the treeline.

"Yeah, it's not you for me either," Hollander said. "I get in my head. It's not always great in there."

"Yes," Ilya breathed out. "That."

"How long have you been in therapy?" Hollander asked and it took Scott a second to clock he was talking to him.

"Uh…about eight months, I think?"

"Does it help?"

"Yeah, but not like a cure. More like…" Scott fished around for the words. "More like I realized last week that I hadn't woken up with my jaw clenched in a while or I catch myself starting to spiral out and sometimes I can stop it. Talk myself down from it."

The trees rustled charmingly. A red leaf spiraled down in front of them, then whipped away through Ilya's feet. A squirrel paused on the rock wall to watch them and a dozen other people pass by.

"That sounds nice," Hollander said and if there was an edge of wistfulness there.

"Baby steps," Scott said. "Who knows? Maybe one day I won't spiral at all. That'd be something. Hang a right up here."

He led them through greenery and trees. Joggers by the score, benches full of people taking a quick rest from their day, and a frisbee game where every player was dressed in a different neon outfit.

"Does your team know?" The question was very quiet.

"Fuck no," Scott said. "What business is it of theirs?"

"Carter does," Ilya pointed out. "Yes?"

"Yeah, well. That's Carter," Scott waved that away. "At this point trying to keep things from him gives me heartburn, so I just don't bother."

"I don't think I could tell Hayden something like that."

Scott thought of the quiet text all those months ago. "I don't know about that. Your friendship though."

"Anyone on your team you trust like that?" Hollander turned to Ilya.

"Marley, maybe, but we do not talk like that to each other," Ilya said after a moment's thought. "Scott is all…mm. Touchy-feeley."

"I am not," Scott protested.

"With Carter, you are. A little with Huff and Bennett, but not as much."

"Carter is just like that. He's a warm guy. Wait," Scott frowned. "There's nothing wrong with being touchy-feely! Why am I even being defensive about this? I like my friends and I like talking to them. That's a good thing."

Hollander had a thousand-mile stare on, but Ilya looked thoughtful.

"Kip is like this for me," he decided. "And Svetlana sometimes."

"Yeah, exactly," Scott nodded.

"I- you're close with Kip?" Hollander asked.

"We text, see each other sometimes. I like him," Ilya said, then he considered Hollander. "You like him? You've met him now."

"Only once or twice. Bu yeah. I do. He was really kind. To me."

Scott grinned down at the ground. He didn't need anyone's seal of approval on Kip, but it was still nice to hear. Like getting a compliment sideways.

They reached the fountain. The angel presided over the spread of water, stone,and brick. The water was still on though it must be nearly the end of the season for it. Plenty of tourists and locals were lingering around it. Ilya sat down on the edge of the fountain, planting down his hands on the stone and canting his face up again. With a moment's hesitation, Hollander sat down beside him, a demure amount of space between them. Scott fished out his phone. Kip liked the fountain too and it couldn't hurt to send him an update photo. He took a few steps back to get the angel in frame.

After that shot though, he panned down. Ilya and Hollander were still talking, something quiet and low. No part of them was touching, but they were bent toward each other like two trees reaching for the same stretch of sunlight. All around them were strangers, most of whom probably had no goddamn idea who these two men were. Instead, they'd see two well-dressed brawny guys, hands resting on the same stone, six inches apart and gazing at each other intently.

Scott would've wondered if they were on a date. If it was the first one or the hundred and first. He lowered the phone a little, centered the frame and took the shot. Later, he would bury it in folders, hide it away and lock it down. But already he knew it wouldn't stay there. Scott had plans now.

For now though, his plans were just to hover vaguely in front of these two heart-eyed fools for plausible deniability. They couldn't be more exposed than here. Either someone would recognize them (hopefully with the pretend disdain of true New Yorkers, maybe taking a silent picture and telling their friends later how chill they had been about it) or they would somehow avoided every hockey fan in Manhattan. Admittedly easier than doing so than in Montreal, but still a remarkable feat.

"Any chance we're going to talk about Nike today for real or are you two just gonna pull each other's pigtails until someone squeals?" Scott asked idly after a few minutes.

Ilya's hand started creeping up immediately toward Hollander's hair and Hollander slapped it back down so fast that Scott almost missed it. He smothered a laugh at Ilya's offended expression.

"I'm thinking about what it means long term," Hollander said calmly as if that hadn't just happened. "Mom has some concerns. Not just about offending Reebok, but what it means tying my brand to other people."

"You did commercial with me already," Ilya pointed. Definitely already calculating if he could get away with poking more at Hollander in public.

"A long time ago. It would still make sense with the two of us though."

"Can't kick me off the ad, it's me and Ilya's agent setting it up," Scott said with a shrug. "Anyway, if it's just you two, it'll be a matchup. No matter how you try to spin it out. You can say no. Todd doesn't actually have feelings to hurt."

"This is not true," Ilya said. "His money is feelings. Nike will still do a deal with the two of us. Less exciting maybe, but still something."

Hollander stared down at his hands. "I want to do it."

"Freaking out?" Scott asked.

"Yeah. A little."

"It will not change many minds," Ilya said, quieter. "And no one will see it and know everything. Only that three men who know how to make money, figure out that they make a little more money by standing next to each other."

"I don't love that either," Hollander muttered, then stared off somewhere past Scott, past the tree lines.

"Scott," Ilya said, "I want a pretzel."

"You just had lunch, you bottomless pit," he said with an eye roll.

"And then we walked. I already did the gym today, didn't you? Carbs. Recovery."

"You're ridiculous. Go get one yourself if you're in such deep need."

They went back and forth, Scott eventually catching up that this was on purpose. Giving Hollander a second while they did their version of public flirting. It was a relatively new wrinkle and Scott hated how much he enjoyed it. Getting Ilya that bracelet had opened the floodgates, apparently.

"A little mustard too," Ilya was saying when Hollander sat up straight and blurted:

"What if it was for charity?"

"What?" Ilya turned to him. "The ad?"

"Yeah. Instead of getting paid, we put the money into a charity."

"I mean, I've got one handy," Scott said. "But that's not what you're thinking."

"No, I mean, we can. Split it. What if Rozanov and I had one too? Something we're starting together."

"A charity together?" Ilya asked and it was so soft that Scott surveyed the area for any eavesdroppers. Nothing apparent.

"Yeah, for like…mental health? Is that too much?" Hollander asked, equally soft. "I'm thinking if we had something like that then it would add in this layer to why it's happening. Not a money grab, but to shore up a brand new charity. And it would have some longevity. Not just one ad that not everyone sees."

"I like this. It's not too much. Is it?"

They both turned to Scott like he had any say in this at all. Or maybe just for advice. Or maybe because he was standing there staring at them. He chewed it over. A charity.

"I think there's no bad side to helping people," Scott said. "We all donate whatever they pay us to the charities. It'd be a good way to start yours and fund a new scholarship for my folks."

"Hunter made us have lunch, we realized we have things in common," Ilya suggested.

"And then-"

"If we're weaving the public story, we should do it in private," Scott pointed out. Less because he thought anyone was eavesdropping and more because they've been slowly gravitating towards each other.

That got them moving and Ilya diverted the conversation to hockey, ribbing Hollander about a missed goal three games ago. Back in Scott's apartment, Ilya herded Hollander to the couch and sat beside him. The plausible space vanished, their knees touching and Ilya's arm extending behind Hollander's shoulders.

Scott took the other end of the couch, facing them. Details were hashed out and he fetched his laptop, composing an email that he sent to Hollander to look over later. But he could see his minutes here were numbered, Ilya's hand on Hollander's knee. There had been a tension at first, Hollander glancing at Scott over and over like he might comment or break things up, but the longer it went on, the more Hollander relaxed and returned the touch with his own.

"Okay," Scott said, closing his laptop. "Seems workable. I'm going to head out."

"What?" Hollander asked. "But-"

"It's all right. It's easier here than a hotel. Fewer eyes. And I've got a hot date anyway."

