Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter/Others, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Unreliable Narrator, Dubious Consent, Sexual Coercion

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of Proving Ground

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-30 Words: 9,464 Chapters: 1/1

how to skin a cat

Summary

“For the 1998 entry draft, the New York Admirals are pleased to select Scott Hunter.”

Notes

Reminder that CNTW does not mean warnings do not apply. Proving Ground is not the land of happy hug time.

Big thank you to GT for the beta, and Salad, Freya, and Juby for being very patient sounding boards <3

It’s June 1998, and Scott Hunter is sitting in a crowded arena, swallowing the same stubborn lump of terror that keeps crawling back up his throat.

His eyes are fixed on one table in a sea of tables, trying not to watch the clock ticking down. There’s so much sweat on his palms, but Scott’s given up wiping them off on his pants, too worried he’s going to leave a giant wet patch behind. And wouldn’t that be perfect, if his name does get called after all? Up on stage, in front of everyone, looking like he pissed his pants.

It’d be worth it, though, if it meant going first. Fuck, he’d piss his pants live on air if that’s what it took to go first.

Two minutes left on the clock, and Scott swallows again. The arena’s loud—he can feel the pressure in his ears, an eager, hungry thrum of anticipation—but it’s hard to hear anything over the flood of his heartbeat, so fast the beats might as well be holding hands.

Ninety seconds. Scott’s leg starts jumping, a purposeless rabbit-kick to nowhere, vibrating strongly enough to travel down the row of seats. The woman next to him keeps shifting, more pointed each time. Scott can see her head turning his way out of the corner of his eye. The information filters in, but with a minute left on the clock, it’s hard to absorb it. Hard to absorb anything besides the nonstop loop of what if until a kick against the back of his heel shoots Scott’s juddering leg straight out from under him.

Scott’s head whips around, and Murdock is laughing at him.

“You’ve gotta relax, kid.” He puts a warm hand on Scott’s splayed-out knee and squeezes. “I can hear your teeth grinding.”

Murdock sounds as loose and easy as he looks; completely unaffected by the manic hum around them. Inoculated, maybe, from overexposure. Murdo’s been through this before—once for his own draft, and then all the other prospects he’s trained up over the years. Scott wonders if any of them had been as freaked out as he is now, or if he’s the worst case Murdo’s seen yet. He really hopes not.

“Sorry,” Scott mutters, and tries to slow his breath through a ten count, but ends up rushing it toward the end. He forces his legs to lock, his knees to keep still, even forces himself not to look at the cluster of heads around the Admirals’ table—but he can’t force his mouth to stay shut.

“Murd, what if—”

“What if?” Murdock drives an elbow hard into Scott’s bicep. “What if my dick was a piñata bat? I’d get diabetes.”

The laugh takes Scott by surprise, enough to pause the countdown running through his mind.

“You weird motherfucker,” Scott says, and elbows Murdock back. They tussle a bit, shouldering against one another and only stopping when the woman next to Scott finally has enough and clears her throat so loudly that Scott can’t pretend he didn’t hear. He shoots her an apologetic smile and settles, letting his eyes drift over the crowd to avoid getting snared again by the Admirals’ leadership team. There’s an electricity moving through the room, and Scott tries to follow it, taking note of guys he knows, scattered around the stands, each one bracketed by their parents or siblings.

The lump in Scott’s throat rises again, too big now to choke down.

Up on the jumbotron, the clock hits ten seconds and the crowd joins in as the giant, bright red numbers count down to zero. Scott’s still, breathless, insubstantial enough that he might float away if it weren’t for Murdock’s hand resting heavily on his thigh, keeping him where he needs to be.

The Admirals’ team manager is at the podium. Scott sinks back into his seat like he’s bracing for a blow, and lets the words hit him:

“For the 1998 entry draft, the New York Admirals are pleased to select Scott Hunter.”

Time buffers, then springs to full speed so fast it leaves Scott dizzy. He staggers to his feet, and Murdock’s on him, big arms crushing Scott tight. He buries his face in Murdock’s neck and breathes deep, filling his lungs for what feels like the first time since they walked in the building. For the briefest moment, Scott forgets who’s there, who’s watching and who’s not. It’s over too quickly, Murdock shoving him back and stepping aside to let Scott pass.

“Go on!” Murdock says, pushing at his shoulder and grinning so wide Scott can see the pink inside his cheeks. “Get up there, I’m right behind you.”

Scott doesn’t fall on his way to the stage. Doesn’t piss himself once he gets there, either. He shakes hands, and smiles, and when he turns around, Murdock’s holding the bright red Admirals’ jersey. Murdock’s a brawler, big and brash, and in the year they’ve spent together, Scott’s never known him to be gentle. When he tugs the jersey over Scott’s head, though, and smooths it into place, the only word Scott can think to describe it is delicate. Like it—like Scott—matters. When it’s done, Murdock hugs him again, lays a wet, smacking kiss against the shell of Scott’s ear, and whispers, “You earned this, bud. You fucking earned this.”

Yeah, Scott thinks, solid and sure, and, for once, free from any nagging, biting doubts. I did.

It’s June 2009, and Scott’s latest prospect gets drafted twenty-fifth overall.

In the five years he’s been a mentor, Scott’s never had a prospect crack the top ten. It’s fine; douchebags like Kent might jerk themselves off over slapping their name on some rookie’s rank, but Scott would rather put his energy into chasing wins that matter. So when Malcolm’s name gets called by the Driller’s GM, Scott stands and smiles and tells Mal he’s proud of him and means it.

Draft day winds down quickly after the last name is called. The rookies all go off with their friends or families for celebratory dinners. Malcolm invites him along, but Scott learned that lesson with his first prospect, and he doesn’t need a repeat. Instead, he shakes his head and pretends he can’t see the flash of relief in Mal’s eyes.

