Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter & Carter Vaughn, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, Carter Vaughn, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Platonic Cuddling, Suicidal Thoughts, Scott Hunter Needs a Hug (Game Changers), Scott Hunter gets a hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Ilya Rozanov Gets A Hug, Neither Shane nor Ilya sleep with Scott in this fic but boy do they want to, minor self-harm, Scott Hunter Has OCD

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-10 Updated: 2026-05-28 Words: 66,337 Chapters: 8/11

Overheard

Summary

The soundproofing in room 1221 is exactly as bad as Shane fears. He and Rozanov can hear every word as Scott Hunter engages in a deeply depressing annual ritual, and decide offering comfort is more important than keeping things a secret.

It sparks a friendship that ends up changing more than just the trajectory of those three men's lives.

Notes

Chapter 1: Catch-1221

When Shane wakes up, he’s mourning the abrupt end of his most restful sleep in weeks. Though he’s used to waking before the sun rises, the moonlight streaming through his window (no, not his-) makes it clear that this isn’t just his body’s annoying tendency to jerk him awake the moment the clock hits 5:30. Something has poked him awake, along with (he tries not to think it, but it is a bit too fitting) the Russian bear beside him. Shane’s always had unfortunately good night hearing, but he’d have to be deaf to miss the sounds of sneaker-clad feat padding against floorboards, the thump of a clearly unsteady body leaning against a door, the click of an ancient lock as it’s pried open. They’re not footsteps he recognises – Shane picks up on it quickly, the combination of shoe choice, tread depth and pace that defines a person’s walking noise, and this isn’t one he knows.

Shane cranes his neck, in the process locking eyes with Rozanov, who mouths ‘Outside’ at him from his own twisted position, eyes locked on the balcony in the corner of the room. Shane is confused for a moment – is Rozanov asking him to leave? – before he hears an enormous body heaving a very familiar sigh as it plops onto the ground. Shane had been so worried about the soundproofing in this hotel, and it seems he was right to be. That’s Scott Hunter alright, creeping into his room’s balcony at – there are no clocks in the room, but Shane’s phone is on the nightstand and the darkened screen reads NIGHT MODE: 2:32AM – and every one of Hunter’s breaths echoes in time with the pounding of Shane’s rabbit heart.

“Are you listening?” Hunter asks, and only Rozanov’s firm hands on his shoulders stop Shane from sprinting out of the room like a five-year-old worried his mother would notice him sneaking an extra cookie before bed. Considering the sprinting was most of what alerted his mother to his presence when he was growing up, it was probably a wise move on Rozanov’s part, though he somewhat resents the feeling of being managed. “I know you’re probably not, but it’s ok. I can pretend, right? Everyone else has their family here, and I have you guys, right?”

The silence that follows is broken only by the sound of heavy breathing. Hunter doesn’t sound drunk – at least, he’s not slurring – but he doesn’t sound wholly with it, either. Is Hunter talking to them? Does he know they’re in the next room? Shane imagines the alternatives. Either the massive, hulking figure of Scott Hunter is curled up on a hotel balcony talking to himself, unaware his every word is being listened to, in which case Shane is a voyeur. Or else someone else is the intended audience, and Shane’s a voyeur and an eavesdropper too. Either option inspires an irrational guilt, but he’s not got too many options. Rozanov figured it out before he did. If they can hear Hunter, then Hunter can hear them, and so they’re in the same boat: hope he doesn’t say anything that’ll make them unable to look him in the eye tomorrow, and ignore that this ever happened.

“New rookies this year. They designed the whole event around having them on separate teams, can you believe it? I can already imagine what you’d say, Ma. You’d try and take them both and hide them. You’d look tiny next to them, but I’d like to see Crowell try and take you on.” Hunter sounds wistful, and Shane can imagine he’s cold, sitting outside on a night like this. He doesn’t know why it strikes him, the idea of Scott Hunter, outside in the cold whilst Shane’s in here curled up in his rival’s arms. Maybe because it’s the dead of winter, the kind of weather that has the memory of Yuna Hollander’s voice shouting ‘Don’t forget your coat’ in his ears every time he exits the warm hotel for the brisk walk to the rink. See, Shane knows about Hunter’s tragic backstory, everyone in hockey does, but he doesn’t often think about it. Hunter himself leads the charge there, always understates it, talks about how it shaped him and made him who he is, but makes it clear: I’ve moved on, no need for pity! Maybe it’s true, if he's feeling bad for them. But Shane’s heart breaks a little, and he resolves to hug his mother extra tight the next time he sees her. Rozanov, meanwhile, is inscrutable. Probably he can’t fathom why Hunter would pity him for getting lots of attention. He basks in it, usually, the sensation of every eye on him.

“There’s this kid Hollander. Nice guy. You’d like him, dad, he’s like you. Doesn’t know how to chirp, keeps quiet, but his slapshot… God, it’s good. And then the other one, Rozanov. The opposite, really. Fast, lean, mean… He fucking hates me. Don’t know why. Don’t really blame him. I’d hate me too. Every time I hear someone bring you two up, like I’m the specialist boy just because… well. Anyway. He’s kind of awful to everyone, so maybe he’s just an asshole, I don’t know. Hollander seems to think so, at least.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes at Shane, who’s too busy feeling more uncomfortable than he ever has in his life to respond. They shouldn’t be listening to this. They shouldn’t be able to hear this, what kind of cheap hotel is this, where every single word is reverberating as clearly into Shane’s ear as if Hunter had shouted it? He tries to gesture to Rozanov, but he receives a quelling look in return, and he can’t blame him. Hunter is at least choosing to say these things, even if he doesn’t know he has an audience. Neither Shane nor Rozanov have any desire to do the same.

“I miss you. Both of you. I think this is going to be another one of those seasons, you know? The team isn’t clicking. Zullo’s an asshole. I should be doing more, to get things working, but… I’m just tired. I’m not even that old. I’m 28. I should be in the prime of my life. But…” Scott trails off abruptly this time, like he’s self-censoring, and Shane hopes that it’ll end here. He’s heard too much already, he knows that, but other than humanising a player that he’s looked up to for a decade, none of it has been incriminating. Maybe, in a few years, they’ll laugh about it. “But I’m gay.” Well, fuck.

“I don’t know if you’d have accepted that, or if you wouldn’t. I’d like to think you’d love me no matter what, but I know it was a different time back then. God, if I’d said that at school… forget losing my scholarship, they might have thrown me in a hole somewhere. It’s not like anyone would have noticed. The worst part is that I’m a coward, too. I’m alone because I’m too afraid to tell anyone, and I’m too afraid because I don’t want to lose what little I do have.”

Shane feels a tear prick at his eyes, at that, but it’s nothing compared to those openly pouring down Rozanov’s face. It’s almost frightening, how quickly and silently Rozanov can cry. Shane doesn’t cry often – he found his tears drying up somewhere around his tenth year and they’ve been sporadic at best since then – but he could never manage this stillness. He wonders if Scott is crying, all alone next door. There’s nothing hinting towards it in his voice.

“Still, things aren’t too bad. The attention’s off me, at least. I bought a place, in New York. Figured I’ll be staying a while, so why not? It’s nice. No room for guests, but it’s just for me, so who cares? It’s private. I’ve had it eight months and I don’t think anyone’s knocked on the door. Just me and my thoughts. I had to stop billeting, but honestly, Vaughny was enough for a lifetime. And don’t worry – I’ve sealed off the balcony. Not taking that risk. Besides, Jessup – the neighbour’s cat, remember him - he’s got dibs on eating me when I die. Probably shouldn’t be out here either, but I’ll be fine. It’s a special occasion, right? Not many people get to All Stars once, let alone ten times. I’m not going to ruin the spectacle.”

Shane is shaken by Rozanov, who is now sliding off the bed with all the precision and expertise of a man who has often had to leave without a sound. In another setting, perhaps that would invoke very different emotions in Shane, but he follows Rozanov’s cue. The rate at which Scott is revealing his inner demons promises to haunt them both forever if they don’t get a move on, and Shane honestly thinks he’d rather be caught fucking (or being fucked by) Rozanov than have to admit to one of his childhood heroes what he's overheard today. Shane slinks his way slowly out of the bed, and Rozanov hands him a pile of clothes – his own, neatly folded – which he oh so gently eases his way into. It’s a tough balance, getting dressed quickly but without being heard, and he resigns himself to hearing yet more undeserved vulnerability creeping through the thin glass wall separating the balcony of room 1221 from its next-door neighbour.

“I just wish I had… I don’t know. You guys back would be nice, but it’s been years now. I wish I had someone, you know? It doesn’t have to be a guy. Just someone I can talk to about something other than hockey. Someone who notices when I’m sick, not because it’ll mess up my game, but because they care about me as a person. Someone in the stands to watch me… a friend, maybe. Vaughny, Eric, Huff… they’re great, but they’ve got families. They don’t need me mooching around making things weird. Vaughny was talking about Christmas with his folks last year, and it’s stupid, but I kept hoping he would invite me… don’t worry, I didn’t invite myself. I wouldn’t do that. But… I mean, there’s gotta be something wrong with me, right? Plenty of people lose their parents, but most of them manage to find someone-“

The door closes without a sound, leaving Shane and Rozanov in a hotel corridor in the dead of night, and shutting out Scott’s monologue. Shane recalls, a few scant hours previous, how terrified he was that someone would see him out here. Now, he feels vaguely unclean, knowing he’s borne witness to something he was never meant to hear. Rozanov, it seems, has no such hesitations. He walks straight to the door of 1223, and only Shane’s hand stops him from knocking.

“What are you doing?” Shane hisses, his voice reaching a pitch that only dogs and idiot Russian hockey players can hear.

Rozanov looks at him like he’s crazy. “Helping. You can leave, if you want.”

Shane struggles at what to say. Obviously knocking is the worst possible thing they can do. Scott – well, he doesn’t want to be alone, he was pretty clear on that, but he’d be humiliated knowing he’d been overheard by two rookies. He settles on “He thinks you hate him.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes again, and Shane really hates it when he does that, like Shane is the one being stupid. “You have one minute. Leave or stay.”

Shane does not want to stay. He has no desire to even look at Scott Hunter right now, let alone basically announce that he and Rozanov are… doing whatever it is they’re doing. But he’s not leaving Scott alone with Rozanov, whose cutting comments and blunt demeanour often cross the border into cruel with or without him meaning to. So he drops his protesting arm, and lets Rozanov knock twice on the door.

It takes at least a minute before the sound of footsteps reaches Shane and Rozanov, an in-between period as affirming as it is awkward. Yeah, it’s weird, maybe, but they’re doing this. They’re going to tell the saddest man in the MLH that they heard him talking to his dead parents on a hotel balcony and… what? Want to be his friend? Shane plots it out. They’ll find a nice neutral opening, conveniently tiptoe around the context. They heard him on the balcony, couldn’t make out what he was saying, but maybe he wanted some help? Or no, maybe don’t mention the balcony-

Shane is interrupted by a shirtless Scott, and a memory-echo of a hundred half-forgotten dreams knocks Shane briefly off-kilter. He very fixedly stares at Scott’s face rather than the smooth plane of skin across his indecently cut abs. He does look cold, paler than usual and his teeth clenched a little. That’s all Shane can register before Rozanov has buried Scott in a hug that looks bruising. Shane almost passes out. Of course Rozanov would ruin everything, coming on way too strong. Shane braces for Scott to freak the fuck out, the way he would if someone groped him at quarter to 3 in the morning, but to his shock, Scott hugs back after a mere moment’s hesitation, clinging to Rozanov like a drowning man around a life buoy. Shane doesn’t understand it, and rather than trying to, he decides to make himself useful. He tiptoes around the two men into the room, then half jogs, half sprints to the still open balcony door, and other than briefly freezing his nuts off – what the fuck, Scott, where is your shirt, the view was nice but the guy has to bordering on hypothermic right now – he stays only long enough to confirm that Scott’s on the building’s corner, and besides Rozanov’s, there’s a long gap between his and the next nearest balcony. Based on the way the room is designed, a glass barrier splitting the balcony unnaturally in two, Shane thinks that maybe the two rooms were once one big suite, and the soundproofing suffered when they were separated. He breathes a sigh of relief as he firmly shuts the balcony door behind him. Scott’s secret – and theirs – was safe, for now.

Rozanov and Scott are still hugging, when he’s back inside. The sound of the balcony shutting is enough to break them apart, and when they turn, Rozanov’s red face is a contrast to Scott’s empty one. There are no tears on the older man’s face, no red streaks. Just a bone deep weariness and big brown eyes that wouldn’t be out of place on an abandoned puppy seeking a warm place to bed. “You two want to tell me what this is about?” Scott’s eyes follow Shane’s to the balcony, and he pieces it together surprisingly quickly. “You heard me.” He blushes, and looks a little angry, though nowhere near as much as he should. “If this is a pity party-“

“No. Is compassion.” Rozanov’s voice brokers no compromise, and he gently tugs Scott by the pocket of his black sweatpants towards the bed. Scott follows instinctively, and Shane squashes a moment of arousal at the easy acquiescence, knowing this is not the time. Scott is indecently handsome, yes, and apparently both gay and available, but they can’t take advantage of him in this state. Not to mention he’s almost a decade their senior and would probably feel awful about it the next day, the exact opposite of what they’re hoping to achieve. Instead, he joins Rozanov in sandwiching Scott on the enormous hotel bedspread. “We sleep here tonight.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure you guys have your own rooms-“ Scott’s protest is so weak, so clearly reluctant, that even Shane can sense its insincerity, and so he literally waves it away. The gratitude in those puppy-dog eyes makes his knees weak, just a little. Big, handsome men should not be so sad and lonely, Shane decides. It’s bad for his heart and also probably his complexion, all these tears. Rozanov manoeuvres them carefully, as though he’s done it a thousand times before – him at Scott’s back, Scott at Shane’s, the three of them forming a surprisingly compact pile of muscle on the King-sized bed. It’s a bit weird to shuck out of his shirt and pants whilst Scott Hunter is pressed against him, but he still takes the time to fold them into a neat pile on the right nightstand as Rozanov kicks his away with impunity. “Ok, this is nice,” Scott whispers into Shane’s neck. “You can stay.”

“Glad we have your permission, old man,” Rozanov says, but the tight squeeze he gives them both must take any sting out of the insult, because Scott basically melts into Shane’s back. Shane was right – Scott is cold, but between the blankets and their body heat, he doubt that’ll stay an issue for long. He also has the softest skin Shane has ever felt, and he makes a mental note to ask about that later. Does he moisturise his chest? That seems like overkill to Shane…

“We’re going to have to talk about this in the morning,” Scott says, but the warning in his voice is already giving way to a sleepy yawn. The All-Stars Match isn’t until the evening, and no one will think anything of the three of them skipping the hotel’s breakfast, so ‘morning’ is more of an abstract, far away concept. Still, Shane thinks he should probably be thinking of it with a bit more dread than he can currently manage. Scott knows, now – or at least, he should put the pieces together soon – and somehow, it doesn’t scare Shane. They were in this together now, the three of them, and if that meant cuddling Scott into never mentioning his own corpse again, well. There were worse ways to end a night.

When Shane wakes, he realises he’s moved overnight, so he’s now staring at Rozanov over Scott’s sleeping head. Rozanov is awake, staring at Shane with vague distress in his face. Is the reality of the night before crashing onto him? Is he regretting their impulsive efforts of comfort? Shane tries to extricate himself from Scott’s grasp long enough to ask.

“Nrrrrgh!” Scott protests, pulling Shane closer, clutching him in both arms like an oversized teddy bear and not a taller-than-average, well-built hockey star. Shane tugs weakly at the arms holding him steady, but he’s fairly sure only Scott’s own will or the Claws of Life are digging him out of here.

Shane locks wide-eyes with Rozanov. “Can you move?” he whispers, the words ghosting over his lips so quietly that they might as well be breaths.

As if to demonstrate, Rozanov detaches an arm ever so slightly from Scott’s flank. Scott, in response, makes a sound like a baby seal being pulled from its mother, and Rozanov instinctively drops his hand back to where it was. The little furrow that had been forming on Scott’s brow in response to the loss of touch settles back into contentment.

That they’ve now been trapped in bed by Scott twice in a few scant hours, and neither is the pleasurable way he’d dreamed of in his youth, is an irony not lost on Shane. Are they seriously going to wait until Scott wakes up? He’s a grown man. He can deal with- another move, another downright inhuman noise, and who was he kidding. Shane could wait a little longer. Still, he’s wide awake now, the sunlight streaming into the room reminding him it’s well-past time for his protein shake and morning run. He hopes Scott’s also an early riser, even on days when he creeps into his hotel room at half past two in the morning, because there’s only so long he can ignore the heat of three bodies pressed plum against one another, and the frankly terrifying morning wood indenting more than half of Shane’s thigh.

He passes the time counting the moles on Rozanov’s face, imagines the other is doing the same with his freckles. It was shockingly kind of Rozanov to do this, all things considered. Shane isn’t naïve: if it had been up to him, he would have left it alone. Not completely – he would have made an effort to check in with Scott, tried to find some way to make him feel less alone, maybe sicced his mom on him – but comforting people in their times of need is not something he knows instinctively. Not like Rozanov, it seems, who managed to make more progress in getting Scott to open up in ten minutes than Shane could have managed in a week. He knew Rozanov didn’t hate Hunter, that Rozanov shows affection through scorn and contempt through silence, but if he’d misheard someone misunderstanding his intentions so thoroughly, he might have licked his wounds before trying to help. He also didn’t think Rozanov liked Hunter: theirs seemed, to him, the kind of weird back-and-forth banter that some people slipped into with their (male) friends, but without the warmth to balance it out. Clearly he cares enough to risk his career, reaching out. Scott may be gay, he might have practice hiding this stuff (he carefully doesn’t think about what this stuff is) but he’s also Mr Hockey himself, he of a thousand endorsements and, for many years, the poster boy for the league, a star that’s only just beginning to fade. It’s a risk, for sure, and he hopes it pans out. Hayden’s great, but Shane’s never been great at making friends, let alone friends who are almost as good as he is at hockey.

It’s an indeterminable period – it could be ten minutes or ten hours, but is probably closer to the former – before Scott wakes up too, yawning softly and rubbing at his eyes clumsily with an entire fist. He smiles softly, straight at Shane, and his sleep rumpled face and hair do things to him that he will spend at least a few days unpacking later. “You stayed.”

“Yes, Room Service?” comes Rozanov’s voice, breaking up the moment. Shane hadn’t even noticed him get up. “I will have two servings of pancakes, two breakfast sandwiches, a large Coke, and…” he tucks the ancient corded phone into his breastbone “What will you two have?”

Shane is, once again, completely horrified. He’s never seen Rozanov eat before, but he still imagined something healthier – athlete or not, surely no one sane is actually eating that much food this early in the morning? “The same, with a coffee,” Scott says, and no, apparently he’s the weird one here. He asks for poached eggs and yoghurt, and Rozanov relays the order, though not without making a face.

Rozanov returns to the bed, in a seated position facing the two of them, and the three of them fit surprisingly well together in the space. Scott’s still smiling softly, like he’s not quite sure what’s happening but is enjoying it nonetheless, and Shane tries not to wonder how long it’s been since someone has comforted him after a rough night.

“You are depressed.” Rozanov kills the mood the way only he can, reminding them all abruptly of the reason why they’re here.

Scott puffs up briefly, defensive, before the fight seems to leave him all at once. He crouches into a surprisingly small ball on the bed, runs a hand through his perfect hair, floofing it into a tall pile. “Yeah. Since I was a kid. No big deal, I’m handling it.”

“Talking to your dead parents and trying to jump off balcony is not handling it, Hunter.”

“Rozanov!” Shane tries to shoot a message with his eyes, something like are you trying to make this worse, stop it, but Shane’s never learned how to shut the guy up and he doubts he ever will.

“Alright, maybe last night wasn’t great, but I’m. You know.” Scott gestures absently with his hand, as though this was his version of an explanation. “I’m fine. And I didn’t try to jump!”

“My mother was fine, too. Then oops! Whole bottle of pills. Tragic.” The silence after that declaration is cutting. Scott opens his mouth and closes it a few times, but just when it seems he’s finally going to speak, there’s a knock on the door, and Rozanov leaves to collect their room service as Scott and Shane lock eyes.

By the time they’re all sitting with their breakfasts, Scott appears to have calmed down some, though Shane still feels shaken. How could he not have known? “I’m sorry to hear that, Ilya. But I swear to you, I’m not going to do that. I’ve got a Stanley Cup to win first.” Scott deflects so easily, like it’s second nature to him, and Shane starts to get an inkling of how he’s kept his secret all these years. Brutal self-abnegation, to the point of rejecting the thing he most wants as it’s being literally handed to him.

They eat in silence for a few minutes – apparently serious topics are not enough to keep the two men from devouring their food – but there’s a tension in the room that wasn’t there a few minutes ago, and Shane feels… awkward. He’s always hated this feeling, like being a kid and trying to pretend he can’t hear his friend’s parents fighting in the next room. He’s not sure who’s going to speak first. Scott is sitting cross-legged on the bed, pensive, but Rozanov is glaring at Scott between oversized bites of pancake, and Shane feels caught in between. He’s suddenly grateful for his parents, who never put him in the middle, and then has to consciously remind himself that neither Scott nor Rozanov is his dad, for fuck’s sake.

Finally, their meals are done, and Scott takes a breath. His eyes still speak of gratitude, but the downturned tilt in his mouth speaks of a man about to face all his nightmares in unexpected technicolour. “Look, I appreciate both of you coming here. It must have taken a lot of bravery, and I’m honoured that you trust me with the truth of your relationship.” Shane cringes a little at ‘relationship’ but he can’t imagine many things more uncomfortable than correcting Scott to ‘fuckbuddies’, so he lets it lie. “But let’s cut the crap, alright? Shane, you look like you want to vibrate out of your skin, and Ilya, you’ve made it very clear that you can’t stand the sight of me-“

“No.” Rozanov interrupting what it very clearly is taking Scott a great deal of effort to say isn’t surprising, at this point, but what comes out of his mouth next certainly is. “I like you. Would be sad if you died.”

Scott looks truly moved by that, as though Rozanov had declared his undying love instead of stating the barest minimum, and so Shane can’t help but chime in. “You were one of my heroes, growing up. I wanted to get your poster for my wall, but my mom’s a Montreal fan and I was afraid to ask her.” He doesn’t mention that the particular poster he wanted inspired some extremely inappropriate feelings in him, or that he filled his wall with players who were a little less good at hockey but also far less objectively pretty. Some things did not need to be said, ever. Admitting to having a dildo had been far too much for one 24-hour period.

“If you feel like this again, you call.” Rozanov’s phone brokers no argument, and he unerringly points at Scott’s left nightstand, where his phone is just barely visible from where Shane is sitting (but probably easier to see from Rozanov’s higher vantage point, the bastard). Scott passes it obligingly, taking a moment to key in the password with a single index finger like an old man. “You don’t have WhatsApp? Dinosaur.”

“You want me to message you whenever I’m sad? We live in separate cities-“ Scott really is determined to find a reason this won’t work, huh? Sucks for him. If there’s one thing Rozanov and Shane share it’s a refusal to ever lose.

“And when you are lonely. Or sick. We will send soup. We will be much richer than you soon.” Rozanov throws the phone back into Scott’s chest, harder than necessary by the sounds of it. It bounces straight off Scott’s naked pecs and into his waiting arms. Shane’s pocket, meanwhile, gives off the telltale buzz of a group chat developing. It’s a sound he has learned to fear, knowing how often it leads to him in his underwear repping a brand he’s only barely heard of and saying things like Unleash Your Essence.

“And you can come around to dinner at mine when you’re in Montreal.” Rozanov glares at that, and Shane realises he hasn’t invited Rozanov to his home yet. Oops. “Both of you.” Rozanov grins. Shane crosses his legs.

“And me too. I can even teach you how to play hockey!” Scott leans back and throws a pillow at Rozanov, and it elicits a surprisingly loud yelp. Shane takes that as his cue, pulling Rozanov with him to the door and scanning to ensure the hallway is deserted.

It almost goes unnoticed in the hustle and bustle of departure – and in Rozanov’s whining, like he’s been shot in the face instead of having a cheap hotel pillow tossed at him – but Scott’s quiet “Thank you,” brings a soft smile to Shane’s face.

“Rest, old man,” Rozanov says, and though Shane is closing the door behind him and can’t hear Rozanov’s parting blow, the sound of a second pillow thunking into the wood tells him it hit its mark.

Shane shakes his head as he walks down the corridor, entering the safety of the elevator and pressing the button for his own floor. He pulls out his phone and sees the title of the groupchat – The GOATs, because Rozanov will always be the cockiest motherfucker on planet Earth – and sees that Rozanov and Scott are already trading barbs in multiple languages (and seriously, since when could Scott speak French?). He doesn’t quite know what he’s got himself into, but he can’t fight a little grin as he turns to face the day. They did a good thing, he and Rozanov. And – he can’t help but feel giddy about it – he’s friends with Scott Hunter.

Chapter 2: A Tale of Three Cities

Chapter Summary

Things are a little awkward after All Star's Night, but Shane, Scott, and Ilya have bonded now, and they're here for each other in their deeply dysfunctional ways.

Chapter Notes

March 2011

Ilya still remembers the first time he saw Scott Hunter play.

It was at Sveta’s house. Grigori Rozanov had the foolish idea that if he kept Ilya’s eyes away from the MLH, banned it in his gilded walls, Ilya would avoid temptation and remain a Good Russian Boy. In reality, the sheer curiosity this inspired led Ilya to take every opportunity to seek it out, and Sveta doled out this forbidden fruit indulgently so long as he remained in her good graces. Which was easy, because Sveta was exactly as soft inside as she accused Ilya of being.

His first reaction when he saw Hunter was, of course, lust. He was all shaggy hair and cut edges those days, and Ilya wanted to peel off each layer with his teeth, to bite into those muscular thighs, to slap that handsome face until it was ruby red and aching for his cock. His second, strangely, was fear. There was a certain type of man that Ilya knew well, pretty but broken, hiding untold miseries behind masks of constructed masculinity. In Russia, many of those men were Bolshoi or Bratva, two terrifying species that even Ilya knew better than to get involved with. The remainder had little in common, drug dealers and socialites and some honest workers, but all with that same emptiness. Or, as Sveta put it, “don’t put your dick in that one, they carry a knife in their pants.”