"With George?" Ilya asked amused.

"Laugh all you want, but I'm getting a home-cooked meal tonight that I didn't make."

"So am I," Ilya said. "Or did you not leave us things in the fridge?"

Scott absolutely had because he had been stressed and cooking had helped. There was no use denying it because Ilya had watched him do it this morning while Ilya been rattling the bars of the apartment cage and checking his phone every five minutes.

"Shut up," Scott said weakly as he got to his feet.

"You made dinner, but you're leaving? Who's George?"

"Kip's father," Ilay supplied, looking up at Scott with one of his rare soft looks. "Scott is going to go be hero and help with lightbulbs."

"It's a nice lie," Scott admitted. "George is way handier than me. But I guess I'm taller and Kip doesn't like him getting on ladders when no one's home."

"His father knows?" The question was pained.

"Kip has been out since he was sixteen." Heaving himself up again, Scott went to collect his overnight bag from the bedroom. "We were dating for about a year before I met George."

"It was very funny," Ilya said with a half-smile. "Kip did not warn George and George loves hockey. We were a very big surprise."

"You were there?" Hollander asked.

Scott slung his bag over his shoulder. "Not on purpose. Sort of a last-minute thing after the awards last year."

When he stepped back into the living room it was to a very intense staring contest and it occurred to him that he might've accidentally thrown a live grenade with that one.

Whoops.

"You're leaving us here. Again?" Hollander checked, not really looking away from Ilya.

"You were tidy about it last time, I'm not worried. Eat whatever you want, except the-"

"Mango," Ilya snorted. "I know, I know."

And then he did turn attention to Scott. Tilting his head expectantly.

Oh. Fuck. Well. Okay then.

Scott leaned down and kissed Ilya softly, careful to touch him nowhere but the lips. Acutely aware of the burning gaze of their audience. He'd kissed Ilya in front of Kip a few times and it was always a little self-conscious, but otherwise fine. This felt like transgression, a little.

"Be good, sweetheart," he said, practically under his breath.

"He doesn't like me good," Ilya contended, equally low, lips quirked in an uneven smile.

"Then he's missing out," Scott said, gave the back of Ilya's neck a quick reassuring squeeze, and stood up straight. "Good night, both of you."

"Good night," Hollander said and it sounded normal enough. Even. He didn't look at Scott, but Scott wasn't sure what that was an indicator of at this point. Maybe nothing.

George wound up explaining more things than Scott helped with. His toolbox was neat and organized, his explanations useful and short. They went through everything when Scott showed bemusement beyond screwdrivers.

"What do you do when things break?" George asked bemused as Scott finally got on the ladder to replace the lightbulb on the landing.

"I went from living in a boarding school to renting apartments with landlords who did things," Scott explained sheepishly. "It never really came up."

"Good thing you've got Kip then," George said with a shake of his head. "He'd have been a good electrician if art hadn't gotten him."

"Really?" Scott asked delighted by this bit of new material.

"Oh yeah. He did really well in his shop classes, but I guess he did have me to coach him along."

"Hm, sounds like I might never have to learn how to fix anything then," Scott said as he rotated a bulb into place.

"You're thinking that long term, are you?" George asked.

The bulb in place, George flicked the light back on. Scott blinked away spots.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess I am. Hope that's okay."

"I think I can accept that," George laughed. "Come on down. I've got a leak in the upstairs bathroom sink. I'll show you how to turn off the water."

It was an educational night. There was meatloaf and creamy mashed potatoes which Scott helped make to redeem himself a little. They had had enough conversations now that it didn't feel awkward even without Kip there. Watching hockey with George was fun, his questions expected, but never veering into irritating.

"You sure you don't mind that old twin bed?" George checked again as he headed up the stairs. "I should really replace it for when you two visit."

"It's fine," Scott assured him.

He certainly wasn't going to tell George that curling up where Kip had spent so many nights was deeply reassuring despite the lack of his lover. There was a small remedy for even that. Scott got comfortable and then called Kip.

"Hiya, love," Kip said. "Did my Dad work you to the bone?"

"I wasn't very helpful," Scott admitted. "I held a lot of things and pointed a flashlight."

"Don't underestimate the flashlight stand position," Kip laughed quietly. "I held it for a long time."

"I'm told you're a secret whiz with circuits."

"Don't listen to him! I know a little. Enough not to shock myself if I have to replace an outlet cover or something."

"More than I can manage," Scott said. "How was the presentation?"

"Good, actually. Not nearly as an intense a grilling after as I thought there would be."

They chatted about Kip's advisor (unhinged), upcoming gauntlet of finals (frightening), and newfound passion for Turner (deep and abiding).

"It's the blurred effect, I don't know. I'll send you a few links," Kip said. "How was your day? You sound happy enough. Nike a go?"

"I think so. The plans got a little expanded on."

He filled Kip in as best he could on the day.

"The charity idea is good. Give back a little. Something sustainable for them too. Not just a one off."

"I think that's the idea, yeah. Not that either of them said that. Maybe that's what they're talking about now."

"Bold of you to assume they're having a dialogue," Kip said dryly.

"They might be. Ilya wanted a kiss from me before I left."

"Ooooh, shit," Kip said. "You gave him one?"

"Yeah, I mean...yes? Did I fuck up? It seemed right."

"I don't think you fucked up. It's not really up to you how that goes down," Kip said after a second. "Babe, what are you going to do if Ilya does go monogamous?"

"Be really sad," Scott said, the thought of it getting to him a little. "Stay his friend. I'm not leaving his life unless he tells me to go."

"Aw, love," Kip said gently. "I don't think he would."

It was one of those little improvements that Scott could say and mean: "I don't think he would either." Instead of spiraling into the 'what ifs' of it all.

"You want to come down after your game on Wednesday? Thursday is weirdly quiet, we could sleep in and hang out."

"Yes," Scott said with some relief. "That'd be great. I'll skip practice in the afternoon so I don't have to rush back. It's optional."

"Awesome," Kip said happily.

Scott and George ate breakfast sandwiches in the morning that Kip would not approve of and went their separate ways, but only after George gave Scott an affectionate one-armed hug that did some things to his head. No time to think about it though before he rushed to practice, so he wouldn't be found missing twice in a week.

The apartment was empty when he got back, expected with their schedules. The bed had been neatly made, sheets freshly washed. The fan was running in the bathroom, but any traces of taken showers had dried and vanished. Why Scott assumed that meant nothing had been tampered with was between him and his own lack of pattern recognition.

Well that and he was reasonably sure that Ilya would not be showing off his magpie tendencies in front of his beloved. Jesus, did Hollander even know yet how loved he was? Did Ilya know yet? Scott hoped to fuck they did.

So with all that rattling through him, Scott thought he could be given a little slack for being surprised to open his fridge and finding a full half of his stress cooking-filled tupperware missing. Far more than one dinner's worth for even two hungry young athletes. In fairness, Scott had made enough food to last himself far beyond his ability to eat, but he could have frozen some of it.

He probably would have.

The container of mango had been left ostentatiously alone at least.

In place of his missing containers was a flat brown box. He took it out and opened it to find an incredibly fancy kitchen knife. The kind that came with care instructions and a booklet. One he'd seen before in Ilya's own butcher block and teased him about never using.

Definitely worth more than three-bean soup.

Scott thought it was more than fair that he considered that to be the end of things and went about the rest of his day, already considering what he could make with a very sharp, very beautiful knife.

In the long quiet sweep of the late afternoon, he put on some porn and decided to indulge in a long jerk off session where he would absolutely not be thinking about the uses his bed had been put to the night before.

When he reached into his nightstand for the lube, his fingers closed around an unfamiliar shape. Scott pulled out an elegant glass bottle filled with clear fluid. Still lube. Just not his lube.

Sitting up, he peered into the drawer and did find his usual tube shoved unceremoniously to the back of the drawer. There was also a note written on a torn bit of paper in blocky handwriting.

Thanks for everything. This is a best brand on the market. Better for your skin too.