The draft was in Jersey this year, which is unfortunate because—well, Jersey—but at least means Scott doesn’t have to stay in a hotel. He’s home by nine, and the silence blanketing the penthouse when Scott walks in is thick enough that he swears he can feel it in his lungs. It’s just that Malcolm had been so loud. It was like the kid carried half his weight in his feet, the way Scott could always hear him stomping around clear across the house. And if Mal wasn’t stomping, he was talking, whole marathons of conversation Scott got dragged along on, whether he wanted to or not. He hadn’t realized how used to it he’d gotten. The absence itches, like Scott is allergic to the open void in his house where a person used to be.

He doesn’t have to stay here. It’s Friday, plenty of places he could go to find some noise. Fuck, it’s New York. Weekend or not, noise is always on tap.

But then what? Scott has to sleep eventually, and the quiet will be waiting for him, biding its time until he runs out of places to hide.

Well. Might as well get it over with.

One person can make the same noise as two, it just takes a little more effort. Scott turns on some music and the television and closes drawers and doors shut hard enough to slam, stuffing whatever he can into that empty, hungry space until, by the time he’s settled in bed, it’s almost like he’s not alone at all.

He checks the calendar one more time before closing his eyes. Only two months to go until he gets his next prospect.

It’s January 1999, and Scott’s rookie season is a fucking disaster.

The horn sounds on their fifth straight loss in a row, and Scott can feel the disappointment leeching out of the stands as he drags his aching, battered body off the ice. It follows him, clinging like a greasy film, like stale, rancid sweat, except there’s no scrubbing this off. Scott wants a fucking shower, anyway.

Thank Christ he’s not pulled for media. He’d done fuck all during the game to warrant getting tapped, but it’s still a relief. Sometimes they choose Scott anyway, even on nights where his TOI doesn’t break double digits. They trot him out just to twist the knife, because Scott’s the softest meat around.

Nobody bothers Scott on his way out—it’s a loss at home on a Tuesday, no one’s hitting the bars—and he keeps his head down, and the hood on his sweatshirt pulled as low as it’ll go. On the drive home, he turns on the radio and listens to Pat and Ted on the local station dissect the game. Every time Scott’s name is mentioned, he gets a quick, wincing flick of discomfort, like they’re poking at a hairshirt underneath his clothes.

“So, at what point do we start calling him a draft bust?” Pat asks, overly loud, and Scott hits the power button, cutting off Ted’s braying laugh. He finishes the drive in silence, stewing in it until his apartment door finally clicks shut behind him.

“Fuck,” Scott whispers.

He rubs the heel of his palm hard against the bridge of his nose and lets his bag drop. The thwump as it hits the ground makes him think of something too weak to hold itself up collapsing in on itself. Something pathetic. If he threw it, he bet it’d sound different. Satisfying, maybe, and Scott deserves some level of satisfaction today, even if it’s just the crash of something expensive breaking.

He glances around, trying to figure out what target would do the most damage, when he catches an insistent flickering in the corner of his eye. Across the room, Scott’s voicemail light is blinking.

It’s tempting to send his bag flying there, honestly; Scott’s not sure if he wants to know who’s waiting for him on the other side of the play button. It’s a short list of usual suspects. The majority of them are assholes, mostly guys from the team, but occasionally Scott gets surprised. Like the time a vet wrote Scott’s number in the men’s room of a bar as a joke. A whole month of hilarious voicemails about guys wanting their dicks sucked before Scott finally broke and changed the number.

God, he hopes this isn’t a repeat. Scott kicks his bag out of the way and walks to the end table, braces himself and hits play.

“Hey, kid.”

The deep gravel of Murdock’s voice has Scott dropping onto the couch in relief. He doesn’t even care that Murdo's voice is tinged with pity; Scott feels pitiable. So raw that even hearing Murdock on a recording has him blinking hard and fighting back an uncomfortable swell of emotion. “Tough break tonight. Gimme a call when you get this.”

The message ends, the recording clicks off, and Scott doesn’t even think. He picks up the phone.

* * * * *

Scott had been surprised when Murdock had retired a month after the draft. Not shocked—Scott knew, intimately, how much the last season had worn on Murdo’s body, had listened to him gripe about how sick he was getting of the grind—but a little disappointed. It wasn’t often that a prospect got drafted to the same team as their mentor and Scott had been excited at the chance they’d get to actually play together.

Still living close enough to visit, though, was a nice consolation prize.

Scott’s next game isn’t for three days, so he doesn’t put up even a token fight when Murdo invites him out the next night. They go to one of Scott’s favorites, the first place Murdo ever took him in the city. They order steaks and pasta and Murdo orders two glasses of wine at a time, always passing the second off to Scott while the servers look the other way.

It’s the most fun Scott’s had in weeks, the most fun since the last time Murdock took him out, and half the night seems to go up like tinder between them. When midnight hits and they finally have to pour themselves out of the restaurant and into a cab, Scott slides in behind Murdo. They chat all the way to Murdo’s house, and instead of giving the driver his own address, Scott trails Murdo out of the car and invites himself up for a nightcap. Murdo doesn’t even bat an eye, just throws an arm around Scott’s shoulder, drags him inside, and pulls out the good scotch.

“Fuck ‘em,” Murdock says, draining his glass for the third time before stretching his arms across the back of the couch again. “Draft bust? Please. Season’s barely started.”

“It’s January,” Scott mumbles, still nursing his first pour. It’s an argument, but a token one at best; mostly, it’s bait, something Scott’s throwing out hoping to reel in some more reassurance.

And he gets it. Murdock leans closer and flicks the shell of Scott’s ear, then rubs a thumb behind it. “So? Plenty of time to turn things around.”

Scott ducks away with a snort, soaking up Murdock’s easy confidence; it feels like turning his face toward the sun. Murdock tries to flick him again, and Scott slaps at him, turning in time to catch the open, exasperated fondness on Murdock’s face. Suddenly, there’s a sharp, too-familiar pain deep in Scott’s gut, like a half-healed scab splitting open.