Hunter being an orphan almost explained it. Undeserved grief for a hateful father or an absent mother could account for the soul-crushing nothingness in those eyes as he doggedly pursued a Stanley Cup that evaded him like Tantalus chasing a grape. But Hunter seemed sincere when he spoke of happy families and tragic losses, and his uncanny ability to sniff out any player who’d just logged a DUI and break their jaw on the ice spoke louder than words. Hunter loved his parents, had a good wholesome American upbringing, seemed normal enough, but he wasn’t a man torn apart by grief: he was a man driven by it, it was the glue holding together his shattered pieces.

Still, Ilya was a reckless man, and fear had never discouraged him before. He liked to poke, to prod, to find the clockwork beneath the beautiful visage and figure out how it worked. It was what attracted him to Hollander, all those years ago: this beautiful pile of contradictions, self-assured and insecure in equal measures. It was what kept him recklessly floating on Hunter’s periphery, never fully committing to friendship or enmity but always ensuring he’d be remembered.

Ilya had been gifted an enormous piece of the puzzle when he overheard Hunter’s monologue. Knowing that Hunter was indeed a deeply sad man who had no one to confide in was at once a relief and a horror for Ilya. Relief, because he had wondered on more than one occasion if that good-boy demeanour was hiding a double-digit body count (and not the fun kind), but he now knew Hunter would kill himself long before anyone else. Horror, because Ilya had only ever managed perhaps a few months of such crippling loneliness before he was on the brink, desperately burying himself in sex or booze or something to fill the void. If Hunter had felt this way for sixteen years, all the while remaining a good abstinent boy scout… what did this man do with his time? It was that frustration, more than anything, which drives him as he paces the man’s horrendously impersonal home – this is a puzzle that refuses to unravel, but Ilya will solve it if it kills him.

“You sure you don’t want something to drink, Ilya?” Ilya was determined to stop thinking the worst of Hunter, for his own sanity if nothing else, but it was difficult when the man insisted on saying his name like that, like Ilya was his friend and not someone he fully believed hated him until a month ago.

“I want to drink, yes. I don’t want trash.” Ilya glared at the disgrace sitting between the Gordon’s and the Jose Cuervo.

“Ok, so don’t drink the Grey Goose, you big Russian baby. I have every other drink under the sun.” There’s no bite in Hunter’s voice, despite Boston having downed the Admirals 4-3. Probably Hunter’s pleased with his two goals and an assist. Possibly Zullo conceding the game-losing powerplay by calling Ilya a cocksucking fuckwit within earshot of a ground mic, two officials and Hunter himself makes him kind of accepting of the loss. Definitely Hunter is growing fond of him, which is a worry. Befriending another deeply depressed man sounds like they’re halfway to a suicidal chain reaction, and Ilya would hate for his genetic code to drive anyone else down with him.

“Do you have kvass?” Ilya asks, mocking. Hunter probably had ginger ale and three different types of Dr Pepper, because American drinks universally taste of medicinal despair.

“Yes, actually, do you want some?” Hunter is annoying when he’s smug. Ilya would really like a coke, actually, but he can’t admit that now that he’s tried to pull the you ignorant American routine and been rebuffed. Hunter has Russian teammates, of course he keeps kvass. And if he didn’t, he’s in New York and could access it in five minutes or less. Ilya sips his glass of water shamefully, the Sveta in his head chiding him for his stupidity. “Or are you going to keep glaring a hole in my shelves?”

It’s frustrating, how Hunter keeps no signs of life in his apartment. Ilya can read most hockey players like open books, not that it’s hard (most are closer to pop-ups than Pushkin, and Ilya was reading Dostoyevsky at thirteen). Hunter’s house is less homey than most hotel rooms. A few art books, clearly never opened. Vases and handsome bowls scattered deliberately, aesthetically. But no pictures. No puzzles. No copy of The New Yorker poking out of an umbrella stand to confirm Ilya’s initial diagnosis of boring. Hunter doesn’t even have his own gym, his building does. “Do you read?”

Hunter reaches into a sideboard and waves some black keyboarded monstrosity at him. “E-books, mostly.”

Psychotic. Deranged. Ilya begins to reconsider his serial killer hypothesis. “Classics?” he asks, strangled.

“Sometimes,” Hunter says noncommittally. Ilya wants to smother him with a pillow. “Are you ok, Ilya? You seem a little tense.”

Great, now he’s being read by Mr Cornbread. “Your life is sad.” Hunter’s face falls. Ilya can almost hear it, the sad entreaty. Why you gotta be like that, man, he’s thinking, in his French-tinged, regionalised brand of rustic Americana that makes him sound kind of like Sasha when he’s making fun of someone. We was having a nice time. “Sadder than Hollander’s.”

“Weird way to talk about your boyfriend, man,” Hunter says, because neither he nor Hollander ever got around to correcting his assumption and at this point, it’s apparently ‘too awkward’ to say anything. “I’ll take it as a compliment. You wanna watch a game?”

“Is eleven at night, game is over.” Truthfully, splitting Hunter’s attention would be great if he could manage it, but he doubts a re-run will be sufficient.

“There’s always a game on somewhere,” Hunter says, sitting in front of his too-big television. Hollander would probably suggest that this is where Hunter spends his time, but Ilya isn’t fooled. Hunter is far too wound up to ever feel comfortable with such idleness. Probably projects photos of flowers onto the screen the moment guests leave. “Let’s see, we have women’s tennis, European football, Australian football, and… biathlon. What the fuck is a biathlon?”

“Is shooting and skiing,” Ilya says, because he received an education. That seems to be enough for Hunter, and they pass about three minutes of odd sliding on the ice before Hunter gets antsy. Ilya knew it.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Hunter says. If the sadness in his voice is all real, then the low ache in Ilya’s chest is proportionate. If it’s in any way fake, then Ilya will have his revenge. “It’s great that you’re so compassionate, but you don’t owe any responsibility to me.”

Get fucked, old man, you’re the only interesting thing in this entire city. “I stay.” Anna Karenina is not jumping in front of that train until he has her good and figured out, and thus far Hunter’s apartment has not turned up any Vronsky’s. “You have nice home,” he says, because he didn’t say it before and he has manners.

“Thanks, it’s… well, you heard. Private.” Desolate, more like… “And it’s a nice neighbourhood. Good food.” Hunter chews on his lip. “If you don’t hate me, then why are you always so mean? I’m not that old.”

Ilya considers his options here. He knows Hunter can’t read him, so a lie would work, but what’s the point if he has no idea what reaction he’ll get? The truth, meanwhile, is far more complicated than his limited English can express. “Your eyes are old,” Ilya says, aiming for a partial truth and hoping Hunter will understand. “Older than time.”

Said eyes are being rolled, now. “You read too many classics. My eyes are normal. I’m fucked up, sure, but you can’t read my aura. If you could, you wouldn’t have needed shitty hotel soundproofing to understand me.”

“I don’t understand you,” Ilya says. “What is your life? You play hockey, you speak to doorman, you sleep?”

“And you? You play hockey, you have sex, you sleep? I have a normal life, kid. I cook, I clean, I train, I work out. I read whatever interests me, watch sports sometimes. Listen to podcasts. I’m not all that complicated.” Hunter turns his eyes from Ilya’s face to the screen. “I feel like you want me to be way more complicated than I am, and I’m sorry, but I’m just… not.”

Ilya wishes he could believe him. Babysitting Hunter would be much easier if Ilya could let his own masks down, but he can’t do that until he’s sure Hunter’s more man than beast. Ilya watches as the coverage breaks for an ad for Rozanov v Hollander, interviews of Ilya cocky and shirtless contrasted with perfect Hollander in an honest to God suit. He feels Hunter’s gaze and immediately redirects. “How is the team?”

Hunter tenses up. “You’re here for intel?” He thinks about it. “No, you’re not, are you? Both our teams suck.” Ilya wishes he could object to that, but they really fucking do. “Most of the guys are great, it’s just…”

“Frank Zullo?” Ilya doesn’t get it – the guy’s a solid defenceman, but why keep a guy who half the team despises? If he were a generational talent, then maybe you could swap out half the team around them, but Zullo’s a thug. Replaceable. “You can’t get him fired?”

“That would be unethical,” Hunter says, not meeting his eyes. Ah. Tried and failed, then. “And we’ve got enough problems on defence without getting rid of the one guy who knows what he’s doing.” Personally, Ilya thinks the Admirals’ second line is more of an issue, but that probably reduces their willingness to fuck up their defence yet further. “Plus, as you like to say, I’m getting old. Can’t manage 140-point seasons anymore.”

“You never won even with 140-point seasons,” Ilya points out, because he is a kind man who makes an effort to assist his elderly friends’ memories. “You need better team. Move to Boston. Take pay cut. You make enough money selling underwear.” Ilya had to walk past three half-naked billboards on his way here, including one on the subway train.

“I’m not ditching my team,” Hunter says. “They’re my family.”

Ilya doesn’t even dignify that with a response. He thought the MLH is my family crap was a metaphor, but Hunter really is committed to this sad little lie. He makes Hunter sit in the awkwardness of their silence, projects contempt the way only a Russian can. His silent punishment is interrupted by a knock on the door, and Ilya jerks slightly. Didn’t Hunter say no one ever came here?

“That’ll be your vodka,” Hunter says. “The best Russian stuff available in New York City. You’re welcome.”

Ilya thanks him sincerely. Not only for the vodka, which Ilya hadn’t even seen him order, but for giving him the opportunity he needs to break out his phone and message his co-conspirator.

“You want any mixers?” Hunter calls out, and Ilya most certainly does not. He is a Russian man, not a middle American teenager. However, he does need extra time.

“Please bring bread. Rye, if possible.” It’s not a funeral, but Ilya’s grieving his utter lack of intel, so… his eyes fall to the buzz of his phone.

“Is that Shane?” Hunter asks, popping up behind him like a vampire. Ilya slams the phone off, confident his well-trained angling has left his texts unseen but annoyed at himself for being, once again, crept up on by an American. “Tell him I would love to meet his parents, but I’m not really up to talking about 2007, no matter how helpful his mother’s advice would be.”

Ilya stares at the vodka and rye bread before him. It’s been sliced into little fingers, and he has a flight in the morning. “Can I sleep here?”

Hunter rolls his eyes, but his eyes seem a little lighter, and at least that’s one success out of this disaster of an evening. Perhaps Ilya can extract more from him when he’s half-asleep and clingy. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Ilya sighs. He needs better backup for this one.

April 2011

Shane has never been so nervous to receive a houseguest in his life.

It doesn’t help that Montreal had lost, a 3-1 home defeat that left most of his team indifferent but which Shane finds demoralising. New York may have scraped a playoff place this season, but Montreal has been mathematically out for weeks, and no matter how hard he tried, Shane couldn’t get the rest of his team to care about winning when there were so few stakes. He would have pushed, but one or two dark comments from his teammates about being unwilling to injure themselves to increase Shane’s odds at Rookie of the Year had kept him shamefully silent.

He's arranged for food – good food, in slightly higher quantities than usual. Doesn’t want to try and guess at Scott’s diet, so he asked his mother. She may have been confused with the question “What do you think Scott Hunter eats?” but had resolved this much quicker than Shane ever could. Noted that even if New York has a snowball’s chance in hell this season, Scott probably will be on a playoff diet soon enough, so he would probably be thinking of macros more than flavour.

Rozanov had been completely useless at figuring out Scott’s headspace, telling him only that “He reads fake books” (what?) and “He is Russian at heart” (beet and vodka-flavoured?). Still, Shane has the advantage here: Rozanov’s English is improving, but Shane is a native, and he’s been compared to Scott his entire career, so he’d hope he knows the guy a little. He also has home ice advantage, Scott having both beaten him and being his guest, meaning he should be more open and less wound up.

Shane also has his backup plan, if this fails.

Ok, so maybe his mother wasn’t fully on board, but he’s pretty sure that all he has to do is tell her about the Balcony Incident and she’ll have an army of cousins and aunts on speed-dial for Saving Captain Hunter. He’s still workshopping the name. Rozanov’s no help on that, either.

The doorbell rings, and Shane huffs a breath. He’s dressed down in just his slacks and button up, but Scott is still in the suit he presumably left the arena in. The smell of his cologne – probably something a sponsor picked out, and slightly less offensive than the stuff Shane’s got on – is a nice sensory distraction from the fact that, this close to the adrenaline rush of a game, Shane kind of wants Scott to pull his hair and put him on his knees.

“Hey kid!” Scott says, and Shane’s lust deflates a little at the address. He’s a grown man, dammit. “I brought ginger ale.” Ooh!

“I made dinner!” Shane says. In truth, he asked a neighbour to do it, but that’s basically the same thing, and he wants Scott to know effort went into this meal.

Scott smiles at him, and Shane hopes that’s a good sign as he points Scott to the meal set up at the counter. He’d gone back and forth, but the table was too formal, and the couch was too casual. A good compromise. “You didn’t have to do all this!”

I would do anything for you. “Winner takes it all, right?” Shane tries to smile back.

Scott frowns. “Hey, kid, you don’t have to put me up if you don’t want to. Losing sucks, you’re allowed to be upset.”

“I’m not upset with you, Mr- Scott.” Shane corrects himself a moment too late, which is annoying, but at least Scott seems amused. “My team were a bit…” He trails off, trying not to badmouth them but also deeply annoyed.

“Yeah, end of season blues, huh?” Scott seems sympathetic. “I’ll be there soon, I’m sure.” Well, Shane’s glad he didn’t have to say it. “Shouldn’t you be eating chocolate covered strawberries and poutine now?”

“I’m on a macrobiotic diet. It’s year round. Better for performance, you know?”

“So no dessert?” Scott seems a bit saddened by that.

“I have dessert.” Shane does not have dessert, but he heard about Scott’s trick with the vodka last time and he thinks he can pull it off. “You can start eating, by the way.”

Scott doesn’t have to be told twice. Shane eats deliberately slowly, surreptitiously slips off to the bathroom to arrange for dessert, any dessert, and still manages to finish his meal before Scott has scarfed down his portion. “This is fucking amazing,” Scott says. “You’re a brilliant cook, Shane. What’s this spice on here?”

Shane has no fucking clue, actually, but he knows how to fob that one off. “Family secret. My mom would kill me if you knew.”

Scott nods, like that makes sense. Shane didn’t even have to lie: his mother would kill him if he told Scott he didn’t even bother preparing the man’s meal by hand. “I did want to talk to you about something, rook.”

Shane leans forward, eager. Scott is going to tell him what he needs, Shane will help him get better, and then Scott will drag his team to a Stanley Cup kicking and screaming, this year. Then he’ll retire happy, find a nice man, and Shane will win ten in a row- “What are you going to tell Rozanov when you win the Calder?”

Shane feels like he’s been doused with ice water. “There’s no guarantee of that.“

“You’re winning the Calder, Shane. You managed as many goals as Rozanov, plus more assists, and you were the number 2 draft pick, so he’s got more expectations on him.” Shane’s mother has said the same, and he’s odds-on favourite according to his more gambling-inclined cousins, but Shane doesn’t want to jinx it. “And it’s amazing, really, but you know he’s not going to take it too well.”

The annoying thing about maintaining this ‘boyfriends’ façade with Scott, aside from the fact that it’s simply not true, is that Shane can’t very well say ‘Eh, fuck him.’ Scott would think he’s a bad boyfriend, and wouldn’t trust him anymore, and then he’d have to confide in Rozanov. “We’ve talked about it,” Shane lies, and fuck, fuck, why did he do that, he feels hot from head to toe. “Not, like, specifically,” Shane course corrects, and that’s better. “But we know we’re both competitive, and it’s fine. We’ll cope. I mean…” Shane feels a little bitchy saying it, but it’s true. “He wins everything else. He can deal with me winning this one.”

“I’m not really sure he sees it like that, kid,” Scott says, absently twisting a fork between his middle fingers. “I think he’s a bit lonely too. You ever seen anyone at his games for him?”

Shane thinks about it for a moment. He’s seen a bevy of attractive women on Rozanov’s arm, none more than once, and he’s seen Rozanov’s terrifyingly intimidating dad from a distance, also once, but he’s never spoken to any of them. “I don’t really understand what that has to do with hockey, though. It sucks that he’s alone, but this is different. This is our careers.”

“I don’t think it’s as easy for him to separate them, Shane.” Scott continues to stare at his fork. “I’ll keep him company, at awards night,” he says. “And congratulations, rook. Hell of a season.”

“You too,” Shane says, slightly strangled. He tries to steer the topic away from hockey, but that’s maybe the exact opposite of what he’s good at, so all he can think is “My parents are coming. Do you have any relatives who-”

“None worth mentioning.” Scott interrupts. He looks a little terrifying right now, actually. His eyes seem almost black as he glares into the granite countertop. What’s really chilling, however, is how he forces on a smile within seconds. “How about you, kid? Think you can introduce me to your folks? I can’t wait to meet them.”

Neither could Shane. He has no idea what he’s doing here and has never felt so useless, but there isn’t an issue Yuna Hollander can’t crack. Could he hug Scott? Would that help him? It helped when Rozanov did it. “Do you want a hug?”

Scott’s smile drops again, but at least he’s not glaring this time. “This again, huh?”

“I’m worried about you. Both of us are.” The words are spilling out now, because Shane can’t do subtle but he can do open sincerity, when he has to. “Maybe you should go to therapy-“

“No.” Scott shuts him down so completely that Shane is struck silent, leaving Scott with the floor. “I went to therapy. It didn’t help. Made things worse, if anything, because afterwards, all the other kids knew I was fucked in the head. I’m not getting kicked off my team because I couldn’t deal with being sad.”

That… sounds about right, to Shane. Hockey is not kind to those who are different, he knows. But he has no idea how to bridge this gap, the loneliness that separates Scott from those around him. Shane has it too, a little bit, but he has his parents, has Hayden, maybe even has Rozanov, a little. Shane opens his mouth to reply-

“Look, this is nice, alright? This is enough. You don’t have to fix me, you can’t do that, but this is more than enough. Really.”

Shane nods. He’ll try again next time. “Do you want to play MLH 11 while we eat carrot cake?”

“Fuck yeah I do.”

June 2011

Scott keeps an eye on both his charges throughout awards night, but the moment Shane is announced as Rookie of the Year, his gaze locks squarely on Tall, Blond and Russian.

“Hockey dad to the rescue?” Vaughny asks, smirking.

Scott rolls his eyes. He doesn’t know who started this stupid hockey dad thing but if he ever meets them, he might get physical. Hockey media were inevitably going to realise that Scott’s made buddies with his fresh young replacements, and somewhere along the line they framed him as the steadying presence keeping the two rivals from biting each other’s heads off. Rozanov hasn’t helped matters, being caught on a hot mic versus Montreal bragging that hockey dad likes me best. As if. He loves both his stupid friends equally, and he is way too young for children.

Scott follows Ilya to the balcony, and though he doesn’t speak Russian, he knows the weight of obligation that settles onto the kid’s shoulders like the burden of Atlas. “Exhausting, huh?”

Ilya jumps a little – it’s gratifying, that Scott can still take him off-guard – but he snorts, puffing on his cigarette. “Should you be here?”

“I think I can resist the urge, somehow.” Scott looks out onto the city, and maybe it is dumb, balconies being one of his biggest triggers, but he’s had a solid couple of months and he’s sick of being careful. Scott has researched exposure therapy, this is probably healthy. “You were happy for Shane, I saw it. So what’s up now?”

Ilya stares at him analytically. He does this on occasion, like he’s weighing up the pros and cons of speaking. Or maybe he’s just translating in his head, Scott doesn’t know – he spoke French as often as English growing up, and his issue has always been mixing them together into some strange pidgin moreso than struggling to translate between them. Ilya, he firmly believes, is insanely clever in his native language, but Scott only ever gets half of the guy in English. Whatever equation the kid’s solving, it must resolve in Scott’s favour, because he asks “You have family, yes? Not just parents?”

Scott flinches. “I have relatives.” He plucks the cigarette from Ilya and sucks it in deep, handing it back. The smoke is bracing, even if his coach would kill him if he knew. “My aunt took me in. Spent about two months looking for boarding schools before she shipped me out again. Only ever calls when she wants money.” As if Scott would ever give a single fucking penny to the woman who abandoned him when he needed her, slapped him whenever he cried and told him he got his parents killed by being a stupid little pussy. His money goes to the scholarship program that saved him, not the woman who almost destroyed him. “Her kids are just like her.”

“I have brother. He is same.” Ilya breathes out a puff of smoke. “As your aunt. Not same like me. He is… angry.”

“Right now, or in general?” Scott asks, and Ilya huffs a laugh.

“Both. My father is dying, I think.” Ilya shakes himself. “Don’t tell Hollander.”

“Are you two close?” Scott has had it both ways, losses marked by love and those draped with indifference. Is it worse to lose a loving father, or to have never had one?

“No.” The latter, then. Ilya extinguishes his cigarette and tosses it off the balcony, and Scott can imagine his boyfriend getting on his case later if he knew about the littering. “But he is my father.”

Scott puts an arm around Ilya, then. Drags him off to the side, where it’s darker, where it feels less exposed even if the reality is that neither can be seen from this high up. “You don’t owe him anything, you know? Your family is supposed to love you, and if he didn’t-“

“He paid for hockey. Gave me my life.” Ilya says it like it’s a simple fact of life, and Scott knows he could lose him here. He doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that Ilya is turning to him for this, thinks maybe he wants to be guilted into destroying himself for people who don’t deserve him.

Scott touches Ilya’s face as gently as he can manage with his rough, calloused hands. “If you feel better sending your dad money, taking care of him, then more power to you, kid. But don’t tear yourself apart for someone who doesn’t give a shit about you. It’s never worth it.” Scott didn’t spend eight years trying to earn the love of his cousins and aunt to let someone else go down the same painful path. “If you want permission, well… I’m telling you, as a guy who would give anything to have his parents back, you owe them nothing.”

Ilya’s eyes are teary, and Scott can’t help it – he pulls him into a hug. It’s tight, almost bruising, and though the first few tears absorb into his jacket, Ilya doesn’t cry, not fully. He just squeezes, breathes, holds. Scott holds back, remaining steady. He’s been here, so many times, and his heart hurts for this kid in front of him, who he had so badly misjudged, whose compassion spills out of him even as he tries so desperately to bury it. “I don’t want to go back,” Ilya says, and Scott doesn’t blame him. “Not now. Next year, maybe, I don’t know, but I can’t.”

Scott wishes he could say something like you don’t have to here, but the truth is, he has no idea. “Can you stay? Visa-wise, I mean?” Ilya nods into his jacket. “Then stay. Come to New York, play tourist, or ask Shane to put you up in Ottawa. I go to Europe around this time, usually, so you can stay at my place if you want, or come with me. We can eat custard tarts in Portugal, island hop in Greece. Heck, fly your dad out here, there’s gotta be some kind of medical visa, and then you don’t have to go to Russia except when you want to.” In truth, Scott has no fucking idea how that would be arranged, but he’s a millionaire, he can find someone.

They stand there for a good long while, arm in arm, but after a while, Ilya withdraws from the hug, and Scott sees that Shane is walking towards them. Ilya now looks calmer than Scott has ever seen him, which he takes as a plus. “I’ll think about it,” he says.

“Think about what?” Shane is looking mighty pleased with himself, as he should, and Scott grins at him. Nothing beats the feeling of that first award.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Scott asks, feeling a little protective (not parental, no matter what Vaughny says). “Congratulations, Shane,” Scott says as he passes. “Come back later, both of you, some of the older guys wanted to do shots. I’ll make sure you’re not interrupted.”

He very carefully does not look back as he heads inside, but he makes sure to stand guard at the door until they walk out together a few minutes later, both seeming blessedly calmer.

Chapter End Notes

I wrote the "Americans are weird about age gaps" joke long before any parasocial idiocy caught my attention, and it really checks out, huh?

Anyway, I don't know how far I'm going to take this, but I do have some fun ideas rolling around in my head, so future updates are likely (though not guaranteed, last time I made a promise about timelines AO3 cursed me with three autoimmune diseases and C-PTSD).

Chapter 3: Homos' Odyssey

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya continue to help Scott in their own way, drawing in much-needed support from the women in their lives. In the process, they find their relationship taking new shape. Also, the gays (and bis) hit Greece.

Chapter Notes

June 2011

Shane fucking hates this club.

Clubbing is different in America. The purple and blue strobe lights and loud music are the extent of the sensory assaults on his person, and the VIP lounges let him take a break when the brush of bodies gets to be too much. Here, there’s a smoke machine spewing toxic chemicals into his lungs, the entire club is contained in a single crumbling room, there’s no escape without pushing through at least forty sweaty bodies, and the men. They’re the worst.

“Hey, he was hot!” Scott complains, as Shane literally bats away the most recent guy who thinks grabbing at Scott’s half naked chest constitutes flirting.

“He’s talking photos of women’s chests with that camera around his neck,” Shane shouts into Scott’s ears, because there is no fucking way for noise to carry in his hellhole otherwise. They’re on two of the three stools on the bar, which gives Shane a perfect vantage point for the depravity on display in this den of hedonism.

“What the fuck.” Scott on vacation is at once far more and far less chill than he is at home. Far more, in the sense that his clothes are downright slutty, sheer open shirt and blatant dick print on display through his tight jeans, and he’s shown to have very little standards when it comes to who will bed him. Far less, in that he comes to Shane and Ilya’s room after every bad encounter, looking very haunted and a little afraid, and gently asks if he can sleep with them tonight, because the guy didn’t want to cuddle and Scott’s feeling a bit worn out.

Seriously, what psychopath is kicking Scott Hunter out of bed? Let alone in his sad, sleepy cuddle-monster form. Three people in the last five days, that’s who. Shane had insisted on accompanying Scott on this particular sexcapade, taking a break from the relaxing routine of beach workouts, fresh fish dinners and hot sex with Ilya, because the guy seems to have a radar for the nastiest creeps this side of the Mediterranean. Thus far, Scott has born that out. Before Creepy Camera Guy was an English tourist with a wedding ring, a couple eyeing Scott like they wanted to hurt him with knives, and the same guy from last night, who Scott seemed to be considering again despite the brutal rejection he’d already faced. “I miss Athens,” Shane mutters.