That was not Ilya's handwriting. Scott stared at it for a long, free-falling minute.

"What the fuck?" he asked the empty air.

No reply. Thankfully. He opened the cap and found a pump. Elegant. Like it really was high end skin care. He pumped a little bit on his fingers and rubbed it over his fingertips. It did feel pretty good.

It worked extremely well.

Scarlett: Thank you.

NAD: You're welcome.

Scarlett: Back home already?

NAD: Yes and packing. Away again tomorrow.

Scarlett: Did you two decide anything?

NAD: I'm going to test the idea of the charity with my mother. Not with Lily involved. Just generally.

Scarlett: She'll have to know about Lily eventually if you're moving forward.

NAD: I know. I'll handle it.

Scarlett: If it's too much, we'll figure something else out.

NAD: I want it. I'm just figuring out how to have it.

Scarlett: Mood.

NYTY: Get home okay?

BH: Yes.

NYTY: Did you know Jane left me lube?

BH: What?

NYTY: [Photo of the note]

BH: I am dying. I'm dead. Saw your lube and could not let it stand that I might be fucking with bad product.

NYTY: Excuse you, this is for me.

BH: Jane knows who you fuck with.

NYTY: Maybe it's for Kip, have you considered that? Jane likes Kip.

BH: No, no. For me. You do not know Jane like I do. Jane is very picky and brings it to every hook up in a little thing. Like packet?

NYTY: Packet works. Sachet is what you're looking for though. So Jane is so worried about your ass that I get gifts?

BH: 🤣🤣🤣🤣 No.

NYTY: What am I missing?

BH: Jane is worried about the other ass. Never mine.

NYTY: Never?

BH: Jane's preference. And mine. You know.

NYTY: I do not know, but all right. So I would agree that this definitely for me then.

BH: Easier to top with too!

NYTY: Brat. Don't heat that food up in the microwave. Stovetop tastes better.

BH: You are both picky.

NYTY: No shit, Sherlock. You have a type.

Svetlana: You're an excellent cook.

Scott: Thank you. I should've figured he stole my food for you.

Svetlana: Only fair. I am listening to a long rant about your plans and cards being played. It is very confusing and I don't think he knows what he's talking about either. Jane is very confusing apparently.

Scott: They love each other, right? I'm not crazy?

Svetlana: Down bad. Head over heels. Heartsick. I am so single right now. He is getting ass three ways, including from me and is still pathetic. Everything is unfair.

Scott: Come to NYC, I'll take you on a platonic date. Dinner? Broadway? You name it. Consider it payment for your emotional labor.

Svetlana: Clubbing?

Scott: If you want, why not? I think I've got a weekend night or two coming up that I'm not playing.

Sveltana: Be my boyfriend.

Scott: Sorry, can't, but I can look like one for a night.

Svetlana: Good enough. Send me dates and we will make a plan. He has not noticed I am even texting. He usually notices if I sneeze differently. Very sad.

Scott: Hey, can you ask him what his favorite color is?

Svetlana: It's brown, he says. And he has now noticed the texting. Wrap it up.

Scott: What's yours?

Svetlana: Dark green. Why?

Scott: Just curious.

Svetlana: 🤨

Two Weeks Later

Scarlett: What's your favorite color?

NAD: Blue.

Scarlett: Great, thanks!

NAD: WTF?

One Month Later

NYTY: Are you coming this year? No better offers?

BH: I have better offers, but I take pity.

NYTY: Brat. When do you want to come?

BH: Several times. I have to choose now?

NYTY: I can tell someone won last night. Or scored. Or both.

BH: 3-0 against Montreal.

NYTY: Both then. Good for you. Am I buying train tickets or are you going to fly here on your own ego?

BH: This does not even make sense. So jealous. 22nd. I have to leave early on the 26th.

NYTY: Do you have a second, actually? Cause things might be a little different this year.

Boston Hottie Calling. Call lasted: 35 minutes.

"Do not, under any circumstances, stand on mistletoe," Scott advised, possibly not for the first time given how Ilya was glaring at him.

"Maybe I will do this on purpose. Maybe I want to kiss Vaughn cousins. He is handsome. Maybe they are pretty."

"They are. But you'll pretty much be required to marry them if you do. She's relentless," Scott warned.

The door opened on the townhouse before Scott could add any more cautions. Carter, in a violently red sweater with a huge Christmas tree complete with tiny actual ornaments on it, was on the other side.

"Hey, boys!" He said. "Merry Christmas!"

"Hey man," Scott said, giving him a hug and trooping inside. "Elena come tonight?"

"Absolutely not," Carter said. "I'm not doing all this to her yet. Next year, if she's still willing to be seen with me."

"Smart. Where's your mother? I've got cookies for her."

"You're a trooper. Roz!"

Ilya also accepted his hug. "Carter. Scott tells me no to mistletoe, is this true?"

"Yes," Carter said emphatically. "You're not ugly and you're rich, you're not safe here."

"You invite me into danger?"

"Yep. Come on in. Mom made mulled wine. Smells like potpourri, but it tastes good."

"Potpurri?" Ilya asked.

"Old fashioned air freshener," Scott supplied. "Come on. Meet Mrs. Vaughn."

The house was crowded with Vaughns, their partners and children. Carter's mother was as skeptical of Scott's existence as always and his grandmother as rabid to have him stand close to several eligible cousins. None of them gave two shits about Scott any more, but two of them were instantly intrigued by Ilya which meant Scott got to witness a new side of him.

Confronted with the attention of two interested women that Ilya absolutely could not sleep with, Ilya gently fended them off and turned all his attention on the aunties, solicitous and helpful. He fetched them drinks, complimented their clothes and learned the names of their grandchildren. They laid claim to him almost immediately and would not release him to the younger ladies for the rest of the night.

On the one hand, it was annoying to know that Ilya could be perfectly polite and lovely if he was trying to avoid being interesting to dynamic young women. On the other, it was very sweet as it apparently seemed equally genuine as the way Ilya tossed chirps at Carter in the kitchen while refilling drinks.

Luckily, these parties ended as children's bedtimes arose and Scott, who had somehow wound up listening to health laments for a solid half-hour, was finally able to extract himself.

Carter hugged him again. Tightly and whispered, "Hey, maybe next year with Kip too, huh?"

"Yeah," Scott choked a little. "Maybe."

They were in the car before Ilya asked, "What did he say? You look like you licked lemons."

"That I could bring Kip too next year."

"Mm. You could. They did not think it was that strange that I was there."

"You're you. Kip is Kip," Scott said.

"You think they they will know he is gay and think you are too?"

"Yes," Scott sighed, pulling away from the curb. He hadn't touched the mulled wine, but he felt like it was in him anyway, making everything a little thicker and harder to push through.

"Big problem. A whole house of people who think you are so great that they want you to marry all their children might think you are not perfect straight hockey man."

"I know, I know," Scott grumbled. "They're really nice."

"Next year. That is a long time away," Ilya said, a little less pointedly. "Who knows?"

"That's true enough."

Scott might not have Ilya beside him next year. Surely Hollander would want him for the holidays eventually.

When Scott had outlined their plans to Ilya, it had all made sense. Carter's family on Christmas Eve. Sleep in, pancakes, then the Gradys' house for the afternoon. George had been keen to have a full house.

The plan had not been to get on the Van Wyck and follow it onto I-87.

"Where are we going?" Ilya asked, glancing up from his phone twenty minutes in as they crossed over the Whitestone.

"Finally snapped. Going to murder you and toss you in the Hudson."

Ilya snorted, "Okay. Red is very festive. Santa Killer."

"That makes it sound like I killed Santa. Or I'm dressed as Santa."

"Your kinky murder," Ilya grumbled, even as he was sitting up a little more and trying to make things out in the dark.

"It's a thing I've been working on that I want to show you. I meant to wait, but I don't know. That conversation bummed me out and this makes me happy."

Ilya glanced at him then nodded once, relaxing. "Fine. I will tell Kip you have me though. He will revenge me if you do kill me."