It’s weird—inappropriate, maybe—to still need this from his mentor. This isn’t Murdock’s job anymore. He’s retired, he should be traveling or golfing or doing any of the other ten thousand things he never had time for with his year split between the season and whichever dumb kid the league sent him. Scott wants to be the type of guy who knows better, who gets up and says thank you for the drinks and gets on with his night. Not the type of guy who sits there like a lost kid needing someone to play dad.

He’s halfway there; Scott absolutely knows better, but he doesn’t get up. Instead, he shifts closer, until he can feel the heat from Murdo’s body, and the tips of his rough fingers are brushing against the back of Scott’s neck.

“Thing is,” Murdock says when the silence has stretched long enough to lap at the edge of awkward, “it doesn’t matter if you’re putting up a hundred points or warming the bench all season—rookie years suck. There’s no getting around it.”

“Yeah?” Scott asks. He can smell Murdock’s cologne, it’s like a battering ram of sense memory—them on this same couch, Murdock’s cupping his neck and tugging him down, Scott opening his mouth and smelling that same cologne, but mixed with sweat and salt and musk each time he sucked a desperate breath in through his nose—

Scott shifts closer.

“Yeah. The trick is, you gotta balance it out with the good shit.” Murdock gives Scott a pointed look. “You out there getting some good shit, kid?”

There’s no spit left in Scott’s mouth, and his tongue feels like a wad of sandpaper when he speaks. “What do you mean?”

“Pussy,” Murdock says slowly, his lips pursing obscenely around the word. “Harder to hear the bullshit if you’ve got a puck bunny sitting on your face every night.”

Without meaning to, he pictures it: Murdock, on his back, some faceless woman’s thighs bracketing his head, his big hands on her ass, pulling her in and making her ride his face. Scott stares at Murdo’s lips. He’s probably good at it. Has probably had so much practice that he knows exactly what to do. Scott doesn’t know the first thing. All he knows how to do is suck dick and take it. Scott wonders if Murdock still remembers how to suck dick from his own time as a prospect, or if he drowned himself in pussy until he forgot.

Scott swallows. His eyes slide down Murdock’s throat, but Scott catches them before they drop where he wants to look, desperately curious if Murdock’s getting hard, too.

“Well?” Murdock prompts, and Scott jolts, jerkily shakes his head no, and Murdock sighs. “There’s your problem. You’re all backed up, no wonder you’re spinning out.”

Maybe Murdock’s right. Scott skated like a beast during every exhibition game in his prospect year. Maybe all he needs is a good fuck to get on track. And it’s been so goddamn long.

“Do you think you could help me?” Scott asks, his heartbeat drumming in the pulp of his teeth.

“Sure,” Murdock says, like it’s that easy. Scott wants it to be that easy, easy as it was last year, before everything got so complicated. And it does feel easy, a second later when Scott slides to his knees.

For one breath, the clenched fist of Scott’s mind eases, and then he looks up at Murdock’s, shocked, uncomprehending face.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I—” Scott’s hands stop their slide up Murdock’s thighs. “I thought we could—”

Murdock’s expression spasms into realization, then puckers, nothing at all familiar or friendly left there now. Scott yanks back, and the wave of fear that’s been building finally crashes into him.

“I’m drunk,” Scott blurts, his still mostly full glass mocking him out of the corner of his eye. “I should go home.” The push up to his feet is humiliating and awkward, Scott’s body heavy with the weight of Murdock’s eyes on him.

Not sure what else to do, Scott falls into a pantomime of normality—patting his pocket for his wallet, gathering his coat—every movement exaggerated. Murdock sits there, watching silently, a statue until Scott gets to the door.

“You never seemed bothered by it,” Murdock says, and it sounds like an accusation. “Not even that first time.”

The lump behind Scott’s Adam’s apple swells, barely budging when he swallows. The knob slips in his sweaty grip and he can’t get it to turn.

“I was,” he says, and it’s not a lie. When Murdock had bent him over and worked him open on his thick fingers until Scott could take his even thicker cock without flinching, it’d bothered Scott plenty. But not for the right reasons. Not because he didn’t like it.

Murdock makes a small, doubtful noise. Scott finally wrenches open the door and flees before he can say anything else.

It’s August 2009, and Ilya Rozanov is standing on Scott’s doorstep with only the duffel bag slung over his shoulder and the carry-on parked next to him.

“Right on time.” Scott puts a little extra oomph into his smile as he ushers the kid inside. Even almost a decade later, Scott still remembers what it was like on his own move-in day, feeling so small in front of someone so larger than life. Ilya’s face is set in stiff neutrality, but Scott can guess at the nervous, eager overwhelm hiding beneath. It’s a lot; Scott wants to make sure Ilya knows he’s welcome.

“You have a good flight? Or, flights, I guess,” Scott asks and gets a silent nod in return. Ilya’s clearly had a long trip, the hours and miles showing in his chapped lips and limp, slightly greasy curls, but his face is so pretty that even the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes can’t hide it. He waits for more, but Ilya is a still pool, not even a flicker over the surface.

“You hungry?” Scott prompts and leads them into the kitchen anyway when Ilya shakes his head again, because that’s a fucking lie. If Scott’s learned anything over the last five years, it’s that prospects are always hungry.

Scott busies himself at the fridge while Ilya plants himself on a stool at the island, pulling out two containers of the protein stir-fry he’d asked Marshall to include in this week’s menu. He sends them through the microwave and dumps them into two bowls, peppering Ilya with small talk and occasional questions, but only getting one-word answers or outright silence in return. It’s not the type of response Scott is used to. All of his other prospects thawed pretty quickly once he got them inside. Ilya is one tough customer.

“You must have a million questions,” Scott says, setting a steaming, heaping bowl in front of Ilya before starting on his own. Ilya shrugs a shoulder and stares at his food, hesitating a moment before whatever thread of control that’d been tying him up finally snaps, and he picks up his fork and goes to town.

The bowl is empty in three minutes, flat. Scott thinks Ilya might lick it, under other circumstances. But when he's scraped all he can scrape out of the dregs, he sets his fork down and folds his hands on the table, silent.