“Fuck Athens!” comes an accented voice beside him – how did they hear him? –  and somehow, that turns into a fucking chant, raising above the din of some obscure pop-star’s voice digitally chopped into insanity. “Fuck Athens!” shout a hundred Cretans, a few dozen tourists, and Scott.

Shane is at his wits end. It’s hot, it smells bad, he feels a crawling in his skin that has his shoulders jacked up parallel to his forehead, and if one more guy ‘accidentally’ brushes his dick he’ll let Scott punch them. That’s when he locks eyes with a local. He doesn’t know what it is – maybe the fact that he looks just as worn out and overstimulated as Shane feels right now, or maybe it’s his objectively gorgeous face, dark hair and chiselled jaw, but a little voice in his head says target acquired. “Hey!”

The guy looks over, as does Scott, who bites his lip, clearly interested (good!). Shane gestures at the guy, and he makes a face, like who, me? Scott already looks smitten. The reason for the guy’s insecurity becomes clear as he gets closer – he makes Shane look like a giant by comparison, can’t be more than 5’5 – but he’s kind and has a nice smile, as Shane had hoped. His name is Theo, he thinks they’re together at first but is thrilled to learn they’re not, and Shane is feeling pretty good about himself as Theo basically drags Scott by the bicep to go eat meat skewers before doing whatever the fuck it is that makes Scott feel good. Shane makes sure to semi-shout “He likes to cuddle” through cupped hands before Theo’s out, and though he gets a weird look for it, Shane likes to think of it as going above and beyond on the wingman game.

Once Scott is gone, there’s no reason for Shane to stay, so he feels nothing but blessed relief as he pops out of the club into the relatively cool outdoors. He takes a stroll before heading home, because he needs to clear his nostrils and because it’s a novelty to him. Midnight in Canada means laying in bed under a pile of blankets, not drinking and chatting in the balmy breeze, life and joy spilling out onto the streets. Shane hates hot weather, but he sees the appeal of this place, even if his shirt is sticking to his abs in a way that he hates, reminding him of the need to shower the moment he gets to the holiday rental.

Ilya isn’t back yet – still out with ‘a friend’, because he’s the kind of guy who can catch up with a friend halfway around the world instead of just waiting until he gets home. Strictly speaking, he and Ilya didn’t have to share a room, but maintaining this façade of a relationship around Scott… he’s probably figured out something is up, by now, but Shane is so guiltily enjoying it, having a reason and an excuse to touch Ilya as often as he wishes. Sue him, but Ilya is hot, and Shane’s on vacation, he can relax for once.

It's the club that’s got him dwelling, Shane’s sure, and though he misses his perfect mattress and pillow from home, he still feels far more settled when he’s curled up in bed with a blanket over his head, slightly damp hair on his pillow. Relaxing is easy, with the distant sounds of crashing waves and the pleasant cool of the air conditioning, and he’s feeling loose and calm within twenty minutes.

With luck, he’ll fall asleep before Scott and Theo get back from their dinner and won’t have to hear another Greek voice calling his childhood hero a dirty little whore. Shane is pretty confident that Scott has no desire to ever be called such a thing, even if a shameful part of Shane would kind of be into it, and he always has to prepare on those days for Scott to be extra clingy and sad. It makes him so grateful for Ilya, who it turns out is far less of an asshole than Shane had thought, and who is always attentive and respectful in bed. The idea that Scott was doing this every year, letting his body be used by whoever desired it, naturally gravitating towards the people who treat him as badly as he feels about himself, and calling it a vacation, an essential release, and not some sick purgatory… Shane kind of wants to take a blowtorch to every homophobic dick who’s ever made Scott feel like he has to hide.

As it is, though, he pats himself on the back for making Scott's day, hopefully, just a little bit brighter. It's a pleasant thought to fall asleep to.

June 2011 – The Same Day

“I see the sun is agreeing with you,” Sveta says, in Russian.

Ilya tries to glare. The sunglasses shaped tan-line around his eyes probably somewhat lessens its intensity. “The sun is xenophobic.”

Sveta laughs, light and airy, attracting even more attention from the Greek men at the tables around them. She is the most beautiful person on this island, something they are all aware of, and the pink-red sunburns on Ilya’s face reduce his own good looks to the point where they think they have a chance. Idiots. Svetlana Vetrova would have them in padded rooms chewing off their own fingers within a week. “Did you have something you wanted to talk about, or did you just want an excuse to fly me out to Greece?”

“Why can’t it be both?” Ilya grins at her. “Hunter’s paying for my room, I have money to spare.”

“Hunter, huh? Have you fucked him yet?” Sveta asks, deliberately casual. Wanting more fuel for her idle fantasies, most likely. Last month she had sent him a drawn image of him, Shane and Scott in an anatomically improbable threesome with the caption there are hundreds of these on tumblr.

Ilya instinctively glances around the room. No one here looks like anything other than a local, but Russian speakers are tricky. They hide in plain sight, like bison. “No fucking. He is too…”

“Squishy? Boring? A soft little marshmallow man?” Sveta echoes his own words at him, because she is incapable of using her memory for anything but evil.

“Sad.” That gets Sveta to rise sharply.

“Sad like…”

“Like mother, yes.” Ilya accepts the warm hand on his left, places his right on top and soaks in Svetalenka’s comfort. “I do not know how to help him.”

“You mean you do not know how to fix him,” Sveta corrects sharply. “You cannot. It is his battle, not yours.” Her tone gentles. “He is not your burden.”

“He’s not a burden,” Ilya says. And it’s true: being friends with Scott is actually… wonderful. “He is the reason I did not go back to Russia.”

“So you could take care of him instead?” Sveta sounds sceptical, understandably.

“No. He told me to take a holiday. That I didn’t owe father and Alexei my money and my time.” It’s rare that Ilya manages to surprise Sveta these days, but there it is. Shock, and a little bit of gratitude. She’s always been protective of him, and he of her. The bonds that form in the crucible of familial indifference and patriarchy are diamond, not mere iron. It means they cannot push each other as much as they sometimes wish, and are immensely grateful for those who can pick up the slack.

“Fine, I will help you… help him.” Sveta is too clever to be tricked, but she knows Ilya didn’t drop that bomb for no reason. “You are attached now. He cannot be allowed to die.”

An older man is following Sveta’s words like she’s speaking pure poetry, chin on his hand, elbow on the table. It’s a shame his Russian isn’t good enough to understand the disdain for human life her words imply. It would spare Ilya the need to angle himself at the table so as to block his view.

“But you wanted something specific, I imagine? That’s why you flew me out here?” Sveta says.

“Frank Zullo,” Ilya says darkly. “He needs to go.”

“I don’t actually kill people, you know,” Sveta says. Lies. She just needs a better reason.

“I do not want him at Boston. But I need him out of New York, soon. His no trade clause is suspended until August, which gives us two months.”

“I don’t need more than three days, Ilyushka.” Svetlana is already on her phone. “Jalo good?”

“Jalo? From Tampa Bay? For Boston?” He’s the best defenceman in the league, but Boston doesn’t really need more strength on defence.

“No. For New York.”

Ilya freezes. Giving an advantage like that to one of their biggest rivals… “What would Boston get in return?”

“Two experienced wingers from New York. They have too many, and you have no support.” Sveta is typing as she speaks, which means she’s already figured Ilya will say yes.

New wingers would fix their biggest problem immediately, and give them more freedom in the draft. New York would benefit, yes, and face little harm since they overproduce wings like an American chicken restaurant, but they still have an extremely weak second centre. “What does Tampa Bay get for Jalo?”

“Your third centre. The little American boy, what’s his name? Miller?” Sveta looks up at him. “I can send this to Boston’s GM now. Your choice, Ilyushka.”

Ilya thinks about it. Boston and New York would be strengthened, and Tampa Bay would be stuck with New York’s attitude problem and a spectacularly timid, but talented American boy who doesn’t want to be there. It would put both of their teams in the running for the Cup, this year, at the expense of a city that Ilya frankly does not care about. “Do it.”

Sveta smiles at him. “I hope your friendship can survive fighting it out for the cup.”

Ilya has no doubt it can. The question is whether it will.

July 2011

“Huh,” Scott says, squinting at his phone. “New trade announced.” He’s glad he can get this news when he’s lying on a beach chair and when surrounded by company, because his façade of calm hides a great deal of frustration.

“Oh?” Ilya sounds curious.

“We have a new second centre now. Stanley. Traded with San Francisco for our top three draft picks.” As usual, the owners are prioritising short-term gain over long-term development. Stanley is 25, and they really could have used those draft picks to fix up their defence. Scott sighs. Looks like he’s stuck with Zullo…

Ilya’s face is frozen, a little. “San Francisco?”

“Yeah, we didn’t even know Stanley was available, apparently it was all decided last minute. There’s some other big trade being announced tomorrow, too, they finalised it last night, but I don’t have high hopes for that one.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but can we talk about something other than hockey?” Shane says. He, too, is lying pleasantly in the shade, sunglasses on as he lounges.

Both Ilya and Scott stare at him for that. Ilya places the back of his hand against Shane’s forehead, checking for a temperature, before Shane bats him away. “Are you sick?” Ilya asks.

“Fuck off. Look, we’re going to be playing against each other in a few months. Maybe you two can ignore that, but it’s a lot easier for me to relax if I’m not constantly being reminded of it. We’re just three guys on holiday, right?” And it’s true: Shane is much more relaxed. His body is holding far less tension, and he hasn’t panicked about his diet for weeks.

“Just your boyfriend and the guy you used to masturbate to,” Ilya agrees.

Scott closes his eyes and counts to ten. He opens them to Shane whacking Ilya with a rolled up magazine, and decides not to intervene. Ilya brought it on himself. Ilya manages to escape by virtue of leaping into the pool, splashing both Scott and Shane extensively in the process.

“What do you see in him?” Scott asks. He’s being sarcastic, of course. Six months ago, he might have meant that jibe, but today, he gets it. They soften each other, Ilya and Shane. It’s kind of cute, especially since they still think he hasn’t realised that their relationship is undefined and mostly sexual. No boyfriends call each other by their last names that often. Still, Ilya’s earned the jibe today. Scott’s drink is ruined.

“He’s great in bed,” Shane says. “Also, I uh… think he might be perfect for me.”

And honestly, how can Scott help smiling at that?

August 2011

Shane may have had ulterior motives for convincing Scott and Ilya to take a layover in Ottawa, his final destination.

“Hello, son!” His mom doesn’t really do casual. Even for an airport pickup, she’s still carefully styled in layers of linen pantsuit, weather appropriate yet professional. He keeps hoping her fashion sense will rub off on him one day, but thus far it has not. “And you must be Scott!”

“Uh, hi,” Scott says, blushing as mom immediately clutches him in a tight hug.

“Mr Rozanov, how are you?” Mom hugs him too, which Shane doesn’t expect, but Ilya hugs back, which surprises him even more. “Shane’s told me no hockey talk for the next few days-“

Ilya mimes being shot, clutching his heart and falling to the floor.

Mom laughs. “But I thought you boys might enjoy a nice home cooked dinner,” she says.

Scott sidles up to Shane as Ilya and his mom… he’s not going to call it flirting. Because that’s weird. But they’re certainly hitting it off. “You planned this, didn’t you?” Scott asks.

“Of course I did,” Shane says. He loves technically telling the truth. “Three days in Ottawa before you two fly home, to avoid any paparazzi seeing us come in together. You agreed, remember?”

“You’re not slick, kid.” Scott bites his lip. “She’s really cooking us dinner?”

“I heard there might even be dessert involved. And she’s a much better cook than me.”

“Than your elderly neighbour Janine, you mean?” Shane flinches slightly. “Relax, I appreciate you going to so much effort. I got a nice home-cooked meal and Janine gave the recipe after. She wanted to make sure I liked it.”

“Well, my mom’s will be better. I had to reheat Janine’s.”

“Yeah, you didn’t do a great job.” Shane punches his shoulder for that.

“Are you two boys fighting?” Mom asks.

“No!”

“No!”

August 2011 – Later That Day

Scott and Ilya manage to polish off maybe 8 servings of carbonara and garlic bread between them as Shane watches in horror. Amateur.

“This was an incredible dinner, Yuna and David,” Scott says. “Thank you so much for including us. You didn’t need to, and it was extremely kind.”

Ilya nods from where he’s still eating, his stomach somehow even bigger than Scott’s. “He is lucky to have you.”

Yuna waves it off. “It’s fine. I hope you boys like tiramisu.”

“I love tiramisu.” Right now Scott doesn’t even care that this is probably yet another transparent attempt to ‘fix’ his depression by a 20-year-old who should be focusing on his own life instead. He’s eating a delicious meal with a whole god damn family, Ilya’s making faces from next to him like he’s the little brother Scott always wanted, Shane is acting all responsible at the end of the table… this is what he’s been missing, all these years. Domesticity. Scott’s always considered hockey his family, but this is the part it lacks, the intimate companionship and trust. Perhaps it’s borrowed for today, but he can create his own someday.

When they’ve dug into their tiramisu, Yuna says “Okay, I’m sorry, I know we said no hockey talk, but seriously. The Admirals’ trades have been incredible this season. Who’s responsible for that?”

Shane activates from his standby pose with a finger pointed in protest at the change in conversation, but Yuna bats him away, and he sits, defeated.

“I have no idea,” Scott says honestly. “Some absolute genius organised the three-way trade with Tampa Bay and Boston, and the one with San Francisco was just good luck. I would have taken anyone on defence if it meant… certain individuals were moved to fresher horizons-”

“Well phrased,” David says. “You’d make a great politician.” Yuna side-eyes him, and he waves his hand. “Go on.”

“But with Jalo, I actually feel like we have a good chance at the cup this year. For the first time since… 2007.”

Yuna frowns at him. “If you can’t even mention the year without looking like you’ve swallowed a lemon, maybe you should see a sports psychologist? I heard they’re all the rage now. Mental conditioning and all that.”

“Really?” Scott hasn’t heard that, actually, but he does know of a few players who have started adding sports psychs to their teams… “I’ll think about it.” He’s not going to a therapist ever again, not even if you pay him, but he’s pretty sure sports psychs just… tell you how to get over losses, right? None of the deep stuff he has so carefully locked up over the last sixteen years or so, that threatens to burst out every time he lets his thoughts run idle.

“Stop smirking,” Scott tells Hollander.

“Hey, I’m the one who tried to ban hockey talk, remember?” Shane says. There is just a hint of smugness in his expression, however.

Scott considers putting parmesan in his pillow, but he settles for spooning in more tiramisu with a glare.

October 2011

“We have created a monster,” Ilya tells Sveta, watching New York mutilate Brooklyn. Boston faces them the next day, and their sole consolation is that with Jalo leading defence, New York is no longer quite so bloodthirsty as when Zullo collected career-ending injuries like Baba Yaga collects children’s souls. Still, with their new wingers still settling in and the Admirals destroying all their rivals with spiteful determination, a victory does not seem possible.

“They’re still very old,” Sveta points out. “They’ll have injury problems by playoffs.” She kicks up her feet on the bed.

Ilya doesn’t understand why his MLH-funded New York hotel room is so much smaller than her self-funded business trip suite, especially since he knows her innate frugality. Still, it’s hard to be indignant in such fluffy bathrobes.

Sveta groans as Scott scores again. 8-0 now, with five for Scott. Has he ever scored five in a game before? No, the commentators say. First time. “Brooklyn is embarrassing. Why do they still exist?” Sveta asks.

“If anyone finds out we were involved in that trade, we’ll have to leave Boston,” Ilya says. It’s not actually much of a concern for him, Bostonians have nothing on Russia, but it is important to say. Another aspect of their lifelong, ever-expanding pact of secrecy.

“It’s not our fault Boston messed up the draft,” Sveta says. “Nepotism is a disease. Besides, if Hunter found out you were involved in that trade, he might suck your dick.”

“If I wanted Scott to suck my dick,” he begins.

Sveta shoots him an unimpressed look. He withers.

“If I was willing to accept the consequences of Scott sucking my dick,” he corrects, “Then I need only ask. He is not very picky.” Ilya doesn’t mention that he’s been feeling almost monogamous lately. His head is filled with pretty freckles and ugly hair, and why risk that for a quick fuck from a (ridiculously) hot man?

Sveta looks back at the- when the fuck did New York score again? “Did Hunter get six?”

“No, Vaughn,” Sveta says. “He could have got six, but he passed it for a better shot. Self-sacrificing idiot. The game is already won, take the shot! I haven’t seen a double hattrick in my life.”

The siren rings, ending Brooklyn’s misery at 9-0. “Do you want to meet him?” Ilya doesn’t know where the idea comes from, but if they leave roughly an hour from now, they can be at Scott’s Imperial Palace just in time to waylay him after his game.

Sveta thinks on it. “Does he have good vodka?”

“He does now.” Ilya can’t drink, of course, he has to play tomorrow, but Sveta can imbibe all she wishes.

October 2011 – The Same Day

Scott is exhilarated.

He keeps a mental tally of everything he did differently before this magical game. He’d run a slightly different route to avoid construction near Madison Square. He’d listened to a new podcast, Man on the Crease, hosted by one of his friends from high school. He’d eaten his apple slices and peanut butter exactly a half hour before the game started.

“Nice shooting, Cap’n,” Stanley tells him.

Scott smiles at him. Such a respectful kid. “You too. Great goal.”

Scott tries to keep his smile in place as he goes through press. It’s hard, when they’re trying so very hard to jinx them. No, he doesn’t think they’re overwhelming favourites. Of course he wants to win! No, he will not be commenting on Brooklyn’s strategy (they did their best, he’s sure). Yes, they will take a lot of confidence from this win. No, he doesn’t give a shit about the MVP Awards (he puts it more nicely that that, but really?). One person asks him about his dating life (he’s married to hockey, he says with a fake, pinched grin). He understands that listening to this crap is the captain’s job, but it’s his least favourite part.

“Do you worry that your time in the team may be up if you cannot lead this incredibly skilled bunch to a title this year?” one journalist asks. Scott recognises his press credentials. New York Post. Ugh.

Scott’s media training keeps his face from reacting. The truth is, he fully expects to bear the blame if they lose regardless of whether he’s captain or not, as he has since he was top drafted ten years ago, but whether it would be enough for the Admirals, his family, to turn their backs on him… “I’m just here to play hockey and lead my team,” he says. “Anything else is for the managers to look at.”

“But after your past failures, is there an expectation that this is the time for results, and your captaincy may be on a knife’s edge?”

Scott lets a little bit of frustration show. “After today? No, I don’t think so. If the Stanley Cup was easy to win, everyone would have one. We’ll do our very best, and if one of the other 31 teams manages to beat us to it, I guess you can all decide for yourselves who to blame. Though personally, I think it’s great how our local media has always understood the importance of positive reinforcement and supporting the team.”

The questions fizzle out after that, and Scott tries to quell his ire, but honestly. Five goals, and this is what he gets? He can accept the slights on his game when he’s losing, but this was a perfect game. Can’t he go one day without someone outright telling him he doesn’t deserve to be here?

He’s probably an obvious image of frustration as he trudges through his usual post-match routine. Shower alone in the locker room, everyone else out celebrating and free of his press obligations. Shove on his suit, and wave at the cameras as he climbs into his car. Drive into his private garage, shoulders hiked up and teeth clenched under his lips.

“Good evening, old man!” Ilya says as he walks in.

Scott closes his eyes and pinches the spot above his nose. When he opens them again, he sees that Ilya is not alone. He’s sitting at the kitchen with a beautiful woman he recognises immediately. “Svetlana Vetrova!”

She raises an eyebrow at him, looking at Ilya, and then back at him. “You told him about me?”

Ilya shrugs.

“Ah, no. I was a big fan of your father’s.” Knowing Ilya’s relationship with his own father, he wonders if that was the wrong thing to say, but oh well. “It’s a pleasure,” he says, going for a handshake and being pulled into a hug with two cheek kisses instead.

“I hope you don’t mind I helped myself to your vodka,” Vetrova says. “Ilya said it was fine.”

“Ilya is a force of nature. I know better than to tell him what he can and can’t do in my own home.” Scott shucks out of his suit jacket and puts it carefully away.

“Is my vodka, old man. You bought it for me!” Ilya rises from the kitchen and bumps his shoulder into Scott’s on his way to the lounge. “Nice aim,” he says.

“It was a good game,” Scott says modestly.

“He means the journalist you cut down. ESPN spent five minutes laughing at his face when you shut him up.” Vetrova sips at her vodka. “You could have been meaner. He deserved it.”

“It’s the Post, they’ll bitch me out no matter what, but the more I push, the worse they target the team. They’ve never forgiven me for calling out the racist bullshit they write about Vaughny.” Scott wishes he could blacklist the bastards, but sadly, he lacks that power. “Besides, they’re right. If we mess up, after this start, they’re getting rid of me for sure.” Scott slumps into his couch, the opposite side from Ilya. “God, that would be my luck, wouldn’t it? Dangle everything in front of me and just… yank it away.”

Vetrova shoots her glass of vodka down the coffee table, where it lands perfectly in front of Scott. “If you’re going to complain like a Russian, you should drink like one,” she says.

“Point taken,” Scott says, tossing the glass back. He overshoots, but she grabs it in time to stop it falling off the table. “You watched the game, right? Was there anything wrong with my leadership?”

“No. You should have gone for the sixth goal,” Vetrova bumps him aside, sitting between them both. “But your leadership was exemplary. If they made this one,” she nudges Ilya “Captain already, then perhaps you’d have competition, but right now you’re easily the best captain in the league.”

“Well thank you,” Scott says. “And they’ll make Ilya captain next year, I’m sure of it. Ralph is retiring.”

Vetrova nods, busy scanning for something to watch on television. She settles on a re-run of Montreal’s gritty 4-3 away win against Toronto, tsking at every obvious error she notices. Ah, a woman after Scott’s own heart.

“What is exemplary?” Ilya asks.

“Very good. An example for others to follow,” Scott translates.

“You should tell your team that you’re proud of them,” Ilya suggests. The fuck? “They all have absent fathers and want you to be their hockey dad.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely not true.” Vaughny is close with his dad, and Eric. Scott tries to think of more, but he’s drawing a blank. “And I’m not telling them I’m proud of them, that’s weird.” He imagines it for a moment, and feels incredibly stupid.

“I would,” Ilya says. “I tell all my team I love them after every game.”

“No you fucking don’t, you liar,” Scott says.

January 2012

They’re at All Stars, Scott, Shane and Ilya, waiting for the NHL reception desk to open so they can go up and claim their room key. All Stars being in Dallas this year leaves them with little to do outside the hotel. Not without rental cars at least, and Scott, for one, would not be allowed to drive one. Who needs a license in New York anyway?

“Remember, no balconies,” Ilya tells him.

Scott rolls his eyes. He could just as easily talk to his parents’ ghosts inside his hotel room, it’s not like the concept of heaven, if it exists, could be defeated by a six-inch wall.

“Keep complaining and we’re doing a sleepover again,” Shane warns.

“I swear you three have the weirdest conversations,” Vaughny says, rolling up behind them and draping his arms across the three of them. The league has gone for a generic East v West theme this year, much of the heat having come out of the famous Hollander-Rozanov rivalry since all three of them have started attending each other’s matches, so Scott now has the exquisitely fun job of trying to shape the three of them into one team.

Powerplays are easy – Scott plays right wing as easily as he does centre, ditto for Ilya on left, and Shane would be the natural choice at centre even if he wasn’t somewhat inexperienced at wing – but dividing the three of three of them across two lines is a headache. Scott has decided to just put himself at right wing for the whole game, but it still leaves a whole host of organising. Who goes first, who gets paired with who, who gets Vaughny on their left and who’s stuck with Brisebois…

“Hey, Scotty,” Vaughny says. “Focus, man. We’re discussing important shit here.”

“Madonna is the one who was married to the President?” Shane is asking, because the conversation has apparently devolved entirely in his absence.

“What? No?” Ilya says. He looks to Scott for rescue.

“Madonna is Catholic. Big pop star. When you call my name, it’s like a little prayer?” Scott sings. Honestly, kids these days learn nothing of value.

“She sings about praying?” Shane asks. “That’s why she’s at the Superbowl?”

“No Hollzy, that song is about sucking dick,” Vaughny interrupts. “You’re not a bad singer, Scott. You should sing more at karaoke night.”

“The Admirals have karaoke?” Shane shudders. “Terrifying.”

“What do the Metros do for team bonding?” Scott asks, genuinely curious.

“Nothing, really,” Shane says. “They mostly just go home to their wives.”

Well that can’t be good for team morale. Not to mention Shane’s use of they. Scott may not sing at karaoke night, but he still attends every one, and tries to participate in every other event. He’s particularly fond of talent night.

“Boston does axe throwing,” Ilya says. That tracks.

Reception opens and they race to collect their keys, the four of them pushing and shoving at each other like children. Scott wants to make doubly sure he is not sharing a wall with those idiots, and as captain he gets first pick. “Do you have a corner room? Far away from anyone else?”

The receptionist looks at him funny, but she acquiesces. Scott waits for Shane and Ilya to collect theirs before he says “Trade now.”

Scott gives them his nice, private corner suite, and takes Ilya’s 3^rd floor room over Shane’s 11^th. No risk of waiting twenty minutes for an elevator to go to breakfast, nowhere near the smoking floors, and easier to evacuate in an emergency. Scott may not get to spend all of All-Stars breaking skills records and enjoying hot sex, but he won’t have to jump out of a window onto a trampoline if there’s a fire, so…

Yeah, he’d still rather the hot sex. Still, as he drops his bags into his room, for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel the need to spill his guts to a phantom presence. He has friends now, and as much as it feels like letting go of something he’s never really accepted losing, he thinks he can go without talking to his parents this year. Instead, he turns tail and heads for the hotel pool, knowing he’ll find someone living to talk to there.

Chapter End Notes

You will notice (assuming I edited things correctly) that this is now a WIP. I have never actually posted a WIP before, but the response to this story and my ever expanding ideas mean that this will continue to get periodic updates as I continue to work on my Skip longfic (currently 33k words and counting...) which will not be published until it is complete.

I am not certain how far this will go, but I have ideas going into at least 2017, so... stay tuned. We are a few chapters away from Kip's glorious introduction.