"He will not. He'll help me cover it up. We talked about it once."

"You two are very fucked up."

"Yep."

On a quiet dark night, the drive was easy. Scott got off at the Tarrytown exit and wound through streets splotched with Christmas color. He always thought they looked a little sad with no snow on the ground to reflect the vibrancy.

"My parents did Christmas lights," he said. "The colorful ones. Just a few strands around the house. They didn't work as well as the ones do now. Sometimes one bulb would be out and it would mess up the whole string. I used to sit with my Mom and check them all before they hung them up."

"Was it pretty or too much?"

"I thought it was pretty," Scott said. "I think. What's memory and what's remembering the memory, you know? But I liked it."

"My mother liked lace," Ilya said. "But it rips too easily. I would help her fix it. When I was small."

They both sat in that, watching the cheery lights go by. Tarrytown gave way to Sleepy Hollow. Scott turned onto a smaller street which gave way to another winding one until he could turn into the now-familiar driveway, punching a code into the gate.

"An AirBnB?" Ilya guessed.

"No," Scott said and fished the garage door opener out of the central console. "When I got the apartment, the guys ragged on me a lot."

"It is not exciting, but why do they make fun of you for it? It's fine," Ilya said, a little defensively.

"Not the place, the location. It's kind of nuts to live that far from our practice rink. I do a lot of commuting, you know?"

"Yes, but you like driving."

The garage was clean, one of the places left untouched. Scott headed for the door into the house, Ilya on his heels.

They stepped into the living room. Wide and welcoming, there were two couches and a few chairs all facing a real fireplace. There were already paintings hung too. Things Kip had delighted in picking out, sending links to Scott by the score until they had agreed on a few.

"I do like driving, but it's starting to reach me by the middle of the season," Scott admitted. "The rink is one town over. Barely a ten-minute drive."

"This is your house?" Ilya asked. "You bought a house?"

"Sort of," Scott said, ducking his head to hide his smile. "Can I give you a tour?"

"You did not drive me here to fuck on the couch than leave," came the scoffing retort.

Of course, Ilya was already poking around even as he was giving sarcastic responses. He took in the massive seascape hung above the couch, the little boat on top of an enormous wave surrounded by a single shaft of sunlight. He stood in front of it a little longer than Scott would expect, a curious reverence on his face.

"Come see the kitchen."

It was a good kitchen, spacious and light. Nothing like the ultra-modern gloss of some of the other places Scott had looked at. Running his fingers over the butcher block of the island, Ilya nodded a little in approval. This was going better than Scott could've hoped.

"It's on a three-acre plot, dead center. More space than you can usually get around here. It means the neighbors can't see or hear shit, especially with all the trees. There's the view too."

It was freezing out, but they still had their coats on. Scott opened the sliding glass doors and led Ilya out onto the enormous deck. With all the leaves dropped, the view of the river was visible even at night, the lights of buildings on the other side sparkling like stars.

"Better than the roof," Ilya deemed, circling the perimeter of the space. "Scott! Is this a hot tub?"

"Yep. It's not prepped or anything, so don't get any ideas. But next time."

"I like hot tubs."

"Shocking information. You've only been papped in them once a year for forever."

"They like to see me shirtless. I cannot helped this," Ilya laughed. "I almost got a house with one in Boston, but the rest of it was ugly."

"I like your house, good choice. You can always have one put in. Come on, I want to show you other things."

They went back in and up the stairs, skipping utility rooms and the underwhelming basement. The important things were higher. The second floor had a wide hall and several closed doors. If he wanted, Scott could pull Ilya by most of them. He didn't.

"There's five bedrooms," he said, opening the doors to two mostly blank slate rooms with mattresses sitting on frames.

"A lot just for you," Ilya observed. "You will suddenly become a party person?"

"I've been hosting more," Scott pointed out. "So the first two are for whoever."

"Only the first two?"

"Yeah, come see."

The next bedroom was completely decorated. The walls had been painted a deep forest green, the bedding on the confection of a bed picked to match. There were gold accents everywhere. The wood floors were freshly redone, lacquered a darker shade than the rest of the house.

"For Svetlana," Scott said as Ilya stood stock still in the doorway.

"What?"

"When she wants it. It's here," Scott said softly, then got a hand around Ilya's wrist and tugged him down the hall a little further before he could ask anything else.

"What are you doing?" Ilya demanded.

"Just…look."

With his heart in his throat, Scott opened the next door. The room was generously large, the ceiling higher in this section. The soft blue walls swept down into bedding here too, accented with brown everywhere. There was a small sitting area in one corner, a loveseat and an armchair.

"I know it's a little bare right now, but I didn't want to do anything you'd hate."

"This is for me?"

"For both of you," Scott clarified. "Or it could be. Just wait here."

He had to go back downstairs, fishing in one of the mostly empty kitchen drawers. When he got back up, Ilya had moved into the room. He stood by the bed, one hand wrapped around the copper-toned metal lattice of the footboard like he might drown otherwise.

"I don't understand," Ilya said.

"Here." There were three keys hanging off a brown leather keychain. "I did something weird."

"Yes," Ilya said, taking the keys. "Weirder than this?"

"This is a nice room," Scott contended. "But, yes. I didn't buy the house."

"So you have keys, but you do not own it?"

"It's owned by D&B Holdings LLC," Scott said.

"Who the fuck is that?"

"My parents' names. Donna and Bradley. Right now, I'm the only member of the company, but I've got paperwork. For all of you, if you want it. I don't need a house this size for just me. If things end…Then they end and we sell it and you all take your share."

"All of you," Ilya said flatly, still holding on to the footboard, eyes darting wildly. "Who is 'all of you'?"

"You, Kip, Svetlana and Hollander. I know it's weird, but I just- I never wanted to live in an empty house again. The apartment was bad enough," he said, voice tight. "I couldn't fucking deal with buying something out here that was another place for me to rattle around in by myself. But I can do this. I can be in a place like this if I know other people live here, even if it's only sometimes. And I want you all to feel safe somewhere. I know maybe it doesn't matter to Svetlana as much, but she deserves as much of it as we do. And I-"

"Shut up," Ilya said sharply and Scott went quiet. "Breathe."

Right. Breathing mattered. Scott counted out a few breaths. "Sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" Ilya shook his head and finally released his grip. "You bought a place to keep all your people. Without asking. Crazy. But not bad."

"I asked Kip?" Scott offered. "He said it was a good idea."

"If you ask Kip if it is a good idea to stab each other to see what it feels like, he would say yes," Ilya rolled his eyes. "He thinks you are very smart."

"He does not," Scott said automatically. "Oh god, does he? I'm not. He knows I'm not, right?"

The huff of annoyance broke Ilya's death grip, so he could throw his hands in the air . "You are very stupid. I know this. Kip probably knows this, but he has decided to love you and listen to you anyway. And let you buy your people a house."

"Right, yep. I did do that," Scott said. "Wow. I did do that."

"You did this months ago or it would not be so full of things, so why do you sound surprised?"

"I didn't really let myself think about it," he admitted. "I sort of made the decision and did it and then kept on doing things until right now."

The sigh was deep enough to be for both of them which was good because Scott couldn't get in enough air to sigh right now.

"This is- very big. Very weird."

"I didn't show you the whole thing yet," Scott said, his voice pitching up a little.

"Is there a sex dungeon in the basement? Is that why we skip it?"

"Shut up, no," Scott groaned. "No dungeon. Just laundry machines and a concrete floor. I was thinking of getting it finished eventually, but there's other- never mind. Come on."

The main bedroom had a balcony above the deck. It was still mostly white, the bedding a light gray for now. Despite his all-in excitement about the rest of the house, Kip had been reticent to leave his fingerprints in their bedroom and Scott had hid the hurt over that as best he could. His fault, he knew. He could buy a house, but he couldn't bring Kip to a Christmas party. If he were Kip, he wouldn't pick out things for the bedroom either.