“You really don’t have any questions?” Scott pushes. This whole thing is edging over from odd to outright weird, but when Ilya only shrugs again, Scott wonders if it's more than nerves. Slowly, much slower than before, he asks: “You understand what I’m saying, right? You speak English?”

And there—finally—something flickers across Ilya’s face. A spark of annoyance, gone in an instant, but proof that there’s an actual person underneath whatever mannequin Ilya’s pretending to be.

“I speak English,” Ilya says, and Scott’s not sure if it’s the accent making him sound so terse or if it’s more of the real Ilya slipping out. “I read handbook. Everything is simple. No questions.”

Scott laughs, trying to keep it kind, but frustration is crowding in from the edges. “Well, there’s a lot of shit that’s not in the handbook, kid.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Like?”

“Like house rules,” Scott says, counting off his list on his fingers, feeling his patience fray a little further with each one. “Like schedules. Like—you know what?” Scott catches himself, reels in his reaction. He forgets, sometimes, that he’s dealing with teenagers. He has to be the adult here. “Let’s go over the basics so you can get settled in. We can talk through the rest later.”

“Okay.”

Be the adult, Scott repeats and breathes. Be the fucking adult.

“Alright. Well, the kitchen is here, obviously.” Scott gestures around them with a quick sweep of his hand. “I’ve got you on my meal plan, so don’t worry about that. Plenty of good snacks around, too. If there’s anything you want, let me know, and I’ll have it added to the weekly order.”

“Cheetos?” The hopeful flicker in the kid’s eyes is the first hint of vulnerability Scott’s seen all morning. It makes him hold back the reflexive no on the tip of his tongue.

“Uh—maybe.” Scott clears his throat, then points across the living room to the far hallway. “My bedroom is down there to the right, yours is opposite. Keep it down after ten, I’m a light sleeper. Maid comes through on Wednesday and Friday. Put your laundry in the hamper, and she’ll take care of it. No gear, though.”

“I wash my own gear,” Ilya says shortly, watching Scott with the same intensity as someone trying to catch the sleight of hand in a magic trick. “Does laundry come out from stipend? I can do my own, use the money for something better.”

“You can spend the stipend however you want. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll get it to you.”

“You have gym?”

“Floor below.” There’s no reason Scott should be trying to impress Ilya, but Ilya’s blank, sullen acceptance is like a lure. “There’s a sauna, ice plunge, and weight room. Uh, there’s a PT room, too. I’ve got a great massage therapist who comes out on Saturday, if you want me to book you some sessions.”

“You pay?”

“Jesus,” Scott mutters under his breath. Whatever the fuck this is, it has to be cultural. “Yeah, I’ll pay.”

“Okay.”

Scott waits for some type of appreciation or gratitude, but Ilya just nods. Scott sighs and takes their bowls to the sink. “Well, go get unpacked. I want you out here by six for dinner.”

The sound of the water as Scott washes up covers Ilya’s exit, and when he turns around, the kid is gone. Scott wipes his hands off on a dishtowel, frowning.

To tell the truth, Scott had been excited when he’d found out Ilya had been assigned to him. For the past two years, the press have been going on and going about Ilya, about his promise, showing off that pretty face at every opportunity. A real generational player. Sue him, but Scott had been looking forward to taking him under his wing, helping him get ready for the possibility of going first overall, maybe helping the kid have an easier time than Scott.

This isn’t how he pictured it would go.

* * * * *

Unexpectedly, Ilya emerges from his room at six on the dot without Scott having to remind him. They eat at the island again—blackened salmon and spicy quinoa—another silent meal. Ilya doesn’t look as haggard, at least; probably caught a much-needed nap.

“Pretty good, right?” Scott nods at the plate Ilya’s almost cleaned.

“Is fine.”

Scott holds on to the eyeroll that threatens to sneak out by the tips of his fingers. He wonders if he dumped a bag of cheetos into a bowl and served it to him, if Ilya would show a little gratitude. Scott’s almost curious enough to risk the heartburn to find out.

When Ilya finishes hoovering up every scrap of the food he apparently finds so mediocre, he immediately pushes away from the island and stands. “We are done tonight?”

Scott blinks, his eyes dipping down to the dirty plate Ilya seems to think is going to magically take care of itself. “Excuse me?”

Ilya jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his room. “I can go, yes?”

“No,” Scott snaps, his control slipping. He grabs Ilya’s plate off the table and jabs it toward him. “First of all, clear your place.”

Ilya frowns at him. “You said maid comes.”

“Yeah, but—” Scott trips up, stammering over his exasperation. He’s never felt this frustrated with one of his prospects, and it’s still only the first day. “I still expect you to clean up after yourself. Jesus, were you raised in a barn?”

The words are out before Scott can think to stop them. Ilya’s jaw tenses, masseters bulging like he’s grinding something on the back of his teeth and deciding whether or not to swallow it down or spit it out.

Swallow must win out, because the next thing out of Ilya’s mouth is an annoyed huff. He snatches both plates from the island and brings them to the sink, loading them into the dishwasher without even rinsing them off. Scott stands, walks to the couch, and thinks back to his own move in day and what it was like being eighteen in a stranger’s house. He doesn’t remember being anything close to angry.

“Hey, hold on a sec,” Scott says when Ilya finishes and tries to make a beeline for his room. “Take a seat, we have a few things to talk about.”

“More house rules?” Ilya asks, and Scott knows he’s not imagining the bitterness in his tone.

“Something like that,” Scott gestures again at the couch across from him, relaxing a little when Ilya gives in and sits down.

This part, at least, is practiced. Five prospects later, and the script hasn’t changed much from the original, which was modeled after the speech Murdock gave him on his first day. Scott wonders if Murdock stole it from his own mentor. Scott likes to think so—a line of tradition, stretching from prospect to mentor, connecting them all.

“The thing about the program,” Scott starts, relaxing as he falls into the rhythm of the familiar words, “is that every mentor does things a little differently. There are hard-asses and those who don’t really give a shit. I fall pretty squarely in the middle.”