Chapter 4: One Hundred Thousand Years of Solitude

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya finally talk. Scott is naked, but not in the fun way. Scott backslides at the worst possible time.

Chapter Notes

Two things.
First - pay attention to the "suicidal thoughts" and "minor self-harm" tags for this particular chapter, and take care of yourselves if needed. If you wish to avoid these, stop reading after Scott arrives home in the June 2012 scene. I've put a summary of what happens in the end notes.

Second... I hate saying this, because every comment I have thus far received has been wonderful, and I have had fantastic experiences in this fandom personally, but... if I see even a hint of the thinly-veiled biphobia currently passing for 'criticism' of Francois Arnaud in the comments, I will block you. Ditto if you say anything even remotely along the lines of "x couple is for the straights/cishets/neurotypicals/whatever and y couple is for the gays/etc" (I, your gay male neurodivergent Iraqi author, prefer Skip, which is much closer to my own experiences of being closeted, but love both couples. I know plenty of others with similar life experiences who prefer Skip, or prefer Hollanov, or have no preference. Diluting each couple into your weird ideas of what gay people 'should' like is really fucking weird, so maybe don't do it.) I am assuming the majority of you are lovely people, and I sincerely hope you like this chapter. If you are going to be a homophobic dick, please don't read my work. It is not for you.

January 2012

“Are you awake?” Shane asks. He’s counting cracks on the tiled ceiling as he does it, because he’s wide awake despite his best wishes.

“Sleep is for weak Canadian boys,” Ilya says, into Shane’s shoulder. “Russians never sleep.”

“It’s been a year,” Shane says. “Well, more or less. Since, you know. Scott.”

“Is there point to this story?” Ilya raises pillow-creased eyes, his hair sticking out at an angle. “Or is this pointless Western nostalgia? Not every… what is it, the year you celebrate, for wedding?”

“Anniversary?” Shane is already hunting for other possible words after he suggests it.

“Yes. Not every anniversary needs to be remembered, Shane.” Ilya says, dropping his chin directly onto Shane’s clavicle as he does. Shane idly strokes his curls.

Shane has always had the kind of brain that latches onto anniversaries. When he was a kid, he would count the time in the annual releases of his favourite movie series, each pre-film moment in a darkened theatre an opportunity to reminisce on another passing year. How much he had changed, how much he hadn’t. It never felt like a year. He always felt mostly the same afterwards, like nothing truly important had happened.

“Did he seem off, today?” Shane can’t help the slight wobble in his tone, but he sincerely hopes Ilya doesn’t pick up on it.

“Off how?” Ilya says, grumbly. He really is like a bear at night, especially when you wake him, which Shane now realises he has.

“I don’t know. Do you think we’ve actually helped him, the last year?”

Ilya exhales deeply onto Shane’s chest before rising to a seating position against the headboard. Shane joins him there.

“Helped, yes. Fixed, no. There is difference, Hollander,” Ilya says.

“Right,” Shane says, sitting with that for a moment. “But say we did want to fix him. How would we go about doing that?”

“We would become God. Crush enemies. Fix Hunter. Feed starving orphans. It is his brain, Shane. You cannot heal it. Or his heart.”

Shane knows very well that Scott’s heart it little more than a (likely extremely healthy) knot of muscle pumping blood into his every organ, but he gets the point. Scott is lonely, and all they can ever be for him is a balm, not a cure. Still, it haunts him. How do you fix a man who won’t admit he’s broken?

“He had this look on his face, after the skills showcase. Like he was clenching his teeth. Doesn’t he do that when he’s upset?”

“He does it always,” Ilya says, scratching at his chest.

“And I swear, towards the end he was grunting as he spoke, like he was holding back tears.” Shane thinks further. “Though I guess he might have just tweaked something?”

Ilya sighs again, and rises fully.

“What are you doing?” Shane asks. Has he driven Ilya away? They do still have that other room, but that’s a bit cold.

“You want to sleep with Scott,” Ilya says flatly.

Shane doesn’t quite know how to answer that. “What?”

“You want to sleep with Scott. In his bed. So you know he is safe. Like mother cow with babies,” Ilya says. “So we go.”

“Just like that?” Shane asks.

“Just like that.” Ilya is already getting dressed as he says it. “Is cute.”

Shane doesn’t know why he feels the need to say it, but the urge is hot on his tongue. “I don’t want to. Sleep with him the other way. Not anymore. I really do just want to check on him.”

Ilya smirks. “It is the hair, no? You prefer it long?”

“What, no! I mean, sure, the longer hair was hotter, but… oh fuck you,” Shane says, noticing Ilya laughing. “I’m trying to say I like you, idiot. God knows why, but I don’t really want to sleep with anyone else.”

“You should not invoke God when you don’t believe,” Ilya warns. “Scott is Catholic, they do not like.”

“I thought you were Catholic?” Shane says. “And he’s never mentioned it before.”

“Is too early to explain Great Schism. He gets look in his eyes. He is worried you will burn in eternal hell,” Ilya says.

Shane frowns at that. He’s never believed, and Scott never struck him as judgemental, so he hadn’t worried too much, but the idea that Scott is fretting over his soul… “Wouldn’t I burn in hell anyway for being gay?”

Ilya raises his eyebrows.

Shane feels hot. “I’m gay,” he says, quietly. He looks at Ilya. “I’m gay. I’ve never said it before.”

“I like both,” Ilya says. “But I like you most. And… I still would sleep with Scott, but only if you were there.”

Shane hadn’t even considered that possibility. “We can do that?” He shakes his head. “No, we shouldn’t.”

“Gay for three minutes and already he’s married,” Ilya says, lightly. “Is ok, you like one person only, eh?”

“It’s not that.” It’s not entirely that. “We’re… we have this thing.” Shane begins.

“This thing like your dildo?”

“No. This thing between you and me. Whatever it is, it predates Scott. He… do you know what a third wheel is?” Shane has no idea how to explain this, so he starts nervously pulling on clothes in the hope that the movement of his body will stimulate the right words from his brain.

“You worry he will feel left out? Or… that if it is only sex, he will be unhappy.” Ilya nods. “You are correct. He will not like. We should not have made deal. Before, we could have fucked him. Now we can never.”

“Oh no, you only have one hot hockey player you can fuck, I’m so sad for you,” Shane says.

“You are sad for yourself. I see it in your eyes. But is fine, we will find someone for Scott. Someone… hmm.” Ilya rubs his chin. “I will think.”

Shane gets the concern. They need someone who can see through Scott’s façade of stability, remind him of the love he lost when his parents died, who is good and kind and emotionally open, and who Scott won’t immediately sabotage any relationship with out of the fear he’s not good enough. They also need to stick around long enough to learn Scott's tells: when he's hiding an injury, or pretending he's fine whilst secretly asking the ghost of his parents for forgiveness. “How the fuck are we going to find anyone good enough? We need a unicorn.”

“Unicorn would be easier,” Ilya says. “You ready?”

“To find a unicorn?”

Ilya points at the door, eyebrows raised.

“Oh yeah. Scott. Yeah, I just need the key.”

The Same Day

Today is one of those days when sleep refuses to come for Scott.

He knows why, of course. His body has been a mess of aching pain since he was small. On the better days, sleep offers the sweet release his body desperately craves, but on the worst ones… well. Scott’s basically crushing his curled-up leg into his chest, trying to stretch out the inexplicable, yet agonising pain in his pelvis. A pain he had hoped was just blue balls, but which had not been in any way improved by three rounds of jacking off.

When he’d felt the pain coming, he’d felt grateful for having picked the least involved skills challenge on the list (hardest shot, which he had previously resisted because it honestly seemed a little too easy). The pain might have even helped his shot, since he won it easily. It was nice to have one record back on the board, at least, though even that single shot had taken a surprising amount of his energy. But since then it’s been a slow slide: a slight burn becoming a dull ache, blossoming into a fiery inferno. It feels like his bones are grinding against each other, and every slight movement brings a hitched sob to his throat.

By the time he hears the knock at his door, he’s already screamed into his pillow twice and is biting his lip to hold back a third. He half limps, half painfully hops to the door, regretting every life decision that has led him to this point, and lets in his two recalcitrant charges without even listening to their explanation. He’s leaning against the doorframe to conceal how he can’t balance on his left side, but he’s so grateful to have something to lean on that he feels immediately cheered.

“I appreciate you checking on me,” Scott says, interrupting whatever was coming out of Shane’s mouth. “I promise I’m fine.”

Ilya takes one look at him and says “Liar.”

Scott slumps against the door. “How could you tell?”

“You look kind of awful, Scott,” Shane says. “Your whole face is red, and kind of puffy, and you’re sweating.”

“Fine. It’s a muscle… something, alright? I don’t know. It started hurting last night and now it’s much worse.” Scott sighs. “I can’t really send you back to your room, can I? It’s fine, I won’t be sleeping. You take the bed, and I’ll take the couch.”

“Why did you not visit physio?” Ilya asks.

Scott is pretty sure he’s blushing, but they’ve already said his face is red, so hopefully they can’t tell. “It’s… not in the… most comfortable place. For a massage.”

“What does that mean? Like you’re sensitive?” Shane asks.

“It’s… in my thigh. Upper. Upper upper.” Scott cringes. “At the front, kind of.”

“It’s your dick.” Ilya says it so matter of factly. Shane, on the other hand, cringes deeply, but it looks more sympathetic than embarrassed.

“Not technically! More like, next to my… pelvis. It’s on my pelvis. I’m not letting a stranger touch me there. Let alone someone I’m paying. And I’m in a lot of pain, so unless one of you is suddenly an expert pelvic masseuse, I think maybe we should all go to bed.” Scott punctuates the message with a few painful limps towards the couch, which is thankfully right nearby.

Ilya’s eye twitches at pelvic masseuse. He and Shane have an entire conversation with just their eyebrows.

“We can do a quick rub,” Shane says, eventually. “Since you’re too afraid to ask the physio.”

Scott’s raises an eyebrow. “Is this an excuse to get me into bed? Because I’m not an idiot, I know you’re not actually together.”

“We are now,” Shane says. “Since, like, thirty minutes ago. Wait, when did you figure out we were faking it?”

“I don’t know, May?” Scott rolls his eyes. “Well done on finally figuring yourselves out. I’m very happy for you. I’ve also got a lot of very real pain right now, so please stop dicking me around.”

The sound of the bath running punctuates Scott’s words, and he pinches his brow. He half hops, half slides to the bathroom, shaking off Shane’s offer of a helping hand (he’s still got his pride). Ilya has taken Scott’s moment of distraction to make use of the outrageously overpriced bubble bath that had been included in Scott’s welcome basket. “I was saving that.”

“You have eight bottles at home,” Ilya says, testing the water’s temperature with his hands like Scott’s grandma used to do. “Strip.”

Scott may only be wearing a fairly revealing pair of white boxer briefs, but he still knows better than to respond to that command. “What?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “We wait in other room. You soak. Half hour, minimum. Then we massage.”

Ilya doesn’t even give him a chance to protest, he just leaves. Scott resents it, but a bath would soothe his aching joints, even if for a little while…

Scott pokes his head out the door, a question on his lips, and Ilya is already handing him his kindle as he does. “Thank you!” Scott says, angling half his body around the doorframe to collect it without flashing the wonder twins. Not that they won’t see everything in a moment if they get their way. God, he can’t possibly accept it, but he is in so much pain…

A pleasant thirty-minute soak, and he feels… better, but still awful. The other aches and pains have settled, which is nice, but it just brings the pain at the juncture between his left leg and his pelvis into sharp relief. He wraps himself into a towel and limps into the other room, where Shane and Ilya both look up from the television, volume turned low on a tennis match.

“Oh, you’re still awake,” Scott says.

 “I never get to watch the Australian Open,” Shane says. “You’re doing us a favour, really.”

“Towel off,” Ilya says, far less polite. “We will massage now.”

“You know, kid, I really did mean that as a joke,” Scott says. “You definitely don’t have to massage my crotch.”

“Fine. Then we sleep.” Ilya says.

Scott exhales.

“All three of us,” Shane adds. “And neither Ilya nor I are closing our eyes until you fall asleep.”

For fuck’s sake, the brats have learned collective bargaining.

“Fine,” Scott says. “But I want it noted that I am doing this under duress.”

“Noted. Now take off the towel and lay on your back,” Shane says.

The actual massage is… well, it starts out incredibly awkward, but the pain evaporates under first Ilya’s firm and then Shane’s soft hands. He doesn’t realise just how much pain he had been in until it’s gone, and he actually feels a few tears spring to his eyes at the relief.

“Better?” Shane asks, patting Scott’s thigh awkwardly. He looks like he very much regrets having come to the room, but Scott is honestly too pleased at the absence of pain to have much sympathy for him.

“Much,” Scott says, pulling his boxers back on. “Thank you. This was extremely weird and you didn’t need to do it, but I am… very grateful.”

“Is what family does, no?” Ilya says, like he doesn’t know exactly what that means to Scott.

He accepts the two sets of hands that settle on either side of him, and guide him into bed. It’s the same position as last time, Scott with Ilya at his front and Shane at his back.

“I don’t know why you two decided to drop by, that night, I really don’t,” Scott says. “But thank you. I know I keep saying it, but I can never say it enough.” Scott feels a few more tears slide down his face, but it’s dark. No one will know. “It’s been a pretty great year.”

One great year, after so many bad ones. The tears are flowing freely now, but Scott doesn’t make a sound. He’s used to crying in the dark.

February 2012

Ilya gets far too much enjoyment out of attending Shane’s games as his guest.

The Montreal fans… they despise him, but they adore Shane. How could they not, when he’s the only thing keeping their team off the scrap heap, their only chance for the future?

Ilya gets to sit at their own stadium, in their own seats, next to Yuna and David Hollander, whilst they stare at him in envy from their much cheaper vantage points. If it were a powerplay, it would be an extremely good one, but Shane’s occasional presence at Boston games makes clear it is not. Which, of course, infuriates the Montreal fans even more.

Today’s game is against the Admirals, and to be extra infuriating, he had special ordered a split Hollander/Hunter jersey. The incredulous rage on the faces of the other guests in the Montreal family section, who are all in Metros colours from head to toe, is topped only by the utter indifference of Shane, who, unbeknownst to the thousands of grown men behaving like children, had granted his full approval to the outfit.

“It’ll be funny,” Shane had said, because Shane understands.

Shane doesn’t care for this rivalry nonsense, he wants to see good hockey. If these adult men can’t comprehend that in another world, it very easily could have been Ilya playing for their team and Shane for Boston, then Ilya cannot help them. But he can mock them, and how can he not, when they make it so easy? Ilya loves playing hockey, but the fans… looking out at the red-faces in the crowd and wondering how many are beating their wives, their children… mockery is how he keeps himself sane, knowing the dark side that comes of this sport.

Scott, meanwhile, had no idea, and he is blushing in a way which is obvious above and beyond the naturally red-tinged pallor that all hockey players develop on the ice.

Ilya should have brought a sign, something like “Sportsmanship!” or “I Hope Both Teams Play Their Best”, but oh well. Next time.

He’s enjoying riling up the local fans so much that he makes sure to smile at the camera and show off his jersey at every opportunity, just to see how red the locals’ faces can get. Ah, tribalism. So civilised, so polite, these Canadians. One bad meal away from tearing strips from each other like animals. Ilya loves it, the blood rushing to faces and fists as thousands of barely contained men throw child-like tantrums, begging for his blood. Hopefully, their families are watching, and can see just what they have created. Hopefully it’s the warning some of them need. Hopefully, one day those men themselves can look back at this, and realise what they have become. But for now, he embraces his role as their villain.

He embraces it until the moment when a Montreal defender, clearly riled by the crowd, targets Scott, all but tackling him onto the ice. The moment when Shane, horrified, calls “No!”, in unison with Ilya, who rises with fear as Scott doesn’t move.

The Montreal fans cheer. They cheer, like this is a game, like Scott isn’t laying there, unmoving-

Scott gets up. Scott waves it away, and some of those same idiots cheer louder, but others are disappointed, because the fact that Scott can still move has ruined their dreams of a career ending injury.

The defender gets a game misconduct, and judging by the hatred in the eyes of every single player on the Admirals’ bench, this game will turn into a bloodbath. It should turn into a bloodbath, because that’s what happens. You break my guy, I’ll break yours back. Ilya despises it, but in this moment, he respects it, because how dare he. Scott is one hundred times the man he is, and when the fight begins-

It doesn’t. Scott looks each and every one of his teammates in the eye, and whatever his gaze says, it lowers their boiling blood to a simmer. They’re sharper, harder, more precise the rest of the game, sure. They win it easily, in the end, the score line an anticlimactic 2-0. But there’s no fighting, no blood. Just good, clean sport, and a crowd that claps for them, like they weren’t baying for blood a moment ago.

“Was that me?” Ilya asks, and it’s the first time he’s actually spoken all game. “Did I do that?”

“No, that idiot Lavrey did that,” Yuna says. “Don’t blame yourself for it, he’s a massive hothead, something would have set him off. Good on Hunter for shutting them down.”

“He’s a good captain,” Ilya says, considering.

“Please don’t tell me you’re trading to New York,” David says. “Shane will be furious.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Salary cap would not work.”

No, Ilya’s thoughts are going in a very different direction. He had spent so long convinced that the pathway to solving the Hunter Problem lay in cracking the man’s self-hatred from the inside, but what if the pathway is external? Scott loves his team, and his team loves him back, but Scott holds them at an arm’s length. Why?

Ilya isn’t stupid: he and Shane aren’t enough, not for a man with that much love in his heart. He needs more, and he’s refusing to take it. The massage is a good example: Scott has played for 11 years. He calls his team his family. Yet he can’t bring himself to ask any of them to help him when he’s in so much pain he can’t sleep? Ilya was two weeks into his rookie year when he first took a turn at the knots on Marlow’s back. Scott treats the Admirals like his family, but seems to expect nothing in return. Is this more self-abnegation, or is there a reason for it?

He knows exactly how to find out. And lucky for him, she owes him a favour.

March 2012

Something is different and Scott does not like it.

Change is good, for the most part. Scott understands and appreciates that. Some changes, however, are not so good. Some rituals are bedrock. For the last five months, Scott has perfected his game day ritual. Big breakfast, morning skate (now basically a morning meet-and-bitch, because apparently some hopped up sports scientist decided morning skates were bad for performance and Coach had listened), a nice run until his brain is quiet, a nap at home, pasta salad (chicken, no feta – bad luck!) and then the game. He does not like it when this ritual is interrupted. Bad things happen when this ritual is interrupted.

A bad thing is happening right now.

“Scott, come here!” Coach calls, after morning skate is over.

Scott does not have time for this, but Coach decides all, so he tries to mentally recalibrate his schedule to account for this unacceptable lapse. He can move his nap a little later in the day, probably? His thoughts crash to a halt when he sees the well-dressed socialite standing next to Coach.

“Svetlana,” Scott says, surprised. “Is something wrong?”

Svetlana giggles – what? – and wraps her arm around his bicep – what? – whilst planting a kiss on his lips – WHAT? EWW. “I was just introducing myself to your team,” she says. “You said you would let me see what real hockey players look like, remember?”

Coach is… tolerating this. Just what has Svetlana told him? He hates pageantry.

“Let’s go,” Svetlana says, smile wide and eyes dark. She gives him a look that assures a swift death if he does not go along with whatever scheme she’s concocting, and he instinctively falls into step with her.

“Are you alright?” Scott whispers. “Is someone following you?”

“I need you to just smile and pretend to be my boyfriend for ten minutes,” Svetlana says. “I cannot explain now. Stay here.”

Well, that Scott can do. The Admirals withdraw from the locker room in threes and fours, and Scott watches Svetlana flit in and amongst them. He’s not quite sure what they discuss – and the long glances at him are a little concerning – but he trusts Svetlana, so he just smiles and waves. True to her word, it takes fewer than ten minutes for Svetlana to finish, at which point she rejoins him.

“Thank you, Scott,” Svetlana says. “You can get back to your day now.”

Scott tries, but he’s worried at the loss of time. He really hopes the small delay hasn’t destroyed his good run.

April 2012

The tinny voice coming out of the phone speakers is not immediately recognisable, but it is familiar. “Hey, man, is this Shane?”

“Yes, this is he. Who is this?” Shane asks. Montreal doesn’t have a game today, but he does play again tomorrow, and he usually likes to spend his in-between days relaxing, to increase his mental performance the next day. The tone on his phone is not relaxed.

“This is Carter. Vaughny, I mean. I wanted to talk to you about Scott.”

Shane’s shoulders curl up on reflex. “What about him?” The worst possible outcomes run through his mind: he’s hurt himself. We found out he’s gay and we want to kill him. He’s moving to Finland to play in Liiga full time.

“I’m worried about him. He’s… look, I love the guy, and he’s always been a bit obsessive, but he’s going nuts. Counting every calorie, measuring every work-out to the minute-”

“Did you seriously call me to complain about your work-out schedule?” Shane says, incredulous. Here he had thought Scott was in actual danger, but it’s yet another false alarm. At least this one probably won’t end with a mildly awkward massage and a deep cramp in Shane’s hand.

“Not ours, just his. He’s controlling every part of his life like a fucking German train schedule! The other day, I saw him weighing his jerseys to minimise drag!” Carter sounds incredibly stressed considering what he’s describing is just… normal hockey stuff. Maybe the jerseys thing is a little excessive, but hey, if that’s what it takes to get a little extra edge… “This isn’t normal, man!”

“Look, Vaughny, it’s nice of you to worry, but is he any different emotionally?” Shane asks, spectacularly unconcerned. He’d fallen into this trap before, thinking Scott’s mercurial habits were a sign of mental distress, and thus far he’s been wrong. Scott said it himself: he has a few bad days, but he’s fine now.

“I don’t know! He’s quieter, if that’s what you mean. Twitchy. He texts us once a day to hydrate, and it’s never at the same time, so I know it isn’t a queued or a mass text. He had a weird girlfriend for a minute, but then she disappeared, and he won’t mention anything about her, either.”

Shane, who had been googling previously depressed person suddenly quieter how bad? and getting increasingly worried, feels a hit of relief. A weird girlfriend, huh? And now he seems like the paragon of a superstitious athlete, engaging in all the rituals which, for years, were used to explain away his sexuality? That’s Hunter, he’s married to hockey, probably thinks a girlfriend is bad luck. What a relief.

“He’s probably just getting into the playoff mood early. I’m not too worried,” Shane says. “He seems fine to me. Maybe…” Scott had always said he and Shane are fairly alike, right? What makes him twitchy and jittery? “Maybe he’s just struggling to get some alone time, with all the stuff in his life. Sponsorships and whatever. Maybe try giving him a little space?”

There. Not only is it likely true (Shane would kill for some alone time right now, and Scott has even more endorsements than he does), it should also get them off Scott’s back about the girlfriend thing. Shane doesn’t know why Scott felt the need to get a beard now of all things, but he’s researched the concept since his inadvertent self-discovery and it explains everything. Scott is getting better, every day, and he’s finally taking steps to allow him the freedom to keep playing hockey as long as he wishes. Good for him.

“Are you completely sure?” Vaughny asks, hesitantly. “I just don’t want to make things worse.”

“He’ll be fine. He has loads of friends! He’s probably struggling to keep up with them all.” Shane says. And he does: Shane, Ilya, Shane’s parents, Vaughny… that’s way more than Shane has, and he struggles sometimes.

“Alright, man. I’ll tell the guys to back off a little,” Vaughny says. “Thanks.”

“I’m sure he’ll thank you for it! Poor guy doesn’t get enough time with his thoughts,” Shane says. “He’ll definitely appreciate it.”

Which is good for Shane, too, because they’re heading into playoffs, and he needs to distance himself a little from Scott. Playing against his boyfriend is hard enough, and he needs to get his head in the game, which he can’t do if he’s still texting Scott daily. He makes sure to mute Scott’s contact on his phone, as well as the GOATs groupchat (now mostly used for Ilya to practice his English and Shane his Russian). He sets an alarm reminder for the last possible day of playoffs to turn his notifications back on, since he’s terrible with remembering that stuff, and goes back to his off-day plans. He’s not certain, but he thinks this could be Montreal’s year.

May 2012

“What did you find out?” Ilya asks. They’re in his apartment, for this one, because Boston didn’t even make it past Montreal and the bitter taste of defeat has Ilya unwilling to risk the outside world.

“Scott Hunter is beloved. I don’t know how they’d react if they found out he was gay, but they’re certainly not the ones keeping him away. The wives and girlfriends want Scott at their homes. It’s a fascinating social dynamic. Some of them form packs, jockeying for influence. Getting the captain at your table is like a promotion to them. Others don’t care, they just want to feed him and make sure he is warm. Others still appreciate him for ensuring their idiot hockey player is fed and kept warm.” Sveta says, sounding almost fond.

“And you told them you were his girlfriend?” Ilya asks.

Learning Scott is deliberately holding back does not surprise him. But the idea that Sveta could convincingly play his girlfriend is bizarre to him. Sure, Svetlana is stunningly beautiful, as is Scott, but seeing the two of them together is much like watching a gazelle cozy up to a lion. Scott may be more complex than he pretends, but he’s still innately trusting, believes in the goodness of humanity and the beauty of rainbows and some other such American nonsense. Sveta would tire of him in days, and invent creative means of torment to amuse herself.

“Do not worry, I did not break him,” Sveta says. “I only kissed him once, and only to see the look on his face.”

“How was it?” Ilya asks, curious despite himself.

“Remember my mother, when we baked her that cake filled with salt? The way her entire face shrivelled? She looked happy by comparison. I was almost offended. Gay or not, kissing me isn’t that bad,” Sveta says. “Regardless, my debt to you is now repaid. Vodka?”

“Fine. I have nothing better to do,” Ilya says.

As much as he enjoys Scott’s company, it’s time to stop babying the man. He has an entire team he can lean on, and he’s refusing to do so out of some misplaced form of pride. He sends him a text – you should spend more time with your teammates – and then mutes his contact. Shane was right. They’re Scott’s friends, but they can’t be his everything. He needs to make use of the family he has.

June 2012

“Is it everything you’ve dreamed of?” a journalist asks.

Scott twists his jaw into the best approximation of a smile his stiff facial muscles are capable of. “Oh, of course!”