Still, that meant Scott couldn't bring himself to do anything Kip might eventually come to dislike, so it stayed a little blank for now. Comfortable though.

"You can open the doors when it's warm. See the river," Scott said as Ilya took in the space with all the exasperated doubt Scott held too. "It's pretty. But it's not the best view in the place."

"Okay, you have more to show off. Ridiculous. Show me."

The anxiety flared again. The rest of this was already certifiable. He knew that. He'd bought a house for a group of people without consultation. The idea had lurked around the edges of his mind for years, the shape of it changing, but on July 4 (with Kip pressed to his side, Hollander in his peripheral vision and the silent phone heavy in his pocket) Scott had had a vision.

Another party, next year. Something a little closer, a little more tight knit.

Something important and precious enough to need a jewelry box.

The stairs went up again. To what Scott had started thinking of as The Nest though he had not said the words to another living soul and wasn't going to start tonight. It might have been an attic once, but the previous owners had turned it into a gorgeous airy space. The roof slanted here, but that only served to make for interesting windows and an intimacy that the other rooms lacked.

At one end, there were glass doors so no light was diminished from one side to the other, but a separate room was created. There was a desk there and duplicates of a few of Kip's favorite books. A place he could sit and get work done if he wanted. If he didn't, then maybe Scott needed a place for his financial paperwork. If Kip didn't use it though, Scott knew he never would. It had been Kip's office in his mind from the first moment.

It was the rest of the Nest that Scott desperately wanted to show and hide, all at the same time. There was the cluster of chairs by the huge half-moon window overlooking the houses below and the river again. Hard to see with the lights on and the night dark, but Scott knew the view well now. There was a small stretch of cabinets, a sink, minifridge and a gorgeous coffee maker waiting silently nearby.

"In the morning, it's like sitting in the treetops," he said softly as if the words would disturb things.

But Ilya didn't care about the view or the coffee. He had already spotted the back wall. The only stretch with no windows.

George had shown Scott some tricks to hanging pictures straight, patient as he taught Scott how to use a level. With great care, Scott had taken his lessons here. The small photo printer in the office had been put to a lot of work.

Kip hadn't seen it yet. It was meant to surprise him and Ilya on some convenient visit in a few months, maybe. When everything was done and Scott didn't feel so raw about it all.

Instead, he stood there, one big exposed nerve, as Ilya took it in.

The pictures had added up quickly. Most of them weren't his by right, things he had scrounged off Instagram, articles, and photos of photos. There were the easy obvious ones: Svetlana and Ilya in club gear; Svetlana's graduation photo with her cap in her hands and her robe already mostly off to show the dress underneath; Kip's graduation shot fully in robed; Kip with his cluster of close friends at the Kingfisher all of them very drunk and laughing about it; Kip and George on a beach when Kip was knee high and a little sunburned; Scott's few family photos copied over; Scott's draft day photo; Hollander and Ilya's draft day beside it; all three of them in their pro-shots with their jerseys on, years into their careers; and a single carefully cropped CMC ad from seven years ago with Hollander and Ilya locked into a mock face-off their faces so serious they looped around to parody.

Then there were the less obvious ones: Scott and Ilya laughing about something on the sidewalk outside a coffee shop (taken by a fan, who had not approached them); Scott with Svetlana and Kip over dinner pressed together in a selfie she had taken; Ilya and Kip on Scott's couch with Ilya's arm draped over Kip's shoulder both of them absorbed in something to the left of the camera; and the fountain shot, Ilya and Hollander inclined towards each other and their devotion pouring off of them even if no point of them touched.

Reaching out, Ilya touched the frame of the fountain picture with a single fingertip than let his hand fall back to his side.

"If you wanted to put anything up, I left a lot of room," Scott said weakly. "And if you want me take anything down, I will. But no one can see it here, but us."

Ilya said nothing. He studied the wall with his 'doing calculus' face.

The thud of his own heartbeat was loud in Scott's ears.

The words that had lingered on Scott's tongue since Vegas, practically a year ago, were ready now. He studied Ilya's profile. The face that could be so goofy and so earnest and so stern and so angry and so very deeply wounded. Scott inhaled and exhaled. He spoke.

"I don't think you know that I love you. And I want you to know that I do."

That got Ilya to turn to face him, eyes wide and wild. "Scott. No."

"I do," he said, a little more firmly. "I love you, sweetheart. You're my family. Whatever that looks like, whatever it means. Even if we never fucked again. Even if you walked out of here and never came back, never talked to me again, I'd feel that way. Probably forever. I don't let go easy."

The hug happened like a hit to the boards. A reminder of how enormous and dangerous Ilya could be and never was off the ice. Ilya's face tucked into Scott's neck, his arms wrapping around him. Scott hugged him back with equal desperation, clinging to him.

"I love you too," Ilya said, the words rough and broken against Scott's neck. "You are an insane person to love. Always. But I do."

They stood locked together for a long time and a knot that had been lodged in Scott's chest for months unraveled.

"Could you send me that picture of me and Kip?" Scott asked when they finally separated enough for speech.

"Yes. And some others. I have things that I would like here," Ilya said.

"Anything."

They didn't have sex that night, only got into Scott's new bed, in his blank bedroom and passed out on the crisp sheets. On the drive back, Ilya was quieter than usual, but reached across the console a few times to poke Scott when he got to in his own head.

"I've got something else," Scott said as they stripped down to get into the shower.

"More?" Ilya asked, bemused, but held out his hand for Scott to drop two more sets of keys into. One with a Metros keychain that had pained him to buy and another with green fur pompom on it.

"Not for you. Well, for you, in a way," Scott tempered. "Svetlana can have hers whenever. But the other one…when you're ready. Never, if you want. But Montreal plays us here twice a year, you know? That's two extra days a season. Not nothing, if you're in the area."

Ilya closed his hand around them, expression blank. "The LLC?"

"It's not going anywhere. If you want to join in, then I want you to. Both of them too. Whenever."

"Did Kip join?"

"He wants to talk to you about it."

"Me?" Ilya frowned. "Why?"

"You want what he said or what I think?"

"Both."

"He said because he wants to make sure we're all on the same page about what it means."

Ilya turned to him. "But you think something else."

"I think he wants you to talk him into it. He hates when I spend money on him, but this isn't really that anyway. Except it is. Like…I don't know. We're not married. Maybe we never will be, but if he leaves me, now he'll have something. We'll sell the house, he'd get his share of it. He knows it'll be me taking care of him in a way and he knows you don't have an issue with me doing that for you. So. Yeah."

"We will see him soon and I will tell him he is a dumb fuck if he does not do this with you."

"Don't call him names."

Ilya rolled his eyes, "Yes, sorry. But it is very ridiculous how he is about money and you. Only thing we argue about."

"What about you?" Scott asked. "You want in?"

"I do not say no to anything you give me, do I?" Ilya challenged, eyes flashing warning.

"I'll send you the paperwork. I had it translated into Russian. I know you can read English just fine, don't take it the wrong way."

"You want me to be angry with you about this? About any of it? You keep flinching like I will be," Ilya said, tossing the keys into his bag before stalking toward Scott, until Scott had to sit down on the bed, fend him off, or fall back against it. He sat.

"I keep waiting for someone to be angry. I thought it would be Kip, but he thinks it's a good idea. So then I figured you would be? A little?"

"No." Planting his hands on Scott's knees, Ilya leaned in and kissed him, messy and demanding. "Not even a little."

They fucked syrupy slow, almost trance-like. Ilya moved over and through Scott in waves. When they both started to get sloppy, the end speeding toward them, Scott offered his wrist up to Ilya and the resulting bite sent him over the edge.

The small bruise was easily covered by Scott's sweater later. Kip and George greeted them both with hugs and then Scott got to kiss his boyfriend in front of his father (chastely, appropriately) on Christmas Day. Presents were exchanged and Scott was wholly unsurprised, but still touched that George had gotten him a shiny red toolkit with a few tools already tucked inside.

"A home owner needs these things," George said firmly.