The tight, annoyed expression on Ilya’s face falls just long enough for Scott to see the skepticism hiding underneath. Someone screwed this kid over; that much is obvious. More than once, probably, or more than one someone. Scott’s not surprised—the MLH prospect pool isn’t exactly stocked from happy childhoods.

“I’m not here to be your friend,” Scott continues, “but I’m not going to make your life hell, either. I keep the house rules pretty close to the handbook: no smoking, booze, or drugs, curfew is eleven at home, nine on the road, and if you want to hook up, use protection and keep it out of the house. I don’t want you bringing your puck bunnies around here.”

Ilya crosses his arms over his chest, his displeasure clear even if he doesn’t outright argue. Jesus. The kid’s lucky the program put him here. Scott can’t imagine Harvey or Kent putting up with this bullshit for long, no matter how pretty Ilya is.

“You fuck up, we talk about it. You keep fucking up? It goes in the report, and the program handles it. Other than that, we train together, you follow my lead at practice, and go where the league tells you, and we’re golden. Clear?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, and he doesn’t sound thrilled, but the answer at least comes quickly enough to be believable. “Is clear.”

“Good.” Scott pauses, takes a breath, and lets it out slowly. Even with the script and the practice, this next part never stops being awkward. “As far as your prospect duties go—you don’t need to worry. We’ll go slow. Hand stuff only at first, then, once you get back from onboarding, we’ll start with blowjobs. And when you’ve gotten the hang of that, we’ll move on to the main event.”

Scott looks off into the middle distance as he gives his little spiel, sparing them both the indignity of eye contact. When he finishes and looks at Ilya’s face, he’s expecting more of the same stony disinterest. What he’s not expecting is the tight twist of confusion, like Scott’s been speaking Greek this whole time.

Ilya’s mouth stumbles over a false start, opening, then closing, before he finally manages a hesitant, “Can you say again? I don’t understand.”

“You—” Scott thinks over what he said. He thought he’d kept it pretty simple. Maybe the language barrier is going to be more of an issue than he thought. “What part didn’t you understand?”

“Prospect duties,” Ilya says, his accent making the words sound slippery. “You make it sound like—” He doesn’t finish, but the gesture he adds gets the meaning across.

“And?” Scott asks when nothing else follows.

“Handjob is sex.”

“I mean—”

“And blowjob is sex.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Scott feels the back of his neck going hot and prickly. Fuck, this is uncomfortable, like Scott’s telling the kid about the birds and the bees. “I don’t see what you’re getting at, though.”

Suddenly, Ilya’s face clears, the deep elevens between his eyebrows relaxing as he smiles, and Scott’s heart hiccups. Jesus. The kid’s not pretty; he’s fucking beautiful.

“Is a joke. You are—” Ilya slips into Russian for a moment, then pauses, like he’s sifting through his vocabulary and coming up empty. “Means teasing rookie. What is word?”

“Hazing?” Scott guesses and Ilya nods.

“Yes. Good job. Is very funny.”

Scott leans back on the couch, staring. This is definitely not part of the script. “You said you read the handbook. And your contract—you read your contract, right?”

Ilya’s smile wavers, dims. “Yes. Why?”

“I think,” Scott starts, then stalls out. How the hell does Ilya not already know this? He remembers one of the other mentors saying Russian prospects were different—was this what he meant? “You should call your agent. Ask him about it, okay?”

“This is not—” Ilya is halfway through his eye roll when Scott cuts him off.

“Call him.” Scott points to Ilya's bedroom and tries to ignore the queasy squirming in his stomach as Ilya’s smile finally falls and he stands up, retreating to his room with one last, confused look.

Scott stays where he is, silence pressing heavily in on him from all directions.

What a fucking mess.

It’s July 2001, and Scott shouldn’t be doing this.

Brazil doesn’t seem nearly as far away as it did on the map, not now that Scott is actually here. The club could be in New York—the lights low and music loud enough that Scott could be anywhere, surrounded by anybody. He could be anyone in this crowd.

But he’s not anyone. He’s Scott Hunter, Captain of the New York Admirals. Even if his team is thousands of miles away.

He’s here for a reason, though, and nerves or not, Scott needs to see this through. More than that, he deserves this. They made it to the semifinals this year.

The music is some thumping beat that sounds familiar, but Scott doesn’t have the first clue from where. He can feel the rhythm sinking into him, vibrating off his skin as he presses into the sea of bodies on the dance floor, suddenly swallowed by skin and sweat and a heat that slams into him like a fever. He moves with the tide of the crowd, a push and pull that changes tempo with the music but never stops.

There’s an arm around his waist, lips dragging down the line of his neck, an ass grinding against him. Scott’s only had one drink, but he feels wasted, every touch like another shot dumped into his bloodstream. His cock is hard in his jeans, but it’s too dark to see. The man dancing with him is close enough to feel it, slides a hand down and cups him, rubs him through his jeans to the driving beat around them.

He lets the man—dark hair, dark eyes, wide chest, and wider smile—drag him home. He presses him up against the wall of his apartment, out in the street, and when he kisses him, all Scott can taste is the bitter iron of his fear.

The taste doesn’t fade when they make it behind closed doors. Even with the guy’s cock in his mouth, it’s hiding there at the back of Scott’s throat, like some bottom note to the guy’s precome.

It’s turning Scott’s stomach. He slides off, his mouth feels dry but somehow so wet he can hear the slurp, and he has to swallow before he can speak. “Please,” Scott rasps, hoping the guy understands, relieved when he’s pulled up off his knees and pressed down to the bed on his belly.

The guy is confident and thorough, opening Scott up on his thick fingers, even as Scott begs him to go faster, to fuck him now. He’s been wanting this for so long, denying himself, waiting for the right time, but the urgency isn’t driven by his need; it’s that looming, lingering terror that any moment, this will be snatched away.