They didn’t ask what kind of dreams, after all. Scott has always had this nightmare: he’s hoisting the Stanley Cup over his head, and everything disappears. Literally. Everything. The crowd, his team, the stadium. He’s floating in a white patch hoisting a big trophy above his head, and none of it means anything because the entire world has ceased to exist. It always leaves him waking up sweaty and unsettled, needing an extra long run to clear it from his mind.

Every moment of press feels like a torturous eternity to Scott. His entire life, building up to this… and for what? He’s still the bitter, lonely kid standing on the sidelines all alone as his teammates’ families rush onto the ice to embrace them. He’s still the weirdo sitting on the edges of friend groups, listening to them make plans without him. Clearly he’s done something wrong, because now they don’t even do that. The Admirals have been giving him a wide berth for months, and he has no idea what he’s done, or how to fix it.

Not to mention Ilya and Shane, who have stopped talking to him since the playoffs and no longer respond to his messages. He sent one before this game, when it became obvious that with LA’s goalie injured and the Admirals having swept the first three games that this would be theirs - I would trade the cup in a heartbeat for one of you to just talk to me - and got nothing in reply. Just as he has for the last month.

What’s worse is that it was slow. First Shane, then the Admirals, then Ilya. Weeks apart, each of them, but all deciding on their own accord that they’re sick of Scott’s bullshit.

Is this divine punishment? All those times Scott had prayed for this stupid trophy, like it was the only thing that could make him happy, make his parents proud, and he finally gets it. But first, he gets a taste of what true friendship is, of how it is to be loved and accepted for who he is, which just as quickly gets yanked away. He finally realises how stupid it all is. His parents don’t care. Either they’re living it up in heaven or they’re worm food in the ground, and either way, they’ve got bigger priorities than watching their failure of a son fumble his way through life.

He’s saying whatever he needs to, desperate to get out of there, when he gets one last question. “Who will you be celebrating with, tonight?”

Scott feels his heart break. The guy is tossing him a softball, the classic, fun ending to a press routine, and he doesn’t know how to answer. He stammers. A tear might come to his eye, he doesn’t know. He says something about his buddy Jack Daniels, and fuck, that was definitely the wrong thing to say, because now they’ve scented blood. He has enough presence of mind to realise there’s no recovering from this, and he walks. Says the classic “Thank you, goodnight,” and just fucking runs. He doesn’t even bother to join the locker room celebrations, knows he isn’t wanted, just grabs his stuff and leaves as quickly as he can. He’ll shower at home. He can take the fine for forgetting his suit. The other guys can handle press, they’ll be here all night. He can’t be here, not when everything is crumbling around him.

Jacob, his driver, tries to talk to him, but all he can manage is a half-sigh, half-sob that earns him the silence he needs for the short trip home. He manages to hold himself together for exactly as long as it takes to slip into his apartment, and then he’s sliding, back to the wall of his private elevator, and sobbing.

What a pathetic fucking specimen he is. Crying in his multimillion-dollar apartment because he just won something that many of his ex-teammates would have literally killed for, and it somehow isn’t enough for him. Sobbing, broken sounds into his gross, unwashed knees, wishing he had someone to hold him, like he isn’t almost 30 years old. A broken, pathetic waste of a man, of a life. Who will you be celebrating with indeed. A knife to the heart would have hurt less.

He’s disgusting. Literally: the sweat is sticking his uniform to him, and he’s still wearing his entire kit, right down to the fucking jockstrap and cup. He needs it off of him, suddenly, and he’s tossing off layers with impunity, piling them beside him, tears still flowing but sobs making way for choked off roars. There. He’s naked in his fucking foyer, and he’ll have to disinfect the entire place until his nailbeds run red with blood before he can even look at it again, but at least he’s not sitting in his own filth anymore. He’s just sitting next to it instead.

A buzz on his phone, somewhere deep in the pile, and Scott doesn’t even look at the message, just tosses the thing as hard as he can into the wall. He hears the screen shatter, but another buzz comes, so he walks up and crushes it with his bare foot, over and over. After ten or fifteen attempts, he finally gets some shattered glass to dig deep enough to the wired machinery of the phone to shut it up. Or maybe it’s his blood that does that, water damage on the exposed components from his ripped-up heel.  

Now there’s a thought. He sticks his thumb into the mess of glass in his foot, watches the blood flow deeper and thicker. It hurts like fucking mad, but better that than sitting here feeling the hole in his heart expand.

What a waste. What a fucking waste of skin. His parents made people’s lives better. What has he ever done? Sure, the few New Yorkers who give a shit about hockey are having a better day. Probably just as many LA fans are having a worse one, not to mention all the teams that hate New York. Net negative, honestly, and isn’t that Scott’s entire fucking life? Has there ever been more proof that it should have been him in that car?

Scott considers it, for the first time in months. His balcony is locked up, and he’s fucking naked as the day he was born, but he could pull on a robe, tell his downstairs neighbour he’s locked out, and then it’s just a straight run… no. He can’t. He doesn’t want to die, he just wants to stop whatever this broken thing inside of him is that stops him from ever being happy. He wants his friends back. He wants someone to hold. He wants someone to hold him.

He settles for wrapping his now blood-stained arms around his knees and rocking. If he closes his eyes and pretends, it almost feels like being held. And if he rocks himself to sleep like that, crying into his knees, well… no one’s here to see it. He can pick himself up tomorrow.

The Next Day

Ilya wakes at… 5am? What fresh hell is this.

The phone. His phone is ringing at 5 in the fucking morning. He picks it up and lets out the longest stream of expletives he can manage, Russian and English and a tiny bit of Turkish picked up from childhood trips to Istanbul.

“Hi Ilya, it’s me, your boyfriend. We need to get to New York, now.”

“What the fuck, Shane? Why? Scott didn’t even answer my call!” Ilya is still a little sore about it, actually.

“Check your texts from him. Now. Then check mine.”

Ilya does it in reverse, because Shane’s text comes up first – HUNTER’S HEARTBREAK on the front page, with a picture of a despondent Scott failing to hide tear-streaked eyes from the camera as he enters a black car – and he’s already wide awake by the time he’s browsing Scott’s texts.

“How are you getting there?” Ilya asks, hoarse.

“Driving. Five hours out. You’re closer, right?” Shane says, his usual focused tone struggling to mask the guilt and fear underneath.

“Four hours? Should I wait for you?” Ilya says, already throwing on a rumpled shirt over his pajama pants.

“No. Whoever gets there first goes in. I’ve called Vaughny to check up on him, but I think he’s still out cold.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

It’s closer to three and a half hours for Ilya to drive to New York, the tacky heat of the summer sun bearing down like a chastising singe from the heavens. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Ilya had been so worried about Scott ending up like him and Svetlana or him and Shane, over-reliant on one another to their own detriment, that he’d forgotten just how isolated Scott is. He spares a bitten off curse for Scott’s teammates – evidently, he had overestimated them – but he’s responsible for this too. All that time spent looking for a Vronsky and he had become one. Granting Scott the hope of a happier future and then yanking it away… he tries not to think about the worst possibility, but it’s a futile effort. If Scott had decided to jump, he’s had all night to do it, and Ilya would be far too late to stop him. Once again, Ilya Rozanov, first at the scene.

The moment he’s in Scott’s building, he parks illegally in the first spot he sees and sprints to the private elevator. He’ll probably have to get his car out of the impound later, but he’s a fucking millionaire, he can afford it. He curses as he tries to key in the elevator code – it changes every month, but Scott reuses the same six passcodes in an irregular order, so he gets it on the fourth attempt.

When he races out of the elevator, he sees he’s too late. Scott is curled into a ball, blood on wrists sloping onto his knees. Ilya screams at the top of his lungs.

“Urrrrrrrrgh,” Scott says, looking up with bloodshot eyes. “Ilya?”

Ilya doesn’t say a word, just runs forward, takes one of Scott’s hands in his. No lines down the wrist, only small bloodstains from what look like tiny bits of glass in his thumb. The same for the other: unblemished.

“Ilya, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” Scott asks.

Scott is curled in a naked ball in his living room, bleeding, and asking him if he’s alright. Ilya can’t help but laugh incredulously.

“No, old man, I am not alright! I thought you were dead!” Ilya shouts.

“Oh,” Scott says. “Well, I’m not. You can go now. I know you’d rather not be here.”

Ilya closes his eyes and breathes for a little while. It’s a habit he’d picked up from Scott, who does it every time Ilya makes a joke he finds irksome. It doesn’t help even a little bit. Instead, he lifts Scott to his feet, forcibly.

Scott’s face forms a deeply pained grimace, which he only barely manages to hide, and Ilya’s eyes land on the growing patch of blood coming from his foot.

“What the fuck did you do?” Ilya asks.

Scott flinches. “Phone,” he says, miserably, pointing at a smashed lump a short distance away. “It wouldn’t shut up.”

Ilya has no choice, at this point. He picks up a protesting Scott, bridal style, and carries him to his couch. “Do not move!” he warns severely.

Scott’s medicine cabinet is meticulously organised, of course. It’s also staggeringly bare of actual medicine. Tweezers, bandages, antiseptic. No painkillers, no cough syrup, not even a single menthol. Still, it’s enough, for now.

Ilya confronts the pieces of stuck glass in Scott’s heel first. Slowly, carefully, he pulls out jagged edges of glass, running a light touch with his thumb across the heel afterwards to ensure he’s got them all. Scott doesn’t complain, just watches him work. Not even a hiss as Ilya slathers on antiseptic, and then the bandage comes on.

Shane runs in halfway through Ilya doing the same to Scott’s thumb. “Oh thank God,” Shane says.

“God had nothing to do with it,” Scott says, bitter. “He’s never given a shit before and he still doesn’t now.”

It’s the first thing he’s said in over half an hour.

“Scott, what happened?” Shane asks, sitting on the coffee table and facing him. “You won, right? What…”

Scott laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “Won what? Won a stupid trophy? Big fucking deal, kid. I spent twelve years of my fucking life chasing that stupid trophy, and what did it give me?”

Shane looks confused. “It gave you everything. Remember, you said that? Hockey gave you family?”

“Some fucking family,” Scott says. “Why aren’t they here?”

Shane’s confusion makes way for an unmistakable emotion, given how often both he and Scott feel it without due cause: guilt. “Vaughny told me you were acting different,” Shane says, voice small. “I told him you probably wanted space.”

Shane doesn’t meet Scott’s eyes as he speaks, so he can’t see that it isn’t recrimination in his expression, but hope. “You mean… they don’t hate me? They were trying to help?”

Shane is crying a little as he nods. “I’m sorry, I fucked it up. I thought I was helping, I swear.”

Scott rips his thumb out of Ilya’s hand – hey! – and embraces Shane in a hug. It’s a little awkward, since Scott is still pretty much naked and Shane is fully clothed, and Scott is sticking his thumb in the air like a hitchhiker, but it’s also the first real sign of life Scott has shown since Ilya showed up, so he just rolls his eyes and bandages Scott’s thumb mid-hug.

“Scott,” Ilya says. “You need help. Proper help.”

Scott tenses up, tighter than The Miserly Knight’s purse strings, and Ilya expects a refusal. But Shane is pleading with his eyes, and it’s obvious he hasn’t had a lick of sleep, and Scott deflates.

“Alright,” Scott says. “Fine. Just… please don’t leave me again?”

“Deal,” Ilya says, immediately.

“We never meant to,” Shane says, quietly. “I swear.”

Scott nods, but Ilya honestly can’t tell if he believes them.

Chapter End Notes

If you skipped after June 2012: Scott has a breakdown, considers but rules against suicide, and is comforted by Ilya and Shane, who arrive the next day and apologise for accidentally isolating him. Scott agrees to get psychological help.

Next chapter will probably come around the 15th of Feb.

Update to the above, in case anyone is paying attention to this: next chapter will now probably come around the 22nd. My air conditioner broke down and my POTS did not like it, but to compensate: it will be a very LONG chapter.

Chapter 5: I Capture the Cottage

Chapter Summary

In which Shane is guilty, Ilya is stressed, Scott is afraid, and Vaughny is stubborn. But they're also all staggeringly high functioning, even at their worst, and take a nice family holiday to Shane's cottage.

Chapter Notes

Quite a long chapter this time, but it's important to move things forward. Thanks again for everyone who's read, kudosed, etc.
Fair warning: I had an air conditioner mishap over the last week or so which has badly worsened my brain fog, so if you see any very weird typos or inexplicable turns of phrase in this chapter, please let me know in the comments. POTS is fun like that sometimes.

June 8, 2012

“What are you doing?” Ilya asks, curt, as Scott moves towards the bathroom.

Scott swallows, trying not to flinch. Ilya is still staring with that same intensity which Scott had woken up to, and it’s deeply unlike him.

“I was going to shower,” Scott says. “I’m disgusting.”

“No you’re not,” Shane says immediately.

“I haven’t showered since the match ended and I’m covered in blood,” Scott says. “I am factually disgusting. Coated in my own filth.”

Ilya is looking at him like he wants to physically restrain him, and Scott raises himself into a huff.

“I’m not a fucking invalid,” Scott says, marching towards the drawer where he keeps the garbage bags and suddenly feeling extremely exposed. He’s spent plenty of time buck naked around clothed men, it’s kind of an essential part of being an athlete. He’s also spent enough time naked around Ilya and Shane in particular that there’s nothing new for them to see. Still, this feels different. This is… humiliating, honestly. He’s never felt so scraped raw, so vulnerable and weak, and it makes him feel sick to his stomach.

Scott frowns at the bags, reluctant to make himself yet more vulnerable, but even he isn’t stupid enough to be stubborn now. “I need your help to tie these on. I need two thumbs.”

Ilya answers the call, and Scott stays perfectly still as one bag is wrapped around Scott’s bandaged heel, and another around his right hand. He’ll have to wash left-handed, but he’s been injured often enough for that to be no issue. “I will watch,” Ilya says.

Scott scoffs, but Ilya is unmoved.

“Fine,” Scott says, biting off a curse. “Watch me shower. I’ve already decided not to kill myself, and if I tried you’d have no way to stop me, but if it makes you feel better, go right ahead.”

Ilya says nothing, just follows him into the bathroom. Scott’s shower screen is opaque, at least, but somehow, the distortion does not reduce the intrusion of the blond glaring presence. It only magnifies it, turning his handsome friend into a tall block of tension, features melted and shape blurry.

Scott usually treats showers as a military exercise, in and out as quickly as possible so no one can ever (credibly) accuse him of lingering, but he needs to take his time for this one. His brain is still fried, but this may be his sole opportunity to think. Discovering that all his friends abandoning him at once was an accident was a relief at first, but he can’t ignore the reality that isolation had been his entire life for ten years. Less than a year with someone to lean on, and he can’t last two months without the worst breakdown of his life? Two months ago, he’d been on top of the world, he’d had everything going his way, and for him to crumble completely at so little… He spent twelve years chasing that Cup, and he’d won it and felt nothing, because his friends of less than a year hadn’t spoken to him for a couple of months?

He doesn’t know how he feels about Ilya and Shane’s presence now, honestly. He doesn’t want to be alone, and he’s so fucking grateful that they don’t hate him. But seeing the impact of his dramatics, the pain he’s inflicted his friends, over nothing… it’s the ultimate case of be careful what you wish for.

He also, shamefully, feels a degree of resentment. He hadn’t asked for this. He’d been fine – a little unhappy, yes, and lonely, definitely, but he was handling it. The withdrawal of Shane and Ilya’s friendship had destroyed him only because he’d developed a dependency on it. It’s entirely his own fault, of course, as is the brutal pain when that was slowly torn from him. His parent’s memory is an anchor in his chest, a reminder that, whether by his own failures, God’s wrath or sheer chance, he is destined to be alone. Happiness is not something he is permitted to have.

Still, the bulk of his resentment is turned in, not out. He turns thirty in a month. He’s been keeping an eye on it, the metaphorical cliff, the point in hockey where age is no longer a vague whisper but suddenly the only thing anyone remembers about you. It’s also the point where you should be a fucking adult, not being babysat by two twenty-something prodigies who have already surpassed you in every way. Scott has always been a little bit pathetic, knows his place as the pitiable mutt of hockey, but the last 18 hours have proven he’s still capable of new and exciting lows.

After washing his entire body twice over, Scott submits to the mortifying ordeal of leaving his glass enclosure and facing Ilya. Ilya, who silently follows Scott as he towels off, treks into the bedroom, and redresses in the softest clothes he can find. It’s all gigantic on him, because his weight fluctuates throughout the season and he’s currently about 6% body fat.

When they enter the lounge, two guilty faces look up at them, not one.

“Vaughny,” Scott says, panicked. He tries to recover, pastes on a smile. “Hey! Funny story, I lost my phone, so-”

“Stop,” Vaughny says. “Hollander squealed.”

Scott slumps miserably into the closest seat, the corner of his enormous sectional couch, saying “So what now? You make a nice call to the guys in the white suits and they drag me into a padded room?”

Scott’s pretty sure they don’t do that anymore, but with three people’s word against his… he’s at their mercy, right now. It terrifies him. Being gay in hockey is unprecedented, and on his better days, Scott can still pretend there’s a world where he’ll be accepted. Being crazy, when you’re an unmarried orphan celebrity in your twenties…

“Absolutely the fuck not!” Vaughny says.

“That’s not happening,” Shane says, at the same time.

Vaughny and Shane both look past Scott, at Ilya.

“Uh, Ilya? You… we’re not doing that, right?” Shane sounds like he’s unsure, and Scott feels worry creeping in again. Shane will side with Ilya, and 2-2 is dicey if he wants to maintain control over his life.

“Idea so stupid, I forget English,” Ilya says. “No.”

Scott feels his heart slow a little. Alright, so he’s still got his freedom. “Alright, so we’re good?”

“No, Hunter!” Ilya is shouting, suddenly, and Scott flinches. “We are not good. Why did you not call?”

“I don’t know, Rozanov, maybe because you suddenly cut me off like I was nothing?” Scott can hear his voice coming out, choked up and miserable, and he sniffs, trying to compose himself. He looks to Shane. “I called you. You never answered, so I stopped. I just figured I’d done something you couldn’t forgive, and that…” Scott cuts himself off, remembering Vaughny’s presence.

“I’m not blind or stupid, Scott,” Vaughny says. “I know Rozanov and Hollander are a thing.”

Shane and Ilya both protest, a half-second of hesitation between them, but Scott cuts across both of them. “You’re wrong. Rozanov and Hollander aren’t gay. They just know I am, and they’re trying to help me.” Scott is channelling every bit of the cool, composed voice he uses to try and sweet talk the refs out of giving one of his guys a penalty which is one hundred percent deserved.

“Christ sakes, Scott, is your gaydar that bad?” Vaughny says. “They’re not fucking subtle! And neither are you! And hey, if you didn’t know about them, then why the hell did you tell them before me?” Vaughny’s eyes are looking anywhere but Scott’s face as he says it.

Great. Not only has Scott failed to protect Shane and Ilya’s secret, he’s also hurt Vaughny. What a fucking day.

“We need to stop fighting,” Shane says. His voice is soft, but his eyes are regaining some of that clinical focus that makes him so terrifying to face on the ice. “You’re right, Vaughny. Ilya and I are a thing. Scott knows, he’s just trying to protect us. And he didn’t tell us, we overheard Scott mentioning it. Shitty hotel soundproofing.”

Vaughny looks somewhat placated, at that. “You’re right. No fighting.” Vaughny looks to Ilya. “You wanna sit down so we can all talk? We all want the same thing, right?”

“And what’s that?” Scott asks.

“To be your friends, Scott,” Vaughny says. “Isn’t it obvious? You think I spent two hours last night trying to call down your elevator because I wanted to fuck you over? You think Hollander and Rozanov drove hours to get here because they can’t stand you?”

Scott swallows. “I think none of you have said one word to me for the last month, and it was the worst fucking month of my life. And there’s a lot of competition there.”

Scott looks out the window. It’s a bright, summer day in Manhattan. He can see Madison Square Garden from here, if he squints. He can also make out the small press encampment parked outside.

“I didn’t want to be distracted during playoffs,” Shane says, low. “I’m not good at… separating things, like you guys are. If I wanted to be at my best, I needed a little bit of space. It wasn’t anything you did, I promise. I should have told you, but I figured you’d want the same. Vaughny…” Shane trails off. “Vaughny told me you were off, but it seemed like he was overreacting, so I told him you were probably just feeling smothered and wanted some space.”

“And I shouldn’t have listened,” Vaughny says, bitter. “But nothing I did was stopping your spiral, so…”

“What spiral?” Scott asks. “I was fine until then.”

“Scott, you were not fine. You were obsessive and high-strung and neurotic. Superstition is one thing, but you were turning everything into a ritual.” Vaughny shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I should have just asked you.”

“Why didn’t you?” Scott asks. He’ll think about what Vaughny told him later, when he feels alive again, but right now he just parks it at the back of his mind. Too many conflicting bits of information are competing for the already limited space in his brain.

“I’ve tried to get you to open up for years, and it didn’t work. Hollander and Rozanov managed it in weeks,” Vaughny says. “I figured they knew better.”

Scott feels a stab of guilt. “It’s not like that. I just didn’t want to worry you.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m fucking worried, Scott. That’s my right, I’m allowed to be. You pretending to be fine doesn’t help me. It just makes me worry more.” Vaughny moves to sit right next to Scott, and the contact is appreciated, even if Scott won’t admit it. So is the firm arm that settles around his shoulders. “Fuck, I just remembered. The article.”

“What article?” Scott asks. “Shit, is this about me leaving yesterday?”

“It’s fine,” Shane says. “Just tabloid crap, most people were on your side even before I got here. Anyway, I called my mom. She called your publicist. They put up some statement about you grieving your parents. It’ll hold them until next season, probably.”

“Thank her for me,” Scott says, rolling his head back onto the couch. “I’m going to Brazil this summer, so-”

“No, you’re not,” say three voices. Well, two voices, Ilya stops at “No.”

“I can’t stay here,” Scott says. “I can make it to the awards no problem, but paparazzi are everywhere, they’ll know in a second if I start going to therapy. Plus, New York in summer is hell. It’s boiling and everywhere smells like rotting garbage.”

“You’re going to therapy!” Vaughny says, cheery. “Thank God. No offence.”

Plenty taken, Vaughny.

“Boston,” Ilya says.

“You going to elaborate on that, or?” Scott asks.

Ilya glares at him. “You will come to Boston.”

“Ah, no,” Vaughny says. “He can come stay with my family in Atlanta. Good food, love, family, and above all, it’s not fucking Boston.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Your stupid American sectarian hatreds are irrelevant. I will not leave him.”

“Fine, then you can come to Atlanta too. You’ll have to sleep on the floor.” Vaughny says.

“Vaughny. Isn’t Atlanta even hotter than New York?” Scott asks. “And, you know, kind of an awful place to be gay?”

“You can’t honestly be taking his side!” Vaughny says. “Fucking Boston, man? They hate us there! The paps will be ten times as vicious!”

“Boston is also a terrible idea. Look, I can go to Brazil, and then when I get back-”

“We already said no!” Vaughny says.

“Look, Vaughny, no Brazil means no sex for another year, and-”

“Wait, what?” Ilya asks. “You only have sex overseas? Are you insane?”

“Yeah, I’m with Rozanov here,” Vaughny says. “You know Grindr exists, right?”

Scott wants to scream, but that would probably make Vaughny take off the arm around his shoulder, and that tender touch may be the only thing keeping him together at this point.

“We can go to Ottawa,” Shane says.

Vaughny turns to him. “What was that?”

“I had a cottage built. It’s quiet, away from the city, but still near my parents and doctors and stuff. Everyone there speaks French, and barely anyone knows you do, so no one will recognise you, and you can have sex without worrying about being found out. It’s not too hot, there aren’t any paps, and we can pay a therapist to come in. And you two can both come, it’s a big place.” Shane leans forwards. “Let me make this up to you, Scott, please. I fucked up, and I’m so sorry. But I think you’ll like it. There’s a lake nearby, and you can hunt, or fish, or swim…”

Scott thinks about it for a moment. He still wants to run as far as he can, to rebuild the boundaries he’ll need to stop anything like this happening again. Shane is basically telling him to trust his word that he won’t leave again, to throw caution completely into the wind, and Scott… isn’t sure. He turns to Vaughny, and sees Vaughny is looking at him. Like he’ll follow Scott, no matter what. Like he trusts him.

Scott just wants someone to tell him what to do. To put food in front of him, tell him to eat it. To drown out the thoughts chasing themselves into sick circles in his brain, telling him to get close, but not too close, to trust, to not trust, to run, to cry, to hide. He can’t bring himself to say that, not when everyone is so worried about him already, but he needs to give an answer. In the end, he’s tired, and he’s lost his will to fight.

“Fine,” Scott says. “Let’s go to Ottawa.”

June 9, 2012

It had taken about ten minutes after Scott fell asleep for Ilya, Shane and Vaughn to make a schedule to ensure he isn’t left alone until they fly to Vegas for the awards. Scott is right: they can’t stop him from killing himself, not if he really wants to. But they can stay close, remind him he’s not alone, and redirect his thoughts when they start down a dark path. It’s a hollow mercy, but it’s all they have, unless they want to rip away his autonomy and ensure he never trusts them again.  

Ilya has no reason to be awake, lying on the couch in Scott’s living room. He’s a light sleeper, will wake in an instant if Scott comes by. But his brain will not allow him the release of rest, choosing instead to chase circles around itself.

Shane and Scott. Scott and Shane. Both so different, in some ways, and so alike, in others. Scott, so lonely and afraid, so driven yet so miserable. Shane, so innocent, so confused by the concept of a loveless family or a broken home. Both of them convinced that if they can control every variable, they can stave misery off through meticulous ritual or excessive monitoring. His mother wasn’t the same. She adored chaos, embraced the inconsistency that came with life, and her joy would ebb and flow like the tides: all-consuming one minute, and utterly gone the next.

Worse than the thoughts are the images that Ilya can’t get out of his head. Scott, naked and bleeding and so very pale. His mother, her eyes still open, her hand falling across the bedsheets. They mix and meld in the strangest ways – his memories of Scott have a chain around the man’s neck, Ilya’s mother’s own, when the man himself stopped wearing obvious affectations of Christianity long before they met. His memory of his mother is stained crimson with the blood she had never needed to shed, the pills more than sufficient to take her from this cruel world and into a hopefully kinder one. He’s afraid to close his eyes, his nightmares the night before having brought an image of Shane in that position, waking him in a cold sweat and with a sudden need to check on him.