"Thank you," Scott said. "I'll make good use of it."

In exchange, Scott gave George an Admirals jersey with most of the team's signatures. "I left off the assholes, hope that's okay."

"Love that!" George laughed. "I'll tell people exactly that if they ask."

It had seemed a little cheap to Scott, something he could do so easily, but Kip had assured him that it would make his father happy and it did seem to. Ilya had gotten both Kip and George open ended plane tickets, something Scott wasn't aware you could still do.

"So you go where you want," he said. "Father-son trip."

"Ilya!" Kip kissed his cheek. "That's so sweet. Thank you."

"You are very welcome," Ilya said smugly, giving Scott a 'ha!' look as if he'd one-upped him.

Brat.

Because he knew his boyfriend's limits, Scott had gotten Kip a Met and MoMA annual membership. He thought it was very restrained. Aside from the also sort of buying him a house, but that wasn't just for Kip so it shouldn't count.

"You didn't have to do both," Kip said even as he clutched the cards.

"I'm supporting the arts. It's practically a donation."

"I see what you're doing," Kip warned him even as he gave him another kiss.

They ate an ill-advised amount of food and wallowed around the house. At some point, Ilya and Kip were alone in the kitchen while Scott attempted to focus on ESPN with George, but kept dozing off. It could've been ten minutes or an hour, he really couldn't say. All he knew was that when Kip came back, he burrowed into Scott's side and said, "Okay. Paperwork me."

"You sure?" Scott murmured, dropping his head to Kip's shoulder.

"Very," Kip said and slipped his hand into Scott's hair, probably sticking it up in every direction. "I'm coming over tomorrow. I might move into the apartment for a few weeks, actually. Sorry to invade."

"Oh no," Scott said. "No. Don't."

"I know," Kip laughed and kissed the top of his head. "Maybe we can go to the house for a few days too, between games?"

"Yes," Scott said immediately. "That's what it's for. Do you want to do your birthday in the city though? See your people?"

"I'd like that. You'll come out with us? Probably just the Kingfisher, you know we're predictable."

"Of course," Scott said.

"Of course? Even though Ilya has a game?"

It would be more of a statement, being there as the only hockey guy, but Scott didn't care right now as Kip massaged his scalp and he could hear Ilya and George maybe making fun of the both of them a little. Or talking shit about sports announcers. Hard to tell.

"Yes," Scott said firmly. "I'll be there."

Later That Afternoon

Scarlett: Merry Christmas!

NAD: Thanks, you too.

Scarlett: How are you spending it?

NAD: With my parents. Saw the rest of the family yesterday. Back to practice tomorrow. You?

Scarlett: Mostly with friends. Kitten and co, for most of this morning.

NAD: Lily is with you.

Scarlett: Tradition at this point. It was different this year though. Spending time with other people.

NAD: What did you used to do?

Scarlett: Just the two of us, mostly in the apartment.

NAD: Every year?

Scarlett: Yep.

NAD: Why?

Scarlett: There wasn't anyone else. Not really.

NAD: But there is now.

Scarlett: Could be more. No pressure, I know it's easier said than done, but the door is open.

NAD: Thanks.

For a few glorious weeks, Kip lived with Scott again. They spent time at the apartment so Kip could see his friends and have his now annual Kingfisher party. But for the better part of Kip's break, they were in Sleepy Hollow. There were away games, of course, so Scott couldn't be there for all of it, but he got to come back home to a warmly lit house. Kip loved the living room and he was usually there when Scott got home. They made love everywhere, including some ill-advised spots until the memories of their pleasured noises were pressed into the walls and floors.

When Kip went back to Princeton, a stone fell into Scott's stomach. He'd convinced himself that he was used to Kip's comings and goings, but it hurt worse this time. The summer would be okay, he reminded himself often. Kip would come home for most of the summer, teaching a single course remotely.

He and Ilya caught each other in passing, stolen nights in Boston and almost exclusively in Sleepy Hollow, even though it was less practical than the apartment after games. Ilya roamed the house when he couldn't sleep and instead of removing things, added them. Traces of him cropped up in the kitchen, preferred snacks appearing in cabinets. They sprouted in The Nest with flavored creamers in the mini-fridge and new pictures appearing slowly. Including the lonely photo from his mantle all those years ago, a young woman with Ilya's eyes sitting in a windowsill.

As Kip's books piled up in the office, Ilya's spare gear cluttered up the front hall closet. Scott folded his clothes in drawers and hung his suits up in his closet. The house sounded less and less empty every time he visits, the echos vanishing into the detritus of life.

In April, Svetlana called, asking if she could come to the house. When Scott told her it was always hers to come and go from, she only said thank you and still demanded a set date to see it.

She arrived on a Thursday morning in palazzo pants, a man's dress shirt, her curls caught back from her face in a gauzy scarf. Business attire for a rising yacht saleswoman.

"You look gorgeous," Scott said.

"You look like you rolled out of bed ten minutes ago."

"I did," he admitted. "Late night."

"Good win though. You played well. Especially for you at this point in the year."

"Please don't comment on it, I'm afraid I'll breathe wrong and it'll topple like a house of cards."

She gave little away as they walked around the ground floor and the deck. When they got to the second floor and she stepped into her bedroom, her face went as blank as Ilya's had.

"How did you know?" she asked at last. "I- this is beautiful."

"You said green was your favorite color. Then I gave the interior designer your Instagram handle. I didn't really do much."

With a disbelieving huff of laughter, she reached for one of her hands, taking it in both of hers.

"I want to see the paperwork now."

"You haven't seen the rest of the house."

"I do not give a single shit, Hunter. Paperwork."

He did, at least, take her up to The Nest to hand over his laptop with the paperwork on it. She curled up in one of the chairs and read it through it right there.

"Coffee?" he offered.

"Yes, please."

So Scott made coffee and she clicked through documents. It was a little overcast outside. A barge lazily pushed down the river. Was she an early riser? Would Scott find her up here some mornings? Or would this space remain his alone at dawn on his more restless nights?

"I'll have my lawyer and my accountant look it over too," she decided, closing the laptop and handing it back to him, before picking up her mug.

"Of course. If it impacts your taxes, tell me and I'll find a way to cover it for you."

"Good. This is a tentative yes," she said, taking a sip of the coffee. "We will need a lot of talking. Calendars. Agreements."

"Yeah, all that. It'll be a mess," Scott said happily. "But I think between all of us, we can sort it out."

"I need to meet Hollander. That will close the loop," she said. "It's gone on too long without me shaking his hand."

"They're still in flux. I gave Ilya Hollander's key, but I have no idea when he'll ever give it to him."

She sighed. "Men. No offense."

"None taken. They just need time. It's hard to see all the things you want close at hand and not be able to touch them yet."

"You are finding ways," she said, gesturing loosely at the room. "Maybe slowly. But you are finding them. So yes, maybe those two only need time as well. We cannot shove them up the stairs to each other. Only, apparently, buy them stairs and hope they climb them."

Scott pressed his mug to his chest, warmth seeping through his t-shirt to the bone. "You get the vision."

"You're a madman. You are very lucky that you are also so cute and charming."

"Cute and charming enough to win the Cup this year?"

"No," she said with an eye roll. "But you will go further than last year."

And as usual, Svetlana was right. They fought the hard fight and Scott didn't have a single game that he was actively embarrassed by. An improvement over the last two years at least. He ended the season actually looking good, no think pieces about his 'failed promise' for once. It didn't feel as good as winning, but when he dragged his bruised and tired body over the threshold of the house for post-season recovery, at least it wasn't in shame.

Scarlett: Good luck! We're all cheering for you tonight! Ignore the logos, some people are sulking.

[Photo: Svetlana, Ilya and Kip are piled onto the couch. Ilya and Svetlana both wear Raiders shirts, while Kip has on a dark not-quite-Metro blue t-shirt. On the love seat, Elena has her legs over Carter's lap. They both wore Admirals shirts. Kyle and Maria are squeezed into one of the oversized armchairs together, dressed entirely in their usual outfits.]