When the guy finally gets Scott on his knees and presses inside, it feels so fucking good, and all Scott can think about is how much he wants it to end. Scott gets a hand on his dick immediately, shoving into the guy's thrusts whenever he tries to slow the pace, urging him on with fuck me and harder and come, come, please come.

Scott’s dressed and out the door five minutes after the guy ties off the condom, disheveled, stinking of their shared sweat, his ass still tacky with lube. He feels disgusting.

The hot water in the hotel shower lasts half an hour before the searing temperature he set it to starts to dip. Scott scrubs himself down until there’s no trace of the last few hours. He stares at himself in the mirror after, skin pink and steaming, looking for any sign someone might catch, some way a stranger would know what he’s been up to.

There’s nothing. He’s clean.

Scott lies in his bed and stares at the ceiling. His flight home is in the morning. He doesn’t think he’ll be back.

It’s September 2009, and Scott is losing his mind.

Another month gone, another progress report to fill out, and Ilya still won’t get with the program. Scott’s trying to be patient, trying to be understanding of what a fucked up situation this is. It’s nobody’s fault, his lawyer had said when Scott had called after that first week, wanting to make doubly sure he wasn’t going to get hit with a lawsuit over this later. Just an unfortunate miscommunication, but he signed the contract. Terms are terms.

Which is all well and good, except Ilya isn’t abiding by the terms. Not all of them.

Two months of feeding and housing and carting this kid around to and from practice, making sure he gets to his mandatory events, looking after him—even finally buying him fucking cheetos—and for what? A sullen teenager whose constantly either sulking in his room texting some girl on his phone or glaring at him from the couch, treating Scott like a criminal in his own home.

Scott stares down at the progress report, at question seven and the yes or no checkboxes next to it.

Is your prospect fulfilling all contractual obligations to your satisfaction?

This early in the year, there’s still a chance Scott might get a waitlist candidate if Ilya gets kicked out. Bottom of the barrel player, but at least one who’d be grateful to be there. One who’d be willing to do what it takes to make the cut. Not someone who thinks their rank puts them above the rules.

Scott scrubs his hand across his face. It’s fair. All of this. Scott is being—has been—more than fair. It still feels wrong. Even accounting for Ilya’s natural talent, Scott knows how hard he must have worked to get into the program. And is it the kid’s fault that the Russian system doesn’t prepare its incoming talent for the reality of life as a prospect? No. But it’s not right that Scott’s the one paying the price, either.

Maybe all the kid needs is a different approach. Scott’s his mentor; it’s his job to guide him through the fuck-ups of being a young shithead. If he’s going to get the kid booted, he at least wants to know he’s done everything he can, first.

Scott sighs, picks up the pen, and checks the yes box.

One more month. If Ilya doesn’t shape up by then, Scott will do what he has to do.

* * * * *

“Ten minutes until we roll out,” Scott says with a knock to Ilya’s door. They’ve got ice time today at the rink, just the two of them, and Scott intends to make the most of it.

For all his attitude, getting Ilya to the rink is never a hassle. Ten minutes later, they’re out the door, no nagging needed, and thirty minutes after that, they’re on the ice, and all the bullshit drops away.

Ilya is a thing of beauty when he skates—faster than hell, getting where Scott needs him almost before Scott’s even decided where that is—and he’d be lying if he said that wasn’t hot. Scott’s not the only hockey player out there to have his appreciation for the game get a little muddled; he’d bet every player on the Admirals has chubbed up in their cup at least once on the ice. Since Scott started skating with Ilya, he’s certainly been doing a lot more of that.

Drills roll into drill and Scott makes a point of showing off. He works hard, pulls out all the stops, and pushes Ilya hard enough that the curls Scott can see peeking out from under his bucket are drenched with sweat. It’s a good session, productive, but if Ilya appreciates any of it, he keeps it to himself.

The contrary little shit.

“Cool down,” Scott finally says, once they’ve run through the drills he has for them. They waddle to the locker room, and Scott starts stripping down to his undershirt and leggings. Ilya, five stalls away, does the same. Scott settles onto the floor and waits for him to finish, waving him over once he does. “Come stretch me out.”

Ilya scowls; Scott’s not being subtle, but subtle isn’t the point here. He’s not going to jump the kid, but he knows the deal now. It’s time to dip his toes in the water to get ready for the plunge.

Scott lies back, one leg out and a knee up. “Hamstrings,” he says, and Ilya kneels down, one knee digging into Scott’s outstretched thigh, as he lifts Scott’s other leg and puts it over his shoulder.

It’s the most they’ve touched, so far, and Scott’s heart starts kicking the minute he feels Ilya’s hands on him. “Make it deep.” Scott can see the faintest bit of pink tinge in Ilya’s cheeks as he leans forward, bending Scott’s leg into his chest. There’s no artifice in the groan that breaks free. The pull in Scott’s muscles aches in the most satisfying way, a pain that feels purposeful and earned.

“Deeper,” Scott huffs, and Ilya can’t meet his eyes, frowning off into the middle distance as he pushes Scott’s body further, then further, until Scott finally has to call uncle, slapping at Ilya’s arm with a strained, “Fuck, fuck, alright. Switch.”

Ilya’s blush stays put throughout stretching Scott’s other leg, deepening a little when his grip slips on Scott’s thigh. It’s a good sign, Scott thinks. They’re making progress.

But when Scott taps out, Ilya’s hands are gone in an instant. Not ideal, but at least the kid isn’t running, just kneeling there, staring a hole in the stall in front of them. Scott sits up.

“Your turn,” he says, and Ilya finally looks at him.

“I’m fine.”

Scott shakes his head and pats the floor next to him. “Not an option, bud. Lay down.” He watches Ilya, the way his hands curl into fists on his thighs, the clench and unclench of his jaw. Scott holds his breath, bracing himself for Ilya to refuse, for what Scott will need to do if that happens.

Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that. Ilya turns and lies stiffly back on the floor.