Things will be easier, in the cottage. His mother used to pace the halls on nights she couldn’t sleep, ensuring Alexei and he were sleeping calmly and delivering kisses on their foreheads, and Ilya can already see himself doing the same. Kisses possibly included, if only because it’s a good way to check for a fever.

The sound of sock-clad feet padding against carpet, floorboard, and carpet again alerts Ilya to Scott’s wakefulness, but he doesn’t need to do anything, because Scott pads over to him. Ilya stares at him in the semi-darkness through wide-open eyes.

“Not asleep, huh?” Scott says. He then cringes, like a dog flinching from a beating. Ilya is scaring him, he knows, but he can’t help it. Ilya’s own fear keeps coming out in rough barks and glares when all he really wants is to clutch Scott tight and refuse to let go.

“Nightmares,” Ilya says at last, because he hates this stupid little distance that’s formed between him and Scott more than he feels the need to feign strength.

“My fault?” Scott asks.

“No,” Ilya says. “Is not your fault.”

“You wanna talk about it?” Scott asks, hesitant, already closing off the hope in his stupidly expressive eyes. “I was going to heat up some milk.”

Ilya smirks, a little. “Enjoying your weekend, huh?”

Scott smirks back, faint. “It helps me sleep. And when I’m feeling super wild, I add a little honey.”

Ilya climbs to his feet, cricks his neck one way and another. Scott’s absurdly large couch is fine for sitting, but it’s far too soft for sleeping on. Ordinarily, when Ilya stays over he joins Scott on the bed, running his hands soothingly down Scott’s flank until he feels the innate tension in Scott’s body begin to abate, and he slides into an uneasy rest. Today, he hadn’t even asked before taking the couch. He regrets it, and not just because of the pain in his neck. Scott is hurt, he can see that now, and his hands are twitching like he wants to reach out for a hug.

Ilya takes a seat at the table as Scott potters around, heating up milk on the saucepan instead of using his microwave. Ilya’s mustering up the courage to break his silence when Scott does it for him.

“Everyone leaves eventually,” Scott says, quiet. “Teammates, usually. They’d retire, and I’d keep going. I convinced myself you two wouldn’t, but… old habits die hard, I guess. I got scared.”

“Not your fault,” Ilya says, dull. “I am sorry. For scaring you.”

Scott doesn’t deny his fear, just presents Ilya with a mug of warm milk laced with honey and joins him at the table.

“Why do you hate therapy?” Ilya asks.

Scott is looking into his mug. He looks so fragile, so small, and Ilya can’t really take it anymore. He rises – Scott doesn’t flinch this time, which is a mercy – and joins Scott at the other end of the table, tugging him close. Scott’s head is on Ilya’s shoulder, a vulnerability he rarely conveys whilst conscious, but he doesn’t have to look Ilya in the eye.

“They made me go, when I was a kid,” Scott says, sipping at his milk.

“Your aunt?”

“No,” Scott says. “I was a ward of the State for a little while, after I got the scholarship. They made me go to this guy… I don’t know. A psychologist.”

Ilya isn’t one hundred percent sure what ward of the State means, but he doesn’t interrupt. Scott is wrenching out each word like it’s coming directly from the darkest parts of his brain, and Ilya’s worried that stopping him will send him scurrying away, silent once again.

“It sucked,” Scott says, tone hitched, like his body wants to cry but his brain is refusing to let it. “I missed my parents, still, but I’d mostly stopped crying about it. He made me bring it all back up, and it fucking broke me. He said I had to process my emotions in a healthy way, but whenever I broke down, he got so… annoyed, I guess? I know he wasn’t allowed to hug me or whatever, but he acted like I was being childish. But he was the one who kept bringing them up, so of course I was gonna cry! It sucked. So eventually, I just… taught myself to hold it in, so they thought I was fine, and they stopped sending me.”

Scott’s thumb is no longer bandaged, Ilya can see, but there’s an ugly, jagged scab glaring out at Ilya, reminding him of the consequences of his failure.

“I know therapy is better now,” Scott says. “But what am I even gonna say? It’s not like they can fix anything. My parents are still dead. I still can’t come out. What’ll it change?”

Ilya doesn’t know either, and that terrifies him. But he does know that Scott has just shared with him something deeply personal, and he feels the need to return the favour.

“When my mother died,” Ilya says. “I was the one… I found her. After. I thought she was sleeping.”

Scott’s fluffy hair is still scraping against Ilya’s neck, his resting head a comforting weight for both of them. Ilya can’t help but run a hand through the dark curls. It grounds him, a little.

“That’s why…” Ilya swallows. “You weren’t moving.”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Scott says. “But… I chose to live, Ilya. I promise. Even if you hadn’t shown up, I would have dusted myself off and kept going. I’m just sick of being alone.”

“Me too,” Ilya admits. “Is not enough. But I will not leave. Never again.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Scott says. “I’m going to get weird and intense and desperate. If you ever try to leave again, I’ll fly to Boston and scratch at your door. Like a sad cocker spaniel left out in the cold.”

Ilya laughs. They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, drinking their milk, Ilya stroking Scott’s hair, both watching the midnight sky through the enormous windows.

“You want to sleep alone?” Ilya asks, when Scott has stopped sipping and lets out a enormous yawn.

“No, not really,” Scott says. “But you went for the couch, so…”

“Trying to be respectful,” Ilya says.

“Be less respectful,” Scott says. “If you don’t mind me clinging like mad, then we can share.”

“You always cling,” Ilya says, finishing the last of his milk in one great gulp and rising, Scott still draped half across him. “Is not new.”

Scott lets out a full body shiver as Ilya’s hand runs across his side. Ilya makes up his mind to offer him more gentle touch. It helps Scott, and though Ilya won’t ever admit it aloud, it helps him too.

June 10, 2012

Shane is pleased to see Ilya and Scott have made up when he comes to relieve his boyfriend of Hunter-sitting duties. He is less pleased, upon Ilya’s departure, to realise that this is his first time alone with Scott since what he’s internally calling The Incident.

Shane has a lot of questions, is the thing. He has a lot of thoughts, and a lot of guilt, and he honestly doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s hurt Scott enough as it is, and he knows his frank, direct manner can make people uncomfortable. Scott has never said that he’s one of those people, but Shane knows now exactly how bad he is at reading him. So invasive questions are out, at least until he’s certain they’re welcome.

His mother, having pushed him to reveal why he had left his brand-new cottage only a few days after arriving at it, is no help. She keeps telling him to stop blaming himself, like this isn’t completely his fault, and to just talk to him, like he hasn’t tried and failed that a dozen times already. Talking is hard. Apologising is easy, especially when you’re a Canadian and sorry comes out between every umm and ahh, but how can Shane express the fear he feels, seeing Scott so untethered? How can he honestly express how much he aches at the sight of Scott in pain, without making it about himself?

He can’t even use his default, talking about hockey, because what even is hockey to Scott at this point? They had bonded over it once, how much it meant to them, but does Scott even want to keep playing? Is it cruel to bring it up?

The text keeps running through his mind. I’d give up the cup in a heartbeat… for what? For Shane, a guy who barely ever knows what to say and never knows how to say it, to just talk to him?

Shane tries to make himself useful. He’s no cook, but he knows how to pull together a nice breakfast from the nutritionist-delivered meal portions that occupy Scott’s freezer. He produces a much larger one for Scott, because he eats like three people, sits at the table, and waits.

Scott emerges from his shower in a towel, and whilst Shane does feel a sliver of the usual arousal, mostly he feels concerned. Scott is… well, they all lose weight this late in the season, but Shane can almost count his ribs. He can also make out far more veins than usual, meaning Scott hasn’t been drinking enough either.

Still, Shane is silent as Scott takes his seat, thanks him quietly, and digs in. Shane tries not to watch him eat, because that’s really fucking weird, but he doesn’t know where to look.

Just talk to him. Alright. Start easy. Hockey.

“Do you think next season is gonna happen?” Shane asks, referring to the still ongoing pay dispute.

Scott shrugs.

Shane feels the crawling waves of tension building, and he doesn’t want to ask, and he knows he shouldn’t ask, so he should be able to stay quiet instead of-

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” Shane blurts out.

Scott sighs. He takes a few moments to respond, and Shane impatiently waits, until Scott says “You didn’t mean it. You were trying to help. There are a lot of shitty people in the world, Shane. I don’t usually get angry at guys who are just trying their best.”

Scott being a stand-up guy isn’t new, but it just makes Shane feel worse.

“I figured you’d be so distracted with playoffs, you wouldn’t even notice,” Shane says.

“You don’t have to explain,” Scott says.

“I want to, though,” Shane says. “I want you to understand, because-”

“Hey,” Scott says, gently, interrupting. “If you want me to forgive you, you’re forgiven, but it sounds more like you’re angry at yourself. I can’t absolve you, kid. I’m not a priest.”

Shane nods. It’s all he’s going to get, probably, and definitely more than he deserves.

“Besides,” Scott says. “Offering up your home is… a pretty massive step, Shane. I get that you feel bad, but you can take it back. None of us will hold it against you.”

“No, I want you to come,” Shane says, and is surprised by how much he means it. “I love you and Ilya – in different ways, but still. And Vaughny’s a nice guy, I’m sure he’ll fit in fine.”

“You sure?” Scott asks, looking into his eyes.

Shane holds the eye contact, which he hates, but it feels right. “I’m sure.”

Scott breaks his gaze – thank God! – and they continue with their breakfast.

“Lotta guys stop talking to me after playoffs,” Scott says, so quietly Shane almost misses it. “Most don’t start again after.”

“Why?” Shane asks.

“Some guys get married, and then they get new married friends,” Scott says. “Some guys get bitter, cause I beat their team, or because the Admirals lost and they blame me. Some guys…” Scott sighs. “Some guys don’t like being around the guy with no other friends, you know? I get… intense, and try and take up too much of their time. So they wait until playoffs, ‘cause they figure that’s the point when I won’t notice if they drop off the map. But I do. I just… don’t mention it, because what’s the point? If they don’t want me around, I can’t fix that by asking them.”

Shane thinks about it. Imagines being someone who craves the company of others, but who has to dedicate all that energy and focus on just a couple of people. It’s easy for him to befriend Scott, because he’s used to a few strong, deep friendships. Ilya… Shane doesn’t know what’s up with Ilya, if he’s the same as Shane or if he’s in the same spot as Scott, but either way, he has Svetlana, has Shane, and that’s two more bedrock relationships than Scott has. It makes him feel for Scott, an almost painful empathy.

“Maybe you should try and make some friends outside hockey?” Shane asks. “I mean, you’re in New York, right?”

“Maybe,” Scott says. “But I’m kind of a wreck right now, so…”

“The Cup didn’t help?” Shane asks.

“The Cup… I don’t know. It was nice? Mostly I feel relieved. I don’t know. I’d say I can retire now with no regrets, but I’m probably gonna be captain in Sochi, so…”

“You already have three silvers,” Shane says. “Why would you need a fourth?”

“Fuck you, kid,” Scott says, smiling a little. “I’m winning that Gold. And then…” Scott exhales. “And then we’ll see.”

“Do you want to keep playing, Scott?” Shane asks.

Scott doesn’t answer, and it’s an awkward silence that settles then.

June 11, 2012

Vaughny expresses his displeasure in quiet ways, usually. He’s a loud cook, loves to talk and laugh and put hot spoons into Scott’s mouth with a half-second of warning, at best. Him pottering quietly around the room is a bad sign.

“Vaughny,” Scott says. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Vaughny says, tossing sauces haphazardly into a simmering pot.

“I swear, you’re my best friend, Vaughny,” Scott says. “It’s just that they knew.”

“And I can’t, right?” Vaughny says, understanding mostly crowding out the self-pity in his voice. “I’ll never know what it’s like.”

“No!” Scott says. “They knew because they found out. I’ve never told anyone.”

Vaughny hesitates, pepper mill frozen in his hand. “Never?”

“Never,” Scott confirms. “So when they found out, it was… easier, to have someone who knew. But I would have told you first.”

“You shouldn’t be apologising,” Vaughny says, shoulders dropping in a familiar slump of defeat. Vaughny can’t ever stay angry for long, and he always feels bad about even those small bursts of rage after. “I’m the one who froze you out. And I didn’t even notice how miserable you were after we won.”

“I didn’t notice you felt so left out all last year,” Scott says. “I was a pretty shit friend.”

“You weren’t. I… I don’t know, Scott. It’s… I love you. But you’re so hard to read sometimes.” Vaughny shakes his head. “Anyway, anything you can do with the wonder twins, you can do with me.”

“Anything?” Scott asks, sceptical. “You’d cuddle with me in bed?”

“As long as you don’t fuck me after, sure,” Vaughny says.

“I don’t fuck Shane or Ilya,” Scott says. “It’s really important to me that you know that.”

“Do they fuck you?” Vaughny asks.

He seems surprisingly comfortable for the subject matter, which Scott wouldn’t have picked, but he’s also got a fantastic poker face.

“No. But good on you for not assuming I’m a top,” Scott says. “Surprisingly progressive of you.”

“Well,” Vaughny says, blushing. “You know that big box in your closet?”

Scott feels uncomfortably seen.

“Why have you been looking at my dildos, Vaughny?” Scott asks. “They’re hidden away for a reason.”

“I was looking for batteries,” Vaughny says, licking a bit of sauce off a spoon. Either he’s deeply uncomfortable or the sauce is terrible, and Vaughny’s never produced anything terrible before. “I’ve been holding this secret in for like, three years, man. I was traumatised.”

“There were batteries in there,” Scott points out. “You just had to dig a little.”

Vaughny shoots him an utterly disgusted look, and Scott can’t maintain a straight face. It’s weird, laughing. He hasn’t done it in a while, his face feels stiff. Still, it feels good. Things feel a little less out of control.

“Gross, man,” Vaughny says, plating up two bowls.

There’s a little bit of sauce spilled beside the stovetop. Scott is patiently waiting for Vaughny to clean it up, but it’s beginning to form the gross, congealed texture, so he rises and rubs at it.

“You should probably talk to your therapist about that,” Vaughny says. “The cleaning thing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott says, waving it off. “It’s fine.”

June 20, 2012

Ilya can’t deny it: he’s impressed.

Impeccable hair, coiffed to the line between roguish and distinguished. A suit that fits like a glove, seemingly painted on to biceps which, with the benefit of having nearly no body fat on them, stand out like a sailor’s, making Scott look big and strong. The same empty eyes, staring into a fixed point in the crowd, but convincingly explained away by the bright studio lighting, to which none of these mere hockey plebs are accustomed. If Ilya hadn’t seen Scott’s breakdown first hand, he would think the man cracking jokes at the podium is exactly what he pretends to be: a man who had a small slip in his mostly successful, ongoing battle against a life-defining grief.

“I remembered my suit this time!” Scott jokes, to widespread chuckles, as he accepts his first award (most points: a foregone conclusion).

“I notice the New York Post isn’t here tonight,” Scott continues, at his second speech (most goals), and the laugh there is a little more scandalised, the Hunter’s Heartbreak article having been viciously critiqued by the entire MLH establishment in an impressive display of pent-up New York rage.

“It brings a tear to my eye,” Scott says, deadpan, when the first of the maybes comes out positive, and he’s announced most outstanding player. That one brings the roof down, because Scott’s eyes are not only bone dry, but he holds up a copy of the photo in said Post article as he says it. What could easily come across as a photo of a man at rock-bottom suddenly appears a completely normal response from an ordinarily stoic man, and Scott’s reputation is restored.

A single masculine tear does fall from Scott’s eyes as he dedicates his regular season MVP award to his parents. He should have been a fucking actor. Heck, he should have been a fucking politician.

“It’s a waste. Men have done nothing to deserve him,” Sveta moan-whispers, in Russian. “We could conquer the world together.”

Ilya agrees on the second bit, and definitely not the first. He doesn’t believe in God, but to whatever universal forces that may exist, Ilya internally expresses his gratitude for whoever ensured Scott could never fall for Svetlana. Dealing with them separately is enough of a headache. Combining Scott’s talent for exceptional diplomacy even at his weakest with Svetlana’s chameleonic manipulations … there were not enough cold compresses and Zvezdochka in the world for the migraine that would cause.

Scott is gladhanding, now, going through the groups of officials, players, and media representatives to assure them just how fine he is. He has the same emptiness in his eyes that Ilya remembers from stolen moments in Sveta’s living room, and Ilya takes comfort in that: he’s been here before, clearly, and he came out the other side. It almost soothes the bitter taste of his guilt, a taste he chases back with good vodka at the bar.

“Bad luck, Rozanov,” Bennett says, tired, leaning against the bar and ordering two vodka sodas. “You’ll get it next year.”

Ilya tries not to hit the idiot, but it’s difficult. Vaughn’s isolation he can understand, knows he tried at least, but Bennett has known Scott for a decade, and where the hell has he been?

Scott is getting closer now, and Ilya follows him with his eyes. Bennett does too, but where Ilya focuses on Scott’s growing slouch, his evident exhaustion, Bennett is doing a dance Ilya is extremely familiar with: glancing up at Scott every so often through lidded lashes, then back at his glass, paranoid about being seen but unable to look away. His wife, beside him, is… not oblivious, but certainly not pleased. And who would be, if their husband was nursing a crush on his captain?

And people call Russians dramatic. The MLH is a fucking soap opera, and the Admirals are number one on that list. Vaughn leads, Bennett hides, and the rest of them follow like little lambs, afraid to upset the herd. He had miscalculated, but only slightly: he hadn’t known this one variable. How could he? Until recently, he’d thought he and Shane were the only queer hockey players.

Still, his miscalculation had broken Scott’s heart and almost his mind. It’s not something he can allow to happen again, and he thinks of Shane, who had skipped this particular event citing food poisoning (but who was, in fact, setting up his cottage for habitation). He’d been content until recently to let Shane’s layers coquettishly reveal themselves, had enjoyed the constant surprise and confusion of unravelling another, but the time has come to pierce into the heart of that onion and produce the remaining pieces.

“Finished?” Ilya asks, Sveta at his side, as Scott finally reaches them.

“Reputation restored,” Scott says, his lips barely moving as he talks, fatigue set deep into his face. “Svetlana, will you be joining us?”

Sveta makes a face. “Ottawa.”

“Right,” Scott says. “Much nicer in Boston.”

Sveta smiles gently at Scott, leaning in to whisper in his ear. Ilya catches the card she drops into Scott’s lapel pocket, behind his green pocket square, but only because she wants him to.

“If the idiot tries anything like this again, you call me,” Sveta says. “Or if you want to watch hockey with someone. I need someone who knows it well enough to get my jokes, even if they’re in another city.”

“Understood,” Scott says. His mouth twitches, like he’s trying to smile but can’t manage it. “If he’s an idiot, what does that make me?”

“A bigger idiot,” Sveta says, gesturing towards the door. “Shall we?”

June 23, 2012

“I think you missed a spot,” Mom jokes, seated on the couch with an open novel, as Shane swipes the lint roller over the edge of the armchair’s cushions.

“Hilarious,” Shane says.

“You know, I always thought your first sleepover would be when you were a kid. You’d sit around the television, watch hockey, and try to hide your massive crush on Scott Hunter. So basically this, but during the season,” Mom says.

“Are you just going to make fun of me, or are you going to help?” Shane asks.

He’s trying to get a particularly stubborn stain out of one of the curtains, and it just will not budge.

“Sweetheart, that’s sewn in, it’s part of the pattern,” Mom says.

Shane looks closer.

“Why are these curtains so ugly?” Shane asks.

“Because you bought them. You want to tell me why you brought me out here?” Mom is already folding up her novel and tossing it aside, which apparently means it’s Talking Time.

Shane sits on the table, facing her. It kind of ruins the point of the meticulous cleaning, but he can admit he’s mostly just trying to find something to do with his hands at this point.

“Do you think you can get a therapist to visit the cottage? Discretely, I mean. Money isn’t a problem,” Shane says.

Mom frowns. “Shane, if you want to see a therapist, I don’t think you should be ashamed of it. And I certainly don’t think you should be wasting however much it would cost to get a home caller.”

“Not for me,” Shane says. “For… someone else. Who doesn’t want people to know that he’s in therapy.”

“This is about Scott Hunter, isn’t it?” Mom asks.

“This is about a friend of mine who needs help, mom,” Shane says. “Please, I know it’s a tough ask out here, but it’s important.”

Mom makes a beckoning motion with her finger, and reluctantly, Shane sits beside her, stiff.

“I’ll find a therapist,” Mom says. “And you three are all welcome to dinner whenever you want. Just warn me first, so I know to cook for twenty.”

“Four,” Shane corrects absently. “Vaughny is coming too.”

“Oh, do we need to prepare the couch?” Mom asks.

Shane panics a little, goes red. “Uh…”

Mom laughs. “You’re sharing with Ilya, then?”

Shane jumps out of his skin. “How long have you known?”

“You remember when you told me you were gay?” Mom asks.

“Yeah?”

“About ten minutes after that. Maybe fifteen,” Mom says. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure at first, with his reputation. But he’s a sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, a little smitten, before he shakes himself. “I think it might be a long-term thing.”

Shane doesn’t say the four-letter word he’s been thinking of lately, but maybe his mother can sense it, because she tucks him into a hug. A hug that is promptly broken by a knock at the door.

“Honey, we’re home!” Dad calls, like a dork.

“This isn’t even your home!” Shane shouts back, breaking the hug and moving to greet them. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

Vaughny shrugs in his hideous toque. It says VOULES-VOUS in big red font on a blue background, and makes him look like a douchebag hipster. “Disguise.”

A disturbingly clean-shaven Scott says “It’s multiplicative. If one of us shows up in Ottawa, it’s a resemblance. Two of us, it’s noticeable. Three, it’s obvious. I’m not sure why he went with a beanie, but I think it kind of works?”

Shane looks at Ilya, who looks completely normal. “What was your disguise?”

Ilya puts on a pair of sunglasses.

“That’s it?” Shane asks. “Did it work?”

“Easy,” Ilya says, slumping onto the couch on mom’s other side. “Also this.”

Shane can’t see what Ilya is doing under his clothed mouth, but his entire face seems to change shape: his cheeks fill out, his face becomes less angular… Ilya suddenly looks like a completely different guy. An American dudebro. It’s uncanny. The three of them together probably could pass for members of an extremely photogenic frat.

“Well, I think you boys have enough to be getting on with,” Mom says, lifting herself off. “Ilya, take good care of Shane, you know how he gets.”

“Mom!”

“And if you’d like, later we can go through pictures of Shane as a baby-”

“Mom, come on!”

“I love you, Shaney,” Mom says, booping his nose. “Stay safe.”

June 29, 2012

Scott feels a little unsettled after his first therapy appointment. It wasn’t bad: it was two hours long, because his therapist wanted to get through “all the introductory stuff” in one sitting, but recounting each of his major issues sequentially brought up a lot of memories that Scott had mostly suppressed.

He plops onto a seat in the lounge room, where Ilya, Shane, and Vaughny appear to be taking turns at Fifa.

“You want to play next?” Vaughny asks, shooting him a long, searching look. He has a controller in hand, but he’s being creamed, so he doesn’t seem to mind the lapse in attention.

Scott shakes his head. He kind of just wants to be around other people right now, but words are failing him.

He hasn’t thought about the specifics of the accident that took his parents away from him for… a very long time. But his therapist, in their very first session, before they’d even really started, had managed to point out a connection that Scott had somehow never made.

“You can talk to us,” Vaughny says, looking at the screen now.

Scott startles. He hadn’t realised his musings were so obvious.

“Nothing, just… stupid therapist did her job. Noticed stuff.” Scott says.

“What kind of stuff?” Shane asks.

“I told her that my parents died trying to pick up medicine for me, because I had a stomach-ache. Half an hour after that, I told her I don’t like taking meds. She thinks, maybe they’re related.” Scott shrugs. “It’s stupid. I’ll be taking meds soon enough, she just needs to find someone to set me up with a prescription.”

“Don’t those drugs basically turn you into a eunuch?” Vaughny asks.

“Some of them, sure,” Scott says. “I specifically requested the non-eunuch drugs, just in case you change your mind.” He winks.

“Hilarious,” Vaughny says.

“What is eunuch?” Ilya asks.

“Guy with his balls cut off,” Shane says, casual despite the subject matter. “Emperors used to keep them as advisors. I don’t know why. Maybe they thought having no balls made you smarter?”

“Hunter, does not using balls during season make you smarter?” Ilya asks.

“Fuck you,” Scott says, smiling a little but still not quite up to laughing. “I still jerk off, I’m not a monk.”

Ilya wins his game against Vaughny, but before Vaughny can pass his controller to Shane, Ilya does instead.

“Tired of winning,” Ilya lies, as he moves next to Scott on the couch. Close enough to almost touch. The invitation is clear.

Scott budges over a little, towards Ilya. Ilya casually drapes an arm around Scott. Scott much less casually burrows his face into Ilya’s shoulder, but he needs it, all of a sudden. He fucking hates it, this deep, exposed feeling, and it’s only day one. How the fuck is he supposed to keep this up for months or years to come?

Vaughny and Shane provide them a little bit of privacy by focusing on the game, though it’s obvious they’re aware of what’s happening as Scott lets a few tears spill onto Ilya’s shoulder.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Scott whispers, quietly into Ilya’s shoulder. “What if I’m like this forever?”

Scott is tired of this push and pull, wanting to be close to people but being too afraid to ask for it, constantly alone by no choice of his own.

“Have faith,” Ilya tells him. “You are strong.”

He doesn’t feel like it, right now, but at least he’s not alone with his thoughts anymore.

July 4, 2012

The trap is set.

Last night, Vaughn had coaxed Scott into an over-long video-game marathon, ensuring he would be tired and oversleep. This was the cover they needed to make arrangements under the cover of early morning darkness.

“You sure about this?” Shane asks, licking crimson fluid off his finger. “He’s not suspicious?”

“He has no idea,” Ilya assures him, continuing to spread icing over the cake. Traditionally it would be all white, but the little hint of red on the edges belies the cake’s interior, and Ilya does not play around with birthday cakes. “He believes we have forgotten. The fool.”