NAD: Thank you! Tell everyone I say hi.

"Two cups in a row!" Scott threw up his hands. "There's no fairness in life."

"I will win the next one for you," Ilya cackled, a wide smile smacked onto his face.

"This fucking sucks," Carter groused, but he was grinning too. "Hollander, man. I swear to fuck he was born with gold skates on. What an asshole."

"Who wants another drink?" Scott asked, levering himself up.

"I want music," Elena said. "Let's drown out their celebration with ours."

The watch party morphed into a regular party in twenty minutes. The first hints of an oppressively humid summer had rolled in this morning, but the result was a sultry evening that begged for people to tumble out onto the deck. It had furniture now, a dining area, a cluster of chairs for conversation and loungers. The sound system rolled out into the dark, cycling through everyone's called out favorites as Kyle laughingly jogged back and forth to find the next one.

There was ample booze and snacks though no caterers tonight. For the house, Scott preferred not to have things delivered. The longer no one knew to associate the house with him, the better. Tonight, he'd simply gone out and loaded up like a normal guy at a supermarket and no one had clocked him as far as he could tell.

"Come dance!" Elena said, taking Scott's arm and he went with her.

It was far more fun to bop around to songs he barely recognized, then be led in a tense waltz with her. Shots were handed around a few times, sometimes poured by Scott himself. The guest rooms had bedding now, all the bathrooms had towels. Maria and Kyle were sharing, but they seemed comfortable enough with that.

A recipe for drunken stupidity. Scott was almost dizzy with the high of it, hours slipping by between dancing, increasingly hard to follow stories of Ilya's winning cup night, and tiny conversation groups breaking out and reforming.

It was only happenstance that had Scott coming out of the bathroom to hear keys rattling and the front door swinging open.

Except everyone with a key was accounted for.

Too bad Scott was too tipsy to do something smart like get a knife. Instead, he went into the front hall, ready to…what? Throw hands?

In turned out not to be necessary though. Shane fucking Hollander was standing in the front door, holding keys with a Metros keychain hanging from it.

What the fuck.

"What the fuck?" Scott asked.

"Hi," Hollander said and blinked several times at him. Maybe also a little drunk?

"You're in Montreal."

"No? This is New York."

"But. What?" Scott asked.

"We won," Hollander said. "And I was at a very big loud party about it. And I didn't want to be there anymore. I wanted to be here. Is that okay?"

"That is so very fucking okay," Scott said. "I think. I have no idea how it's going to look tomorrow, but who the fuck cares?"

"I had some help with that," Hollander said and then was saying less because Scott was hugging him. "Oh. Hi?"

"Hi," Scott said. "Sorry. I'm a little drunk."

"Me too. She kept giving me champagne on the plane so I wouldn't sober up and have regrets."

"Who?"

"Hello!" A woman chirped and behind Hollander, on Scott's front step, stood Rose Landry. "This is probably a little rude."

"Hi," Scott said, releasing Hollander, who swayed a little. "No, no. Not rude! Come in. How- I 'm so confused."

"Rose came to watch the game to be supportive and maybe…." Hollander trailed off.

"Beard a little. You know we never said we were or weren't seeing each other," Rose picked up. "So I infiltrated the WAGs! Like a spy."

"You are not a spy," Hollander said firmly. They had apparently had this argument more than once. "You only play one in movies."

"Spy," she insisted and she was still standing outside.

"Come inside. And go back outside. We're out back," Scott said, shuffling back so they could come in. "So you were spying?"

"Yes! I am a very good actress," she said. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes a little glassy. Rose Landry was drunk in Scott's home. That was happening. "And I hung around until Shane finished with press and then I followed them all out to the party and everyone was very nice to me and very drunk and when Shane started looking dead behind the eyes, I was like 'we can go and they will think we went to have sex'."

"They said that," Hollander sighed heavily as if the very thought weighed him down a thousand pounds. "To her! Basically. Now that's fucking rude."

"It was a little," Rose nodded, kept nodding a little too long. "Sooo, I asked Shane where he wanted to go and he said 'My house' and I was like 'okay, I'll get us a ride' and he was like 'noooo my other house' and I was like, 'the cottage? that's kind of a drive, dude' and he was like 'nooooooooooo' my other other house."

The other other house. A match lit inside Scott.

"Here," Scott guessed.

"Here," she agreed. "And! I had a plane waiting cause I have a photoshoot somewhere in two days and I wasn't sure if I was staying. So we took it here instead! I mean there was time between all that. We talked in the club bathroom. Where people also thought we were fucking."

"Sorry!" Hollander sing-songed. "Panic attack."

"I hear you, bud," Scott said sympathetically.

"And now we're here! And it's only… 3am? 4am? I dunno," Rose said brightly. "There's a party still happening? We were gonna be very quiet and go to bed. Or I was. Shane was going to wake Ilya up for sex."

"I was," Shane said very seriously to Scott. "If he was in the right bed. I don't actually know where the right bed is. I'm sorry I didn't come before. I was freaked out."

"It's okay. You're here now. Ilya! You want Ilya, come on."

Scott started walking, leading the bizarre procession. They emerged onto the deck, the music throbbing. Elena and Svetlana had bracketed a very pleased Carter while Maria was trying to teach Kyle and Kip some move.

Ilya might've been participating, but whatever he had been doing before spotting Hollander was lost to the ages. As soon as he locked eyes, Ilya was ballistic missile. He ran to him and then they were kissing so passionately that Scott's cock twitched in interest, before his brain fully caught up.

"Uh, hey! Anyone want to say congratulations to the Cup winner?" Scott called out.

And if anyone there didn't already know about Hollander and Ilya, they sure as fuck knew now. That seemed…potentially bad, maybe? But Scott trusted everyone here.

"Is this bad?" Scott checked with Kip.

"What part, babe?" Kip wound himself around Scott's arm, "Why is there a Rose Landry lookalike with Hollander?"

"No, no. That is actual Rose Landry."

"No, it's not," Kip said with complete confidence.

"Rose? Do you want to meet my…Kip?"

"Yes!"She said and came over, sticking out her hand. "Hi Kip, I'm Rose."

"No," Kip said even as he shook her hand.

"Yes," she said and leaned in. "Want to know a secret?"

"Yes!"

"I'm also a spy."

"She is not!" Hollander yelled out. He was penned in by Svetlana, Carter and Elena. Maria and Kyle were mostly hovering, confused, but willing to pile on. Standing behind him was Ilya, possibly also keeping Hollander on his feet.

"I am!" She yelled back then gave Kip another bright smile. "Are we dancing? I want to dance. We've been on a plane and then cars. I'm ready for dancing."

"Then we will dance," Kip said like he was swearing forever fealty to her. "Kyle! Music!"

"It's already playing!" Kyle yelled back.

The swirl of bodies intensified. Scott got dizzy pogoing around after two songs and decided it was probably time to start forcing people to drink water. A job that had been his for many years as captain and he was proud of doing well, even when completely shitfaced himself. Tonight, he went with good old red Solo cups so he didn't break his glassware, congratulating himself on remembering even as he spilled water on himself. When he got back out, handing them around, it was to find Kip and Svetlana very seriously trying to teach Hollander how to actually move while Rose and Elena talk-yelled at each other while dancing.

Everyone took their water, but Scott somehow had two cups left. Wait. One for was for him.

And one was for….

Scott drifted away, following a pointpoint of orange light that flared and extinguished as he got closer.

A man stood in the dark, occasionally illuminated by the deck lights as someone moved out from in front of them. Broad shoulders, cut jaw, tumble of curls that were already damp with exertion. He'd lost his shirt at some point, discarded somewhere inside.

"Hey," Scott said and extended the cup to him.

Their fingers brushed as Ilya took it, swallowing it down in three gulps then set it aside. He eyed Scott up. Before he could say anything, Scott said, "You come here a lot?"

With a soft laugh, Ilya reached out and snagged Scott by the belt loop, pulling him in close. "Yes."