“Good job,” Scott says, and he means it. This is hard for Ilya. Just because it shouldn’t be doesn’t mean Scott can’t recognize the effort it’s taking for Ilya to follow directions. He repeats the praise when he gets into position over Ilya, his calf braced on his shoulder as he leans into him.

“Okay?” Scott asks, waiting for Ilya to grunt before going deeper. “You’ve got this,” Scott whispers, stroking the side of Ilya’s thigh encouragingly. “You can take it.”

“Enough,” Ilya hisses, and Scott shakes his head, pressing deeper.

“A little more.” Scott shifts closer, pushing until Ilya’s knee is almost level with his chin. Until the hard line of Scott’s cock can drag over the swell of Ilya’s ass.

“Get the fuck off me!” Ilya’s suddenly pushing at him, and Scott is shoved backward, landing in a hard sprawl. A stream of Russian follows as Ilya scrambles to his feet.

Anger fills up in Scott’s body like someone struck a deeply buried well. He doesn’t even try to guess at what Ilya’s saying—he doesn’t care—all his attention focused on tamping down the need bubbling under his skin.

It’s August 2004, and Scott’s prospect is shaking.

Adam's on his hands and knees in Scott’s bed, the layer of sweat on his skin making it shine in the dim light. His head is hanging low between his shoulders, ducked down, Adam’s shaggy hair hiding his face like a curtain. Even without seeing his face, Scott can tell Adam's nervous; it's impossible to miss, even if Scott wasn't looking so carefully for this signs.

“Shh. It’s okay, you’re doing great,” Scott pets soothingly down Adam’s spine as he works a third finger inside him. He’s been opening Adam up for the past twenty minutes, taking it slow, just like he promised him.

“Does it hurt?” Scott asks, and Adam shakes his head. When his hair moves, Scott can see flashes of his pink, flushed cheeks below. “Okay. Keep breathing, alright? I’m going to—” Scott fumbles for the condom, his fingers too slippery to get it open at first. He ends up using his teeth.

Adam jumps when Scott presses the tip against him. Scott’s mouth goes a little dry as he watches him try to clench, too soft and open to manage it. “Don’t worry. It’ll feel good. You’ll like it,” Scott promises, then starts to ease inside.

“Wait—” Adam chokes out, and Scott does, his hands tight on Adam’s hips because it feels so fucking good only halfway in and he wants so badly to finish the job. He holds on to his control, gritting his teeth until he feels the clench around his cock ease. When Scott starts moving again, Adam doesn’t say anything, just lets out a soft, startled whimper.

Scott keeps the pace relaxed, testing out different angles on every thrust forward until Adam jerks, a moan tearing out of his throat. “Good, that’s so good,” Scott pants, driving forward harder now, Adam shuddering underneath him with every stroke. His arms are shaking hard now; Scott plants a hand between his shoulders and urges him down onto his elbows. Adam drops and—fuck—Scott slides even deeper, yanking Adam’s hips hard against him.

“You feel—” Scott groans, but when he looks down, Adam’s hair is swept to the side, and he can see his face. He can see the wet smear Adam’s tears have left on his cheek. Scott freezes.

Adam’s eyes are tightly shut, his brow furrowed, and his mouth open as he pants harshly in the quiet. Scott suddenly realizes how hard his fingers are digging in where he’s gripping Adam’s hips. He lets go, smooths his palms over the red pinpoints he’s left behind.

“You’re okay,” he tells Adam again, and Adam doesn’t argue. Scott leans forward, wraps an arm around Adam’s waist, reaches for his cock and—

Scott breathes, relief washing over him. “You’re okay,” he says again, more certain. “You like it.” Scott squeezes Adam’s cock, stroking as he starts moving again. Adam opens his mouth, but the only thing that makes it out is a long, low groan.

“I won’t tell.” Scott’s hips snap in a hard, hungry rhythm. “I won’t tell anyone. You can like it. It’s okay. It’s good. It’s good, right?”

Too much is happening to be sure, but Scott thinks he sees Adam nod. He strokes him faster, fist twisting underneath the head as he grinds into him. He wants Adam to come first. He wants to feel it, maybe even more than he wants to come.

It doesn’t take much longer until Adam’s whining, his legs kicking out as Scott fucks him off his knees and onto his belly, Adam humping into his fist until he stills and comes with a hitching, helpless sound.

“Almost done.” Scott waits until Adam’s dick stops twitching before wrenching his hand out from under him. He barely holds himself up over Adam’s prone body, panting hard into the humid heat between them, as he buries himself again and again until he finally tips, his whole body shivering as he empties himself inside the condom.

“Jesus,” Scott gasps, winded like he’s coming off a bag skate. He has the presence of mind to hold the end of the condom as he pulls out, flopping onto his back next to Adam. He’s shaking so hard he almost can’t tie it off, but he manages it, pitching it toward the ensuite, not caring if he steps on it later. That’s a problem for a Scott with more brain cells than he has available now.

Adam’s eyes are still closed, Scott realizes when he turns his head to look. He brushes his hair back, tucks it behind Adam’s ear, and rolls onto his side so he can see him better. “Hey. Are you okay?”

There’s no response at first, then slowly, Adam nods. “I’m good,” he says, words coming out thick and clumsy.

The first time Murdock fucked Scott, it’d been on the couch, bent over the arm. When he finished, he’d patted Scott’s ass, pulled his shorts up, and told him he'd taken it like a champ. It hadn’t been awful; Scott had liked it, mostly. But at the end, when he’d staggered off to shower, he’d had a lump in his throat he couldn’t choke back down the rest of the night.

There probably wasn’t a lot that Murdock could’ve done about that, but it would've meant a lot if—

It would’ve meant a lot.

Scott wraps an arm around Adam’s shoulders and pulls him in, his soft brown hair tucked under Scott’s chin.

“You did so good.” Scott says, Adam’s hair tickling his lips where they’re pressed to his temple. “You were perfect. I’m so, so proud of you.”

He holds him tight, feeling around for the edge of the comforter and tugging it up over them when Adam starts to tremble.

It’s October 2009, and Scott has reached the end of his patience.