“And you’re sure he likes red velvet?” Shane asks. “Because I tried to find that interview you mentioned, and Google had nothing.”

“It was years ago,” Ilya says, waving it off. “Less cameras then.”

“You were watching Scott’s press conferences back then too, huh?” Shane asks. “And you mock me for having a crush on him.”

“Your crush is embarrassing,” Ilya says, sprinkling little crumbs of cake onto the sides. “Mine is empathy for shared trauma.”

“How the hell do you know empathy for shared trauma but not pineapple?” Shane asks.

“Shh,” Ilya hisses. “Do you want to wake him? And is ananas in every other country.”

“What did you get him?” Shane asks, blessedly quieter this time. “I got him a pile of stuffed animals. I think he needs them.”

Not a bad idea. Ilya rewards Shane for his foresight with a cream-cheese flavoured kiss.

“Samovar,” Ilya says.

“What?” Shane asks.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Is for making tea.”

“That’s your gift?” Shane asks, incredulous.

“Was my mother’s,” Ilya says.

“That’s your gift?” Shane asks, now incredulous in a completely different way, as well as mildly touched.

“He is family now,” Ilya says. “Is important.”

“Well shit, now my present looks terrible,” Shane complains.

Ilya’s phone buzzes. “Your parents are here.”

Shane marches to collect them just as a still sleep-rumpled Vaughn emerges from the shower, thankfully fully dressed. The four of them are definitely far too comfortable walking around the house naked, even with three of them being attracted to men, and the elder Hollanders have only narrowly avoided seeing things they probably have never wished to.

“Blueberry or chocolate chip?” Vaughn asks him, through a yawn.

“Eh?” Ilya asks, putting the cake meticulously into a little cardboard box for later.

“I’m making breakfast pancakes, for Scott and everyone else. Do you want blueberry or chocolate chip?”

“Both?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah, stupid question,” Vaughn says, searching out ingredients. “Both it is.”

Yuna and David arrive bearing a hoodie with a photo of Scott, Ilya, and Shane on it, looking like brothers – see, they understood the assignment – and what looks to be that day’s lunch, already prepared and stored in opaque containers.

From there, it’s just waiting. Vaughn piles up pancakes in the oven to keep them warm. Shane sets out toppings on the table, including, inexplicably, pre-scooping ice cream and refreezing it in its tub. David and Yuna work on setting up a few decorations, including a giant printed poster of Scott’s face that they must have ordered on the internet, because no way did they risk asking for that in person.

When Scott finally emerges from sleep, shirtless but thankfully wearing a set of pajama pants (Vaughn did half of his job, then), hair floofed to high heaven and eyes heavily bagged, it’s to the five of them shouting surprise!

Scott’s frown shifts to the bright smile of a small child. “You remembered!”

He actually sounds surprised. Mission success.

Scott dives into the plate of pancakes Vaughn presents him with, and the rest of them join him once he’s selected his fill. Ilya, Vaughn and Scott each have as much on their plates as the three Hollanders combined, but Shane at least is dousing his pancakes in enough toppings to make up the difference. That’s a new thing, but clearly a good sign, and Ilya smiles at it.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Scott says, like his face isn’t threatening to split open from the weight of his smile. “I appreciate it, though. Most birthdays I just go to the fireworks and pretend they’re for me.”

Scott’s habit of dropping depressing little tidbits of his deeply lonely existence would be funny if it wasn’t so sad. Does he also buy a single cupcake with a lone candle and blow it out sadly while dreaming of a warm Christmas turkey?

The Little Match Girl seems to be enjoying his pancakes, at least. Vaughn is a good cook, and Scott needs fattening up for winter.

“I made your favourite, for lunch,” Yuna says.

Scott’s eyes widen. “There’s more?”

Ilya hides a smile behind a big bite of syrup-soaked pancake. Yes, this was a good plan indeed. They’ve staggered the day’s events in a deliberate order: whenever Scott starts staring out into the distance is time to move to the next thing, and Scott is fiddling with his fork now, so it’s time to move.

“You know,” Yuna says, “Jasmine told me something funny.”

“Oh yeah?” Scott says, still distracted, his smile slowly slipping from his face. He jerks out of it. “Wait, my publicist?”

“Hmm. Yes. She said you don’t celebrate your birthdays. Insist on never getting any gifts. Sent them back, once,” Yuna says.

“Well, yeah,” Scott says. “I’m rich, they shouldn’t be spending money on me.”

“They’re rich too now, Scott. They take a pretty big cut of your earnings. Anyway, I told her that you stopped drowning in self-pity and changed your mind. And then Jasmine told David – other David, your driver – and David told Maxine, and Maxine, well, she’s a bit of a gossip. Anyway, there are about fifteen gifts for you in David’s truck. That David,” Yuna says, pointing at her smiling husband.

Ilya doesn’t understand how a woman as cunning as Yuna can produce a child as innocent and guileless as Shane, but he appreciates having backup here. Vaughn and Shane had actually believed Scott’s “I don’t like birthdays” bullshit, like denying the attention that comes with celebrating one’s birth isn’t the second largest sign of a deeply depressed man seeking an excuse to wallow (the largest, of course, being a fondness for golf).

They follow a now pleased Scott to the truck, stopping only for the five seconds it takes to force him into a shirt, and each grab piles of presents to take inside. Scott, to no one’s surprise, is far more interested in the cards than the gifts, but they still manage to get three-quarters of the way through before his attention starts wandering. They break immediately for lunch – an absolutely despicable pile of meat, carbs, and sauces piled on a plate, which Ilya simultaneously wishes to never stop eating and never eat again – and resume when Scott is fed, adding in their own gifts also.

Scott seems to understand the significance of the samovar, at least, because he hugs Ilya crushingly tight and he seems focused for at least a half hour after. They can’t chase away the dark thoughts, not fully, and there are definitely a few moments where Scott seems to twitch at the sight of anything out of order, but he’s smiling and engaged.

Operation success, for now. And he didn’t even need to call in Sveta, though he’s sure she’ll have some gaudy gift waiting in Scott’s apartment when he gets back.

July 14, 2012

“So like, the cleaning thing?” Vaughny asks.

It breaks the silence, at least, though Shane himself is still confused. OCD? Isn’t that, like, when you wash your hands until your skin peels off? Wouldn’t Scott have known if he had that? Wouldn’t Shane have noticed?

Scott hesitates. “It’s a bit more than that. It’s like… sometimes my brain gets obsessed with things, awful things, stuff that I hate, and the only way I feel better about it is by doing some ritual. Every time I do a ritual, I get a little better, but my brain just wants to do it again. Eventually, all I can think about are the little rituals, and they don’t make me happy anymore, and I’m just miserable all the time. Look, I’m not explaining it well, but I’m supposed to give you these… warning sheets, basically. Of what to look out for when I’m not doing well.”

Shane takes the sheet absently.

Scott marches off for his post-therapy run, a habit that they’d all been assured was relatively normal, and allows them to peruse their sheets in detail.

Shane jumps straight to the ‘warning signals’ section. Some of them remind him intimately of himself. He does like repetitive behaviours, he definitely is more concerned than most about minor things and details, and though it’s been a while, he remembers many severe and emotional reactions to small things. Others… don’t. He’s never tardy, he can’t remember ever spending long stretches of time alone doing unexplained things in the bathroom or when getting dressed (honestly, he’d figured Scott just jerked off eight times more than a normal person), and he’s never stayed up late to finish something (is, in fact, so committed to his 11pm bedtime that Ilya jokes about it).

“You okay?” Ilya asks, quietly at his side.

Shane looks up and sees Vaughny has already gone, probably to go chase out his feelings with a few hours of Assassin’s Creed in his room. It’s just the two of them in the living room now.

“I don’t have this,” Shane says, waving the sheet.

“No,” Ilya says.

“Vaughny told me he was obsessing, and I told him he was fine,” Shane says. “Because I thought he was like me, and I don’t do this. I… I mean, sometimes, I guess?”

“You are different,” Ilya says. “Is not bad thing. But is important to know, for him.”

“I guess I just get so sick of people telling me I’m not normal, I thought Vaughny was doing the same for Scott,” Shane says. “And I almost killed him.”

“No,” Ilya says, clutching Shane tighter. “Is not your fault. And he is not dying. You…” Ilya hesitates the way he does when the words fail him, the little curl of frustration in his brow, and Shane strokes his hair, lets the words come to him. “You did not know. You know now.”

“And I did the best I could,” Shane says. “I know. But… you knew, didn’t you? At his birthday, you kept trying to distract him.”

“Did not know,” Ilya says. “Is hard to see. But is there. He thinks too much.”

“Me too,” Shane says. “I still feel guilty.”

Ilya picks him up, and Shane lets him, knowing Ilya’s solution to Shane getting in his own head is to fuck his brains out.

“You are good person,” Ilya tells him, as they march into their bedroom. “You made mistake, fine. Mistakes are allowed. You cannot, eh… what is it, what Scott does?”

“Brood? Dwell? Mope?” Shane suggests.

“Mope!” Ilya says. “You cannot mope. Is bad for you.”

“Neither can Scott,” Shane says. “It’s on the list.”

“You memorised list already?” Ilya asks, dropping Shane gently into bed. “Hot.”

“You have the weirdest kinks,” Shane says, before taking Ilya by his beautiful curls and dragging him face first onto the bed with him. “I like it.”

July 16, 2012

Scott stares at the pill in his hand.

It’s pretty small, all things considered. Round. About the size of a pea, maybe a bit smaller.

Shane knocks at the bathroom door. “Hey, Scott! You’ve been a while, you alright?”

Scott, startled, almost drops the pill in the sink.

“Yeah, fine!” Scott says.

It’s just a pill. What’s the harm? He downs it, chases it with a bit of water.

He doesn’t expect immediate results, but as he enters the open-plan living space and sees Vaughny, lounging in his underwear and eating gross, sugary cereal with his hands, he does feel a little less of that need to hold himself apart. He makes himself a smoothie, a rare treat he allows himself only on days when it feels like the walls are crushing in on him, and sips at it whilst thinking.

“You have a boat, right?” Scott asks Shane, who appears to be half watching a Canadian breakfast news show and half contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “You know how to drive it?”

“Don’t you need a license for that?” Scott asks.

“Oh yeah,” Shane says. “I mean, I can drive it, if you don’t mind company?”

“We’re going on a boat?” Vaughny asks, through a cereal-y mouth. “I can drive, too!”

“Oh,” Shane says. “You two have fun then.”

It’s a song and dance Scott is very familiar with: the need to be explicitly invited to things like a vampire.

“Shane,” Scott says. “We’re not stealing your boat. Do you want to come with us?”

“I just don’t want to impose,” Shane says, extremely politely. “You two have fun.”

“Shane, we want you to come,” Scott says. “Please come with us on the boat. And bring your grumpy boytoy too.”

“It’ll be more fun with you there,” Vaughny adds.

“Alright, but we’re going to have to wait until he wakes up,” Shane says, smiling faintly. I

“Can we bring food?” Vaughny asks. “Do you have a picnic basket?”

“And can we go fishing?” Scott asks. “I haven’t been fishing in years.”

“How big is the boat?” Vaughny asks. “Is it, like, a yacht?”

“It’s just a normal boat,” Shane says. “Fits, I don’t know, six people? I bought a new one for dad and kept his old one, he’s way more into it than I am.”

“Grrrrrrgh,” declares the Russian Bear, marching into the living room shirtless and scratching at his chest. “Food?”

“Sorry, every man for himself today,” Shane says. “There’s leftover chicken parm from last night in the fridge?”

“No there isn’t,” Vaughny says. “I ate it all.”

Ilya stares at Vaughny with murder in his eyes.

“I can make you a smoothie?” Scott offers.

The murder eyes turn onto him. It’s not pleasant, and Scott considers just grabbing Vaughny and running to the boat.

Vaughny, reluctant and terrified, holds out the box of Lucky Charms.

Ilya, in his great beneficence, accepts the tribute, and Scott lets out a little sigh of relief.

“Maybe we should set up a breakfast roster?” Shane asks. “Anyway, Ilya, we’re going fishing today.”

“I will steer,” Ilya says, definitive.

July 28, 2012

Scott is running again.

“Should we send a search party?” Vaughn asks. “It’s been, like, four hours.”

“Yesterday was five,” Ilya says.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Vaughn kvetches. “He needs to build up weight for the season, not sweat it out.”

“He is coming,” Ilya says.

Sure enough, the sweat-drenched, knee-to-toe compression-gear-clad figure of Scott Hunter is pounding gracelessly through the woods, his form speaking of a body which wanted to stop an hour ago but wasn’t permitted.

“Dude,” Vaughn says. “You’re gonna crash.”

“It’s these stupid meds,” Scott says, leaning on his knees and breathing in desperate gasps of oxygen. “They give me so much energy. If I don’t run myself ragged, I can’t sleep.”

“Then come off them!” Vaughn says.

“But I feel good,” Scott says. “My brain is way more quiet after I run!”

“Sleep is pretty fucking important, Scott! There are other drugs, right?” Vaughn says.

“Come on,” Ilya says, interrupting, because they could go on for days, but everything important has already been said. “Dinner with Hollanders today. You need to shower.”

“Right,” Scott says, marching off. He hesitates. “Can one of you knock on the door in like, twenty minutes? Hot water makes me a bit faint-y sometimes.”

“Since you started the pills, you mean?” Vaughn asks, unimpressed.

“Just knock on the door, please?” Scott says.

“I will,” Ilya says.

Vaughn waits until Scott is gone before rounding on Ilya. “What the hell, man!”

“He knows pills are bad,” Ilya says. “If you bitch, he wants to stay on them. Spite.”

“Why is he spiting me! I’m his friend!” Vaughn complains.

“Yes,” Ilya says, more patiently than he thought he was capable of. “And he does not like it when you tell him what to do. He does opposite. Is normal for brothers.”

It’s a low blow, but it overwhelms Vaughn enough to shut him up, and it is true, so he has no regrets.

August 12, 2012

“This is just an excuse to get me naked, isn’t it?” Scott asks, frowning at the spa resort.

“Is gay bar next door,” Ilya says. “French-Canadian men. Dozens.”

Shane doesn’t actually know how Ilya already has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the gay amenities available in Tremblant, but he’s not wrong.

“It’s the off-season here,” Shane says. “Usually it’s big with skiiers. But the spa’s open year-round, and they do a great massage. Besides, you’re always naked, we don’t need an excuse.”

“It’s true,” Vaughny says. “I’ve seen your dick more than I’ve seen mine.”

“Won’t people recognise us?” Scott asks.

“They won’t care,” Shane says. “Actual celebrities come here, and no offence, but we’re kind of boring by comparison.”

“Relax, Hunter,” Ilya says. “Is just mud bath and massage.”

“Right,” Scott says. “Except we get massages all the time during the season, and this kind of seems like more of the same.”

“It’s different, trust me.” Shane says, throwing open the door they’ve all been staring at like idiots for five minutes. “After you.”

Honestly, Shane despises the team masseuses, and their focus on performance efficacy which always seems to lead to his bones being ground into dust. He usually visits this place weekly in the off season, when he can manage it, because they remind him that human touch doesn’t have to be erotic or painful, and he imagines Scott will appreciate the same.

Three hours later, Shane enters the sauna to find Scott there, predictably as naked as the day he was born.

“About that gay bar,” Scott says, without even a hello. “Do you think they’d recognise me?”

“Only if you speak English,” Shane says.

“Right,” Scott says. He covers his lap with his towel, which is a sign that he’s probably considering it a little too hard for a public space. “Right.”

“If you want,” Shane says. “I can… scope it out, for you? Make sure everyone’s on the up and up?”

“No,” Scott says. “I can’t ask you to do that. Thank you, but… no.” Scott swallows, deep. “If you don’t see me for the rest of the day, it’s because… well, you know why.”

Scott marches from the room, tying his towel as he goes.

August 26, 2012

It’s just past ten when Scott limps into the cottage, still sore from the night before but pleased with the nice breakfast he’d been provided before he’d left.

Vaughny and Ilya are playing Fifa again, and, as usual, Vaughny is being creamed.

“You should have long-passed there,” Scott says.

“Long-passing never fucking works,” Vaughny moans, trying to regain possession. He fails, and Ilya chips in a goal. 3-1.

“Dude, this is embarrassing,” Scott says. “You’re playing Man U. He’s fucking… what even is this?”

“Torpedo Moscow,” Ilya says, stealing possession again. “Terrible team. Better in 80s.”

“So it reminds you of home?” Scott teases. “Better in the 80s?”

“Fuck you,” Ilya says, slotting in another goal.

“Can we play MLH 12 next,” Vaughny asks, irked. “I fucking suck at this.”

“Gimme,” Scott says, tagging in for the second half. He’s spent enough time winnowing away the hours in his apartment to be good at this, and his players are way faster than Ilya’s.

Sure enough, he slots in one goal in the first minute, and a second shortly after, leaving the scores at 4-3, and Ilya with a deep frown on his face.

“Don’t you two ever get sick of this shit?” Shane asks, sounding bored. “Can we go out, or something? I have the boat. We could go for a swim, before it gets too cold?”

“Let me beat Ilya first,” Scott says, equalising at 4-4. It’s not like he’ll be going on the boat, as sore as he feels right now.

Shane rises, switches off the game at the source, and says “Boat time, people! Now!”

Scott throws away the controller in disgust. “I was going to win.”

“You were much better team and we were tied,” Ilya says, smug. “I win.” He kisses Shane as thanks for his ill-gotten gains.

“It’s stuff like this that makes me depressed,” Scott sighs.

Shane’s face drops, Ilya glares, and Vaughny freezes.

“Too soon?” Scott asks.

September 12, 2012

“Well, I just got the news,” Shane says, walking onto the dock in his swim-shorts. “No contract agreement, we’re probably missing the next season.”

“They’ll figure it out,” Scott says, floating calmly on his back in an inflatable raft, anchored to the dock by a rope. “They always do.”

Scott looks at peace like this, with the sun shining on his skin. He belongs out here, in the trees and the lakes, not the concrete wasteland of New York. He’s gained a little bit of weight, too, though he still looks far too skinny.

“Do you even want to play the next season?” Shane asks.

Well, he’d clearly been itching to ask it for weeks. Ilya wonders if it’s better or worse for it to come at a time when Scott is so very relaxed for once.

Scott tenses up so hard the entire raft squeaks. Worse, then.

“Let him breathe, Shane,” Ilya says. “He will talk with therapist.”

“Right,” Scott says. “Put it aside for now, huh?”

Ilya’s attention is drawn away by the ringing of his phone, and upon seeing the caller, he marches further down the dock and towards the cottage to answer it. He nods at Vaughn, walking the other way to join Shane and Scott, as he goes.

“Da?” Ilya says.

Alexei goes through the usual litany – Ilya is a disgrace, a fag, a miserable little American traitor who disgraces his ancestry with each breath, etc. Ilya treats it with all the respect it deserves, dropping a “hmm” and “uhuh” and “if you say so” as he goes, in English, to further infuriate Alexei.

Alexei finally gets to the point: he wants money, or he’ll tell the newspapers Ilya’s gay.

“Father won’t believe you,” Ilya reminds him, in Russian this time. “And then you’re out of the will, for libelous gossip.”

More threats from Alexei, then: he’ll tell father that Ilya is refusing to send him money.

“Why would I send you money, Alexei?” Ilya asks. “I am but a poor teenager. I have no income. I need to bring home bread for papa and mama, but I cannot be expected to support my police officer brother.”

Alexei curses and screams some more down the phone, but he seems to realise he is defeated, because there are no more threats, and he eventually hangs up.

Ilya texts Polina, ensuring she has enough to get by – she does, but she makes a veiled request for Ilya to come and free her of the burden of her hateful husband’s care, which he can only answer by reminding her of the open offer of sending them to America, which she refuses – and returns to the dock, where in his absence, Scott and Vaughn appear to have decided to share the decidedly-too-small raft. They’re basically bobbing in the water, maybe a few centimetres above it.

“If we took a photo of that and posted it online, everyone on the planet would think they were fucking,” Shane says, accepting Ilya’s company on the edge of the dock.

Ilya’s not sure he agrees, with how deeply stupid (and thus heterosexual) they both look, but he nods anyway.

“Your brother again?” Shane asks. “Any change?”

“Still terrible,” Ilya replies. “But he has nothing now.”

Truthfully, Ilya isn’t sure he ever did. Alexei could threaten to out him all he wishes, but without proof, he’d be the one falling afoul of Russia’s propaganda laws, not Ilya. An envious sibling spreading scandalous gossip against his famous womaniser, national sporting hero brother is not a strong position in Moscow. And in the worst case, Ilya could always apply for asylum. The life of a stateless refugee is not a fun one, he knows, but he imagines it’s different when he’s a multimillionaire athlete whose only crime is touching dicks other than his own.

“Were you ever close?” Shane asks. “You and Alexei?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, trying to ignore the sounds of Scott and Vaughn squabbling like children behind him. “Before mother died.”

Before Alexei decided to spit on her memory by becoming a carbon copy of the man who had driven her to the edge, and decided that Ilya was an unfortunate stain on his familial ambitions.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says. “That sucks.”

“Yes,” Ilya repeats. “But is better now.”

Ilya sighs as he hears the hiss of a popped inflatable. “Are they drowning?”

“No, they’re fine,” Shane says. “Idiots.”

October 10, 2012

Shane is sipping at an herbal tea on the breakfast table when Scott completes his walk of shame.

“What happened to your shirt?” Shane asks.

“He wanted to keep it,” Scott says. “To remember me by.”

“And you let him?” Shane asks. “It’s below freezing?”

“He was really hot,” Scott says. “And I think it could be a regular thing, so he can have it. He dropped me off at the dock, it was less than a minute’s walk.”

As Scott walks past, Shane’s eyes bug out completely.

“Are those lash marks?”

“Like I said,” Scott says, smirking. “He was really hot.”

November 23, 2012

Scott sighs as he tosses yet another expensive box of prescription medication in the trash.

The first one he’d tried had him hyperactive, but still miserable. The second he tried made him comatose and he gained weight like mad, but he was happy…ish. The third he’d tried for a while, and it didn’t seem to do much of anything. This fourth one is apparently brand new, which worries him a little, but if he can get the happiness of the second without the side effects, he would feel a hell of a lot better.

The harder thing, of course, is that he still has no idea if he’s going to play next season. If this sport has any joy left to give him. He had done it: ascended the pinnacle. All he has left is that elusive Olympic Gold…

His therapist thinks he should try to regain his love of the sport, so he asked Yuna to place a few discreet calls and book out a rink for the day.

“Hey guys,” Scott says, walking into the living room, where Vaughny is playing a solo game, Ilya is reading a book, and Shane is napping on Ilya. Shane glares beadily at Scott for waking him. “I booked a rink for the day, if you want-”

“Yes, finally,” Vaughny says, tossing the controller aside. “I fucking need it, man. I haven’t touched ice in months.”

Ilya and Shane are no less enthused, and Scott allows their enthusiasm to carry him forward. He’s not Scott Hunter, once-in-a-lifetime prospect, first draft pick, whatever. He’s not a captain or a leader or a role model. He’s just a guy lacing up his skates on the ice, sliding easily into his warmups and enjoying some two-on-two.

They split into Shane and Vaughny versus Ilya and Scott, because Scott’s big enough to admit that Shane is the best player here and he is not facing the two young menaces together. Scott and Ilya play well together, which isn’t a surprise – they’ve done this before, at All Stars games – but Shane and Vaughny are much less likely to hog the puck or overestimate their abilities, so it’s an easy win for them in the end.

Scott… had fun, he can acknowledge, as he skates gently to the edge of the rink and sips his gatorade. It’s missing something without the exhilarating thrill of competition, but losing the crippling pressure of expectation is a nice bonus. If he could find a way to keep the first without regaining the second, he’d be golden.

Trial and error, yet again. Scott’s a Stanley Cup champion now, he doesn’t have New York breathing down his neck for another title. Maybe he can have an easier go of it now? Play for himself, not his parents’ memory.

Scott realises that his three idiots have stopped, have cornered him. Shane is raising a hopeful brow. Ilya looks indifferent, but there’s a twitch of a knowing smile there. Vaughny, on the other hand, looks stressed out of his mind, staring at Scott with a plea in his expression.

“Fine,” Scott says. “We’ll try for one more season, at lea- what the fuck! No! Put me down!”

Ilya does not, instead choosing to skate in short circles with Scott draped over him.

“Ilya,” Scott says. “I can’t play if you drop me and break my hip.”

“Is not my fault your hips are so breakable,” Ilya says, but he obligingly plops Scott down.

“Thank you- NO!” Scott says, as he gets picked up again, by Vaughny this time.

“Sorry Scotty,” Vaughny says. “You looked lonely down there.”

“And it doesn’t matter if you quit,” Shane says, as Scott is carted in another unasked-for celebratory spiral. “I still expect to see you at my games, every single time I’m in New York.”

“And Boston,” Ilya says.

“And my apartment,” Vaughny declares. “You don’t get to fade away, alright? We’re family now.”

Scott is touched, truly. But he still glares at Vaughny the moment he gets put down again, and quickly skates off the ice. He is not getting carted around again.

Chapter End Notes

I have now completed my university degree, so hopefully future updates will be a bit quicker.

Chapter 6: The Moon Also Rises

Chapter Summary

Ilya discovers exactly four new kinks. Shane and Ilya are competitive idiots. Shane learns what websites to avoid in the future. Hayden, JJ, and Marlow have a few too many opinions. Scott buys a smoothie.

Chapter Notes

I have decided to make it a bit clearer whose perspective each scene is in, and will probably go back to edit some more at a later stage.
I have completely fallen behind on responding to comments, but know they are always appreciated.
We are now hitting the big stuff :)

December 3, 2012

“It’s not going to ring any faster if you keep staring at it,” Scott says.

Ilya barely reacts, because he’s not watching the phone. He’s watching Shane, who is, of course, not listening. They’ve all grown a bit antsy over the last few months without hockey, but they’re nothing on Shane. The last setback in contract negotiations had him curled up in bed with a stuffed toy penguin that Ilya had never seen before and hasn’t seen since. He’s going through active withdrawals. And Ilya can’t admit it, but he… is not of the same mind.