They kissed once, soft and slow.

"You okay?"

"He came for me. Maybe he does it with a little cleverness and too much champagne. But he came to be with me."

"I think so, yeah," Scott said. "So what are you doing over here again?"

"I am so fucking scared," Ilya whispered, almost lost under the music.

And this, this Scott had been trained on dealing with. By the man himself. Scott reached out, grabbed Ilya by the belt loop and started walking.

"I have to do everything," he said with a grin.

"Noooo! Scott!" Ilya whined. "Oh fuck, what are they doing?"

"I think they're trying to teach him rhythm," Scott said patiently, watching as Svetlana ground against Kip as if in illustration and Hollander watched them both like they were attempting snake handling.

"Wrong way," Ilya said and he was free of Scott's grip and on the move.

Seconds later, he was pressed to Hollander's back, one arm wrapped around his hips and the other around his chest. Ilya whispered something in Hollander's ear and then all the starch went out of Hollander at once. Ilya moved and Hollander moved with him, liquid and obscene.

"Wow," Kip said. "That's hot."

"Okay," Scott laughed. "Not a floor show. C'mere and show me how to dance."

"You know how to move," Kip scolded, but he wrapped his arms around Scott's neck and writhed promisingly against him.

"Who wants more shots?"

"Carter, no," Scott said.

"Consider this, Cap: Carter, yes!"

There were more shots.

At some point, definitely before dawn, but maybe not by much, Scott must've gotten into bed. Kip either got him there or stumbled after him, because he woke up to the sun streaming in and Kip a tangle of sheets and limbs beside him.

Very quietly, Scott freed himself , wandered into the en suite and pissed for what might've been ten solid minutes. When he turned on the faucet to wash his hands, he slapped a little water on his face. Regarding himself on the mirror, he amended and stuck his head in the sink, trying to get as much cold water on him as possible.

Better. He toweled off his hair and moved as quietly as he could down the hall and up into The Nest. Coffee percolated as he clung to the edge of the counter top. Surely last night had been some kind of fever dream, he decided. Tequila-induced mass hallucination.

He made it to the safety of one of the oversized armchairs and collapsed into it, staring sightlessly through the green leaves to the river. Taking very small tentative sips of coffee, he considered the merits of crawling back into bed. Maybe someone else would make breakfast eventually.

No. No, he was the host. He stayed where he was, willing life back into protesting flesh.

The stairs creaked tentatively.

Nope. No hallucination. Hollander was there. His hair was mashed flat to one side of his head and he was definitely wearing one of Ilya's tank tops. The shorts could go either way.

"Sit," Scott said when Hollander stared helplessly at him. "I'll make you coffee. Milk? Sugar? Heinous caramel nightmare creamer?"

"Black," Hollander said and sagged into another chair.

Scott gave him a mug and sat back down with a groan. "Where are you supposed to be right now?"

"Definitely Montreal," Hollander said. "But they have my interviews from last night to play this morning. Buys time. I'm in so much shit."

"Nah," Scott said.

"I have seventy-three missed calls saying I am."

"Okay, and? You won them the Cup. Again. You partied like a normal fucking dude and got a little lost. They don't need your exact location. You got drunk, hooked up. It happens. Can Rose get you back to Montreal tonight?"

"Yeah, or I can. There should be a flight."

"Fine. You had a wild night. Canadian Captain Cuts Loose. They'll jerk off to it. You show up tomorrow, clean cut and ready for the parade."

"My mom will be so fucking mad. Not very good role model shit," Hollander said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Smart guy once said to me that people can't be ideas," Scott said. "Eventually, people make mistakes and the idea fails. This isn't even a bad kind of mistake. It was one night of you going where you wanted to be."

Hollander picked up his head, followed Scott's line of sight out the window. "I like it here."

"Good," Scott said. "Me too."

"I have a cottage in Ottawa."

"I saw the documentry. It's really nice."

"It is," Hollander said and sipped his coffee. "This is nice too."

"Hollander-"

"Shane," came the correction, gentle and with a very small smile.

"Oh yeah?" Scott smiled back. "No asshole licking required for that, huh?"

"Not that you had to do," Shane said so bone dry that it took several seconds for it to land.

Then Scott doubled over laughing even though it made his head throb terribly.

"Great. Okay," Scott said when he recovered. "Uh, shit. What was I saying? Right. Okay, Shane. I'm just glad you're here is what I wanted to say. Stay or don't. Come hang or don't. Just…you know. We're here if you want company or something."

"Or to own part of a company?"

"That too," Scott flushed. "Sorry?"

"Sure," Shane said, pulling his mug in closer to his body. "We'll figure it out."

A few minutes later, Ilya appeared in the doorway. He took in both of them, nodded a little, then disappeared again.

"What is that about?" Shane asked.

"He moves in mysterious ways."

The way he moved was apparently with cargo this morning. Ilya reappeared with Svetlana in a bridal carry, her eyes closed even though she was muttering dire Russian. He set her down in the chair next to Shane, then moved to the coffee machine.

"Good morning," she said with her eyes still closed. "No one fucking talk to me."

Before Ilya could finish her coffee, Kip shuffled in, drowning in Scott's shirt and ignoring everyone else in favor of plopping himself into Scott's lap, curling up and apparently going straight back to sleep.

Scott set down his mug on the side table in favor of getting both his arms around him.

Svetlana accepted her coffee without opening her eyes. Ilya evaluated the situation and sat directly on the floor in front of Shane, resting his head against his knee. Shane's hand dropped into Ilya's curls and immediately started making them a disaster to Ilya's clear pleasure.

Outside, birds sang. Water rushed. A train horn sounded off in the distance.

Downstairs, an A-Lister was asleep God only knew where, and a collection of hungover twenty-somethings would soon be clamoring for breakfast that would be Scott's responsibiltiy.

For now though, the house was full and quiet.

A warm hand closed around Scott's ankle, a few cool links of gold chain making contact.

Scott met Ilya's content gaze and winked.

Group Chat: The Legends of Sleepy Hollow

Svetlana: Labor Day is not a real holiday.

Scott: Okay. But you do have it off?

Svetlana: Yes and I would like something nicer than hamburgers.

BH: I will eat hamburgers. And hotdogs.

NAD: I've got a good coleslaw recipe.

BH: Boring.

Sveltana: You love cabbage.

BH: I have never said this.

Svetlana: I have eyes and we eat meals together.

LOML: I'm going to bake something for dessert. Undecided yet. Do any of you know anything about J.C. Leyendecker?

Scott: I do.

BH: Suck up.

LOML: Anyone who I didn't give a long lecture to in the last three weeks?

LOML: Given the silence I will take that as a no. I'll show you guys pics. I want one as a print to hang in the living room.

NAD: I have a few pictures to add to the wall in the nest

Scott: Great! I have a level.

NAD: Congratulations?

LOML: He's new to that kind of tool, let him have this.

Several Hours Later

BH: I might die of starvation.

NYTY: Dinner is two floors below you. Get your ass down here and you can eat.

BH: But the sun is setting. I am looking at pretty things. I could be eating and looking at pretty things.

NYTY: No.

BH: Please.

NYTY: Brat.

BH: I think I was not so bratty this afternoon. Vacuum, dust, blowjob, all after therapy and stupid bureaucratic paperwork. Only a little complaining. Very well behaved.

NYTY: I guess good boys can have dinner wherever they want. Let me find the tray.

BH: ❤️

NYTY: Yeah, yeah. I'll be there in ten.

BH: I would also like a puppy.

NYTY: Don't push it, sweetheart.

BH: A mutt. Do not buy me a fancy bullshit dog.

NYTY: Did not cross my mind because we're not getting a dog.

BH: See you in ten minutes. With links to dogs. I am going to look while you finish dinner.

NYTY: I love you. Do not.

BH: Too late.

Chapter End Notes

If you're curious about the Sleepy Hollow house, I saved my reference photos and you can view them here.

Thank you so much for reading and taking a chance on a rarepair!

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