Ilya’s door is open—a rule ever since Scott caught him smoking in there three weeks ago—but Scott knocks anyway, a quick double rap on the frame. Ilya looks up from his laptop, frowning at Scott before reluctantly hitting the spacebar and pausing the tape he’s watching. “What?”

“We need to talk,” Scott says, not bothering to wait for an invitation to walk through the door and sit down on Ilya’s bed—if he did, he’d be standing in the doorway forever.

“You need to talk,” Ilya mutters, putting every ounce of his teenage attitude behind it, but pushes away from the desk and turns to face him, arms crossed. “Yes?”

Scott’s gone over what he wants to say all morning, but now that he’s here, it’s like his thoughts have closed into a loop, and he can’t find the edge to peel off the start. He stares down at the paper in his hand, fingering the corner of the page until it starts to curl. “Your progress report is due tomorrow. I’ve put it off as long as I can.”

There’s a stretch of silence, Ilya looking expectantly at Scott to go on. “So? This is my problem?”

It’s too much. After months of putting up with this diva bullshit, Scott is done. He lets his frustration boil over and doesn’t even try to yank the pot off the heat.

“Yeah, it is, actually.” Scott thrusts the form out for Ilya to look at. “You see that? Question seven? You’re not following the contract and I’m sick of pretending you are.”

Ilya leans forward, scanning the document before shoving himself back in his chair, sniffing like the little prince he thinks he is. “I do. Mostly, I do.”

“There’s no fucking box for mostly, Ilya.”

“So?” The look Ilya levels at Scott is so acidic, he swears he can feel his skin tingling. “What, then? You force me? Hm?” Ilya is tense, looking at Scott like he’s about to drop his gloves, sizing him up for a fight. “You try, I will fucking kill you.”

Disgust rolls through Scott, churning in his stomach and chest, like brackish water that can’t quite make it out with the tide, trapped and fetid and roiling inside him.

“No.” Scott swallows down the bile trying to climb up his throat. “I wouldn’t—no. Jesus.”

Scott’s reaction must be as intense on the outside as it feels on the inside, because Ilya relaxes, the taut thread holding him together no longer looking like it’s a breath away from snapping. His shoulders drop, and he exhales, the corded tendons in his arms no longer standing out quite so starkly. “Okay. Good.”

The progress report is still clutched in Scott’s hand, crumpled a little, now. Scott stares down at it; he could let it go. He could check the box and keep his mouth shut, and they could run out the clock on the year. Scott can go a year without touching anyone. He’s done it before. He’s done it plenty.

But it’s not fair.

“I’m not going to force you,” Scott says, his voice steady and uncompromising. “But I’m not going to lie for you anymore either.”

Ilya goes still. “You are serious?”

There’s a dark smear in the corner of the paper Scott’s holding from where he’s been rubbing it between his fingers. He tries to wipe it off and it darkens.

“You gotta earn your place. Like everybody else.”

Scott holds his breath, something gathering in the air between them, before all at once, exploding. Ilya shoves out of his chair and lunges; Scott braces himself for the hit, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he blinks down at Ilya between his legs, glaring up at him from his knees, deftly working Scott’s pants open.

“Jesus, kid,” Scott says, trying to grab for his hands. “I said we could start slow—”

“Fuck your slow,” Ilya snarls and yanks, dragging Scott’s pants and boxers down to bunch at the bend of his hip, but low enough that Ilya can just get Scott’s cock out. He leans forward and hawks a fat gob of spit right on the head. Scott’s still mostly soft, everything happening so fast his dick hasn’t had time to catch up, but Ilya isn’t waiting. He strokes Scott with purposeful, determined flicks of his wrist.

“Shit—” Scott tries to steady himself with a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, but Ilya shakes him off. Scott leans back instead, palms braced on the bed, right as Ilya leans in and takes him in his mouth.

The moment Ilya’s tongue touches him, Scott’s mind blanks out. All he can register is the feel of Ilya sucking him, head bobbing steadily over him, his lips sliding smoothly through the spit he’s left on Scott’s cock, enough that Scott feels it drip, enough that all Scott can hear is the filthy, wet obscenity of Ilya screwing his mouth down on Scott’s dick.

Scott reaches for Ilya’s hair, runs his fingers through it once before he gets slapped away, but it doesn’t matter. Scott’s not—he can’t—it’s been so long—

Twenty-nine years old, and Scott is coming like he’s just learned what his dick is for. He doubles over, clinging to Ilya’s shirt, dumbstruck. He can’t even be embarrassed; he can’t do anything besides pant. The only presence of mind Scott has is the little that he uses to sit up, giving Ilya enough room to pull off.

“That was—holy shit,” Scott laughs, blinking blurrily when he feels Ilya grabbing for his hand. He watches, perplexed, brain still too offline to even guess at what Ilya wants before the question’s answered for him—by a thick, mouthful of his own come, spat unceremoniously into Scott’s palm.

“There. Now you tell them,” Ilya says, wiping the spit from his grimacing mouth. He pushes up to his feet and is out of the room without another word. Scott stares after him, then drops his eyes to the mess he’s holding.

Higher order thinking trickles back in, and with it, Scott is hit with a realization: there’s no way that’s the first time Ilya’s sucked a dick.

Scott frowns down at the quickly cooling puddle of come. This entire time, he’d thought Ilya was straight. That his whole issue with the process was because he didn’t want to have to touch a man. And all along, the little shit’s been holding out on him for no fucking reason. All that drama and carrying on, and for what?

For nothing, it turns out. Nothing at all, besides maybe the fun of jerking Scott around. Christ.

The come starts trying to drip between his fingers, and Scott looks around. He’s tempted to wipe it off on Ilya’s comforter, but restrains himself. He stands up, pants still riding low on his hips where Ilya pulled them down, and heads for the ensuite to rinse off and pull himself together.

If Ilya wants to act like a child, that’s fine. Scott’s the adult. Scott’s a mentor—he knows how to set a good example.

He learned from the best.