This is the first experience of home he can remember for a very long time. He’s always known that it’s temporary, that all of them have jobs and lives in completely different cities, but… knowing that hasn’t stopped his heart and brain and body from saying yes, this, more of this, don’t leave.

Pointless, of course. They have to leave.

Vaughn comes back from his own phone call, and they all perfunctorily look up for news, even though, as Alternate, Vaughn would be the second to hear of the league’s resumption, and thus the call must have been unrelated.

“Crowell called,” Vaughn says. “He said hockey is cancelled forever. Sorry bro.”

He doesn’t bother making it convincing, and Shane still jerks a little, like the very thought is sending deep shivers down his spine. Ilya glares.

“Just my mother,” Vaughn says. “She wants to know if I’ll be home for Christmas. I told her I’m bringing Scott.”

“Unfair,” Ilya points out. “You can’t use mother to kidnap Scott for Christmas. Some of us don’t have mothers.”

“You can have him for New Years,” Vaughn says. “And Shane’s had him all year.”

“I would like to remind you all that I am a human being, and not a rescue puppy who needs supervision,” Scott says.

He is ignored, of course. Silly puppy thinks they can’t see him blushing.

They’re interrupted by the sound of three phones ringing, the discordant ringtones making Ilya actively annoyed. Lady Gaga, Madonna, and Samsung Default Ringtone (what the fuck, Shane?) do not mix well together.

“We’re back on!” Assistant Coach Rubin says, cheery. “Pay dispute is finally settled. We train in eight days.”

A click, and Rubin is gone, probably to pass the news to the next cab off the rank. They wait for Vaughn to go through his phone call, second to hear the same news Scott already knows, before assessing.

“Eight,” Ilya says.

“Six,” Shane says.

“Eleven,” Scott says, bemused. “Who needs eleven days to get home?”

“Typhoon in Mindinao,” Ilya says. “You have teammates in Philippines?”

“Uh… I hope not?” Scott says. “What the fuck would they be doing in the Philippines?”

“Sex tourism, probably,” Ilya suggests. “It’s what Kuznetsov is doing.”

“Fucking gross, of course he— why do you know what Kuznetsov is doing?”

“First draft group chat,” Ilya says, trying to wash out his disgust with humour. “Shame you got kicked out, Hunter.”

“I left voluntarily,” Scott says, lofty. “Some whiny Russian kept spamming it with pictures of dinosaurs. And it’s gone way downhill since, if you’re all discussing sex tourism.”

“No one in the Admirals is doing sex tourism,” Vaughn insists. “They’re just at home playing the new CoD game in their underwear, and Coach wants to give them enough time to wash off the Dorito dust on their skin before they get back.”

“Hmm,” Scott says.

“Ah, Hunter doesn’t like it!” Ilya says, pointing to the evident conniption on Scott’s face. Hilarious. “No vacations in your day?”

“None. And we walked to practice in the snow. Uphill. Both ways,” Scott says.

It’s nice, that he can bounce back on the snark. Before, Scott would just crumple at the slightest criticism, something Ilya hadn’t noticed until after they’d become friends, and which he still feels guilty about. Therapy may be imperialist Western bullshit, but it does seem to be helping him.

“So,” Shane says. “If I have to go back to practice in six… I guess we book our flights for five days from now?”

That kills the mood.

“Maybe I should have let you retire,” Shane says, now that his hyperfocus has shifted from hockey and onto Scott. “Then you could have stayed.”

Ilya flinches at that. Oh Shane. He never tries to be so brutal, to rub salt into deep wounds, it’s something he can’t help. Ilya is almost afraid to look at Scott’s face, because he knows he’ll see that stupid, blank expression he dons whenever he’s not sure what to say.

“Thank you,” Scott says, wetly.

Ilya looks up in shock. Is Scott crying? Ilya’s seen the aftermath of it, sure, but he’s never actually seen it in person. It is, sadly, deeply sexually appealing. Ilya’s brain is broken, clearly. Or maybe it’s a Russian thing.

“He wants to hug you,” Ilya tells Shane. Indeed, Scott’s flapping his arms around, like he wants to go for one but knows Shane doesn’t always love touch.

“Oh,” Shane says. He obligingly moves to accept Scott’s bear-hug. “Why?”

“Because you said you wanted him to stay forever,” Vaughn says. “That’s flirting to him.”

“I will never flirt with any of you,” Scott says nobly, still grasping at Shane. “I have standards.”

“Hey!” Ilya protests.

“No you fucking don’t!” Shane says hotly.

He’s not even hugging back, just standing there and accepting it, like he’s the mast and Scott’s the rigging. What does that make Ilya, then? The hull? The barnacles?

“What about Creepy Camera Guy? Or Creepy British Couple? Or that guy with the hair?” Shane continues.

“I would rather chew off my own arm than date a hockey player,” Scott says, still clinging. “Disgusting.”

Ilya develops a twitch in his eye. His contrarian instincts tell him to prove Scott wrong, to seduce him, but he’s in a relationship now, and… and Shane catches his eye. They’re doing this, aren’t they? Flirting with Scott to prove which one of them he’d pick.

Ilya will win, of course. He’s spent twelve years thinking of how he’d wreck that all-American twink, and though the twink is sadly dead, he knows he can win over the hot old man that took his place.

He’ll have to turn him down gently after, of course, and… oh fuck. Why does that turn him on too?

December 14, 2012

Scott’s heart is in his throat as he walks into practice.

The one agreement he’d made with himself was that if he was going to come back to hockey, he was going to do it as himself. No more hiding. No more lying. He had run his plans by his therapist, who had seemed mostly encouraging, and he had not run his plans by tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumbass, because they would probably try to stop him. He’d insisted they spend their last five days together building happy memories, and the pallor of homophobia in the MLH would definitely not have allowed for that.

He just needs to find the right time. Nothing good will come out of—

“Hey Hunter!” shouts Johan Nilsson, their 19-year-old new draftee. “Hollander or Rozanov?”

“In what context?” Scott asks, hoping he had misunderstood.

“Sexually,” Johan says, waggling his eyebrows.

The locker room falls dead silent. Some of the usual homophobic bullshit, probably. Coach Murdock doesn’t tolerate bigotry, so the attitude to gay stuff in the locker room is mostly Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Matti Jalo, however, is looking at him with big eyes, like this is a test that he desperately wants Scott to pass.

It’s a dicey one. As captain, it’s Scott’s job to set the mood in the locker room. He needs to gently chastise Johan for sexualising his fellow players, make it clear that homophobia won’t be tolerated, and… well, he could wait until later to come out, but if he misses his chance now, when will he get another one?

“Well, as a gay man who loves muscular jocks…” Scott says. “I would rather fuck a ceiling fan than do either.”

Johan laughs. Matti does too. Everyone else is staring at him.

“If anyone has a problem with me being gay, please raise your hand,” Scott says, serious, not a hint of judgement in his tone.

No one does.

“Uh, I don’t have a problem, but I do wanna ask – was I supposed to know this already?” Pierre asks. “Because I feel like I would remember.”

“CTE,” Virty coughs.

“Fuck you!” Pierre says, turning in a huff. “You can’t even count to 10!”

“Virty’s always been bad at math,” Vaughny says, spotting the opportunity to break the tension and jumping on it. “But you only just started forgetting everyone’s birthdays, so…”

“It’s not my fault you fuckers are born so often!” Pierre complains.

“Ahem,” Coach says, breaking up the discussion. “All of you, out. Gary will run you through today’s practice. Hunter, Vaughn, Jalo, with me.”

“Yes Coach!” shout two dozen exuberant jocks.

“And no more talking about fucking other players in here!” Coach shouts at their backs. “And if any of you have a problem with Hunter’s love of cock, you can kneel down in the shower and whisper it to your own, because I don’t want to hear a word against it, alright?”

“Bit crass,” Scott says.

“It’s what they respond to,” Coach says. “You good, Scotty? I saw you stepped back from the negotiations.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Just needed a vacation. Much better now.”

“Good, because we’re not fucking slacking this year! The pressure is off, and that means I expect the best fucking performance, alright?”

Scott nods. So do Matti and Vaughny.

“Great. Now, it’s a shortened season, so we have half the time to get the guys into a winning mindset…”

December 15, 2012

Shane keeps staring at the text.

Scott came out. Scott came out. Sure, it’s only to his team, but as far as he knows, it’s still the furthest anyone has ever come in the MLH as it stands. And he just drops it in a text and then doesn’t answer any of Shane’s calls?

Shane gets a facetime call, answers it unseen, looks down eagerly, and… it’s Ilya. He can’t remember the last time he was disappointed to see Ilya.

“What I do?” Ilya asks. “Why you call ten times?”

“Nothing,” Shane says. “Did you see Scott’s message?”

“No, I saw Missed Call: Shane Hollander ten times!” Ilya says. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know!” Shane says.

Ilya has clearly just read the message, because his eyes are wider than Shane’s ever seen them.

“He has terrible phone etiquette,” Ilya says, hiding his anxiety with humour. “He likes scaring us.”

“Wait, if we’re on a call, won’t we miss it if he tries and calls us?” Shane says.

Ilya hangs up at that. What an asshole.

Shane tries to go through his day, but he’s clinging to his phone like it’s stuck to his hand. He eats one handed. He holds off his afternoon nap, even though doing so makes him utterly exhausted. He’s so distracted when mom calls that he has to ask her to repeat herself four times, at which point she asks him what is bothering him. But he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to tell her that Scott is gay, so he has nothing to give her.

When Scott does call, it feels like it’s been days, but only a few hours have passed.

“Hey man,” Scott says, smiling. “You good?”

“No,” Shane says honestly. “What the fuck, Scott? You came out? What did they say? Who do I have to punch? Are you still playing this season? Are they benching you?”

Scott waits out the words – they take all of about fifteen seconds to get out, because Shane is panicking – before replying.

“The team was fine,” Scott says. “Coach Murdock has my back. No benching. I’m pretty sure if they tried that, I could sue the shit out of them, anyway.”

“Did you meet somebody?” Shane asks. “Is that why you came out, because you’re in love? Is it the guy with the claws? Fuck, is it Vaughny?”

“Kid, relax,” Scott says. “Breathe with me, alright. In… and out. In… and out.”

Shane hates being patronised, but he has kind of forgotten what a normal breathing rhythm is, so he copies Scott obligingly. At least he’ll get answers this way.

“No, I haven’t met anyone. No, I am definitely not dating Vaughny. And… I mean, I was talking to my therapist, and it just seemed right. I’ve won basically everything, right? I’ve got nothing left to fear. And I want hockey to be fun again.”

“You weren’t scared?” Shane asks, quieter than he intends. “You didn’t have, like, a plan?”

“Plan?” Scott says, confused. “Shane, people respond to what you give them. If you treat it like it’s normal, so will they. If you treat it like it’s shameful, so will they. If you come up with some detailed plan, all you’re going to do is make it seem like some massive thing, when it isn’t. Or, well… it shouldn’t be, at least.”

Shane thinks about that for a moment. It’s not something he’d considered. He’s so in his head all the time, but Scott’s right – most people seem to just go with the flow, copying whatever those around them say. It bugs him, most of the time, but it’s probably something he can use.

Look at him, leaning to manipulate! Mom will be so proud.

“Anyway, I’ll come out properly when I meet someone, or when I retire, whichever comes first,” Scott says. “But I can’t keep hiding it from the guys.”

“You weren’t scared?” Shane asks again.

“I was terrified, but, I don’t know. Reckless, I guess? Relieved? I’ve never spent so long not hiding it before, and hiding it again feels… I don’t know. Unnecessary? I’m doing You Can Play ads this year, too. I’m not letting anyone take this sport away from me,” Scott says.

Scott seems calm. Open. Settled. Ready and willing to accept his life as someone his entire team now knows to be gay. Not panicking about enforcers conveniently leaving him undefended. Not looking over his shoulder for a media shitstorm or an unexplained assault. Just… peaceful. Younger, even.

“I don’t think I can do it,” Shane says. “Not with the Metros.”

Scott bites his lip. “You don’t have to stay with them if you don’t want to,” Scott says, like he hasn’t been an Admiral since the day he was drafted. “But you don’t have to dive off the deep end, either. Is there anyone you’re closer to? Someone you trust?”

Yes: Hayden and JJ. But what if they hate him for it, or tell the entire team? Have they ever even spoken about gay people in front of him? Jackie is incredibly supportive of everyone and everything, he knows that, and JJ spends half his time in the clubs of Montreal, a half dozen gay men hanging off his arms, but—

“I can see you overthinking it,” Scott says. “Look, they’re your friends. You either trust them at some point, or you never do. Better to rip off the bandaid, right?”

“It’s not the gay thing I’m worried about,” Shane says. “It’s the Ilya thing.”

“Right,” Scott says. “Look, all I can say is, if they can’t put their friendship above their feelings towards Ilya, then they don’t deserve you. But I also know how hard it is for you. So if you’re not ready, don’t force it. And if you need someone there—”

“No need,” Shane says. “That might just make things weirder, like I need a chaperone. But thanks for offering.”

“Godspeed, soldier,” Scott says. “For what it’s worth, there’s always a place on the Admirals if the Metros aren’t supportive.”

“Good luck squeezing those salaries in,” Shane says.

“I have my ways. And Shane?” Scott says. “Thanks for calling. I appreciate it. You get first dibs on punching anyone unsupportive.”

“Thanks!” Shane says sincerely.

1 January, 2013

“You have been gathered today for very important purpose,” Ilya says, striding into his living room in his best tracksuit pants and singlet.

“Fuck off and die,” Sveta says in Russian, barely looking up from the table she’s slumped over on.

“What did we do?” Shane asks from right beside her, horrified, realising he is mostly naked and what little clothing he is wearing doesn’t belong to him. “What did we do?”

Scott, meanwhile, is looking perfectly refreshed. Evil device in hand, now keyboard free and backlit, he’s probably reading one of his stupid, non-Russian murder books. Not being allowed to drink has somehow made him even older.

“Lightweights,” Vaughn critiques, as though he’s not wearing Shane’s t-shirt and Shane his boxers (and the moment Shane figures that out, he is going to be running to the shower, Ilya can feel it). “You barely had, like, three shots of vodka.”

“Sveta had own bottle,” Ilya corrects, defending the honour of his best friend. She thanks him with a middle-finger.

“Whose are these?” Shane says, with dawning horror as he picks at his lap. “I don’t own this brand. I don’t fit this brand.”

“Shane, go shower,” Ilya sighs.

Shane does not need to be told twice, sprinting in the direction of the bathroom. Weird how he has no problem wearing Ilya’s post-coital clothes, but somehow a clean pair of Vaughn’s boxers is a problem?

“Why did we trade clothes?” Vaughn asks, confused. “And why is Hollander bigger than me? Didn’t he used to be a little guy?”

“You both kept throwing up on your clothes, and neither of you packed enough.” Scott says, barely looking up from his fake-literature. “And Shane was just a late bloomer, I think.”

“All hockey twinks die,” Ilya says, sad. “Was same with Hunter.”

“Fuck you,” Scott says. “I was never a twink.”

Shane will be a few minutes in the shower still, so Ilya has time to track down the old photo in one of his drawers. He tosses it at Scott absently.

“Why the fuck do you have this framed?” Scott asks, horrified, as he looks at a photo of himself shortly after his draft.

“You killed him,” Ilya says. “He was beautiful, and you killed him.”

“Wow, look at your hair,” Vaughn says, catapulting over the couch to look at the twink-Scott that the Admirals stole from them all. “So fluffy.”

“Sorry, all those times you called me old, and it was a joke about fucking twink death?” Scott asks. “I developed a fucking complex off those comments! I was looking into so much cosmetic surgery.”

“If you do not shut your filthy man-mouths and let me sleep, I will rip out your testicles and feed them to my horse,” Sveta says tersely. “No talking on New Years! We wash, we eat, we sleep. Then done, da?”

“Is about papa,” Ilya says.

Sveta rises at once, grumpy still but no longer actively murderous. “If you say so, Ilyusha. But I don’t know how the Americans will help.”

“Hey!” Vaughn says. “I’m great with family stuff!”

“I’m not,” Scott says, flinging the photo onto the table with disgust. “I’m going to read this shitty airport thriller until I get to go home, and stay quiet so I don’t permanently fuck up any relationships.”

“You are only reason he is not in Russia now, doing his papa’s pedicure,” Sveta protests. “You need to stay. It is the other Americans I don’t like.”

“Shane is Canadian,” Scott says.

“Canadians are just more boring Americans,” Sveta dismisses. “With worse hair and terrible accents.”

“I don’t think being Canadian impacts my haircut, Svetlana,” Shane says politely, now back to something approaching normal as he towels said hair post shower.

“Okay!” Ilya says, slapping his hands together. “I need assistance.”

“We’re listening,” Scott says, sitting up.

“Papa is very sick,” Ilya says. “He does not know he is very sick. He thinks he is fine. My brother is idiot, and agrees father is fine. My step-mother is not idiot, and knows he is not fine, but refuses to disagree with him.”

“Because she is not an idiot, and knows he won’t listen,” Sveta says.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “None of them want to come to America. I cannot take care of papa here. Alexei – idiot brother – does not want to help papa. Step-mother – Polina – wants to leave Russia for Europe, and does not want to help papa. Papa thinks I still live at home, and calls me every week to tell me to bring things home. Last week, he began… when you can’t say full word?”

“Slurring,” Shane says. “Well shit. That’s… heavy. Do you like your papa?”

“Irrelevant,” Ilya says. “He is my papa. I must take care.”

“Americans do not understand family obligation, Ilyusha,” Sveta says. “They are a greedy and selfish people. It is why we love them.”

“I understand family obligation plenty,” Shane says. “I just don’t agree with it. If someone treats you like shit your whole life, you owe them fucking nothing.”

“Here here!” Scott says. “I vote you find a single nice, poor person in Russia, pay them to take care of your father, and then never speak to him again.”

“Cold,” Sveta says. “But I agree. Get my mother to do it. She is desperate since my papa left her.”

“Your mother is cold-hearted monster,” Ilya says. “She and papa would kill each other.”

“Yes, exactly,” Sveta says. “And then we are both free.”

“Not helpful,” Ilya says.

“Look, Rozy, I don’t think any of us are going to give you the answer you want,” Vaughn says, reasonable. “So why don’t you just… tell us your thoughts?”

Ilya thinks about it. He had decided to seek backup for a particular reason: namely, Scott has shown him exactly what happens when a boneheaded hockey-idiot tries to solve a complex emotional issue without assistance, and he has no desire to become that. But sharing his feelings… his mushy insides… blegh. He does not want it.

“We’re all friends here,” Scott says. “Nothing you say can be worse than anything Shane told us after his third vodka.”

“Wait, what?” Shane asks.

“I do not want to abandon him,” Ilya says. They all quiet, paying attention. “But I do not want to see him. He is not a good man.” Ilya looks to Scott, then. “You told me I owed him nothing.”

“And I stand by that,” Scott says. “I get the feeling of obligation, Ilya, but… this is a hypothetical, okay?”

Ilya nods.

“If you did nothing, what would happen to him?” Scott asks.

Ilya thinks about it.

“Papa would say he is fine, until he walks into car,” Ilya says. “No one will stop him, because they are all afraid.”

And most of them would be happy to see his father dead by hands other than their own, not that Ilya can say that.

“Really?” Vaughn asks. “He can’t be that stubborn?”

“He is Russian,” Ilya says. “He is old Russian. He will die before he admits weakness.”

“Alright, so let’s say you did everything you could to protect his physical safety,” Scott says. “But nothing else. What then?”

Ilya thinks some more.

“Polina and Alexei won’t take care of him,” Ilya says. “But they won’t let the house crumble. They have image to maintain. He will be comfortable enough.”

“So he’ll be fine, is what you’re saying? You just need to find a way to stop him from walking into traffic?” Scott says. “Because you can’t watch him 24/7, Ilya. You can either put him in a care home—”

“Which Alexei and Polina would never allow,” Sveta says. “Looks terrible.”

“Or you can watch him 24/7. But that’s not possible, because you’re one person. Even if you gave up on everything to take care of him, you still couldn’t do it,” Scott finishes.

It’s a brutal analysis, but he’s not wrong.

“Could you take him overseas?” Shane asks. “Not here, but like… you said Polina wants to go to Europe, right?” He says it like Paul-ee-nah, which brings a little smile to Ilya’s face. “That way he can go into care, and you can just pretend he retired to go skiing, or something.”

“Not skiing,” Ilya says, shivering. Simple word association in a Russian’s mind links skiing to Switzerland to suicide. It would mean their good name ruined and Alexei telling anyone who will listen about Ilya’s proclivities. “But is good idea. Okay, idea time is over.”

“Great, so will someone tell me what I said last night?” Shane says. “Because I haven’t forgotten that.”

“You started talking about your dildo,” Scott says. “I asked about the singular, and you said ‘Uh yeah, why would I need more than one?’. I told you about my collection, and I think you thought I was trying to one up you? You got very, uh… sloppy.”

Ilya smirks.

“Oh fuck,” Shane says, looking at Ilya’s face.

Ilya makes kissy faces at him.

“I learned a lot!” Vaughn says. “I didn’t know there were so many ways to have gay sex!”

“I didn’t know Shane Hollander was such a slut, but I had guessed,” Sveta says. “Anyway, New Years! We have to go to the bathhouse. You Americans stay here.”

“I like bathhouses,” Vaughn says. “Why can’t I come?”

Because leaving Scott and Shane alone for two hours is a great way for Ilya to lose the bet, especially after last night’s performance. No one can resist his Hollander.

“No Americans,” Ilya says instead.

February 14, 2013

“Oh, hi?” Scott says, walking into his apartment and confronted with Ilya, in his boxers on the couch. “Shouldn’t you be in Montreal? Valentine’s and all?”

“Imperialist holiday,” Ilya says.

“Weird how every holiday you don’t like is imperialist but eating McDonalds and drinking coke is fine,” Scott says, not for the first time and probably not for the last.

He drops his gym bag beside the couch, irked at the way Ilya is taking up so much space. Why are his legs half spread on the coffee table? He just cleaned that!

“Did you need something?” Scott asks. “Or is this a social call. You’re always welcome! It’s just that usually you… ask first.”

And wear more clothes, but honestly, Scott doesn’t blame him for that one. Living on the top floor means all the hot air from everyone else’s heating crawls through the cracks and turns his home into an uninhabitable swampland. The thermostat reads 64, he might as well be in an oven.

“Social,” Ilya says, cracking his neck and back loudly.

Scott sighs in sympathy. That did not sound good.

“Injury?” Scott asks. “I can rub some icy-hot into your back, if you want?”

“Yes!” Ilya says, eager. “I mean, if you want.”

Scott rolls his eyes, but he gets to work regardless. Scott doesn’t play for another two days, and Ilya’s game against Brooklyn is tomorrow, so he doesn’t mind a little extra strain on his hand muscles if it spares his buddy some pain.

“Did everything work out with your dad?” Scott asks.

As he says it, he painstakingly applies cream to the parts that look sorest. It’s a familiar experience for him, harking back to quiet evenings in the locker room after practice, when none of them can be bothered breaking out the medics for their minor aches, and just start taking turns on each other instead.

“Let’s not talk about my dad,” Ilya says, in a weirdly low-pitched voice. “Let’s talk about us.”

“Are you sick?” Scott asks. “You sound kind of funny.”

He puts the back of his hand against Ilya’s head, and it feels hot.

“Stay there!” Scott says.

“What?” Ilya says. “I am fine, Scott! See?”

Ilya balloons out on the couch, limbs akimbo like a crash test dummy reeling from impact, and he smiles. It’s a warm, open smile, not one of Ilya’s usual smirks, and Scott is now certain something is wrong.

“Open!” Scott says, shoving the thermometer into Ilya’s protesting mouth. 101. “Yep, fuck. You’re sick.”

“No, I run hot!” Ilya insists. “I am fine!”

“You are not fine!” Scott says. “You are going to bed right this instant, young man!”

He doesn’t know where the voice comes from, or the condescending dad-phrasing, but Ilya’s pupils dilate in response. It’s enough for Scott to lift Ilya up and walk him to bed, bridal style.

“At least tell Shane you’re taking me to bed,” Ilya says, back to his grumpy self.

Ilya’s improving English still allows for the occasional double-entendre, it seems. It’s kind of cute.

“I’ll be telling Shane everything that happened today, for sure,” Scott says. “Honestly, you two will be the death of me.”

“Not true,” Ilya complains. “You will be the death of you.”

February 15, 2013

Shane can’t decide what’s funnier: the cold-therapy cap on Ilya’s head, the thermometer trapped between the cap and his cheek for easy access, or the ginormous frown on his face. Either way, he’s cackling like a mad man.

“I’d like to see you try!” Ilya mocks. “Perfect Hollander. Two bottoms don’t make a top!”

“Scott is vers,” Shane says. “And you’re an idiot.”

“Yes, but I am idiot with soup!” Ilya says, holding up an honestly delicious looking bowl. “You are idiot with boyfriend in other man’s bed, and empty sheets!”

Shane looks to his bed, where an extremely drunk Hayden is sleeping off the news of his next impending child, and decides not to correct Ilya.

“I guess all that Russian subtlety wasn’t too useful after all, huh?” Shane says. “Bet you wish you were direct now, you big baby.”

Ilya just glares at him.

March 31, 2013

Shane’s chance to win the bet (a much nicer phrase than spitefully seduce his good friend Scott then immediately dump his ass) requires patience. Good timing. He arranges a dinner. Plans out every detail. Invites Scott over, the day after one of their games, telling him in advance to book his own, later flight back instead of taking the team charter. He doesn’t expect to succeed (is honestly just doing this because Ilya gets bored easily) but he refuses to put anything but his best foot forward.

Unfortunately, Shane did not consider the impact of his idiot friends.

“What the fuck?” Shane says eloquently, upon seeing the tableau.

Hayden, Scott, and JJ look up from his dining room table. Where he did not invite them.

“Your mother let us in!” JJ says. “She said something about us finally meeting your boyfriend!”

JJ is looking at Scott curiously over his wine glass. Scott is smiling obliviously. Hayden is flitting his gaze between Scott and Shane, with a hint of suspicion.

Oh God. What has he done.

“My boyfriend isn’t here,” Shane says, trying to internally prioritise.

Biggest issue: Shane leaps towards the pantry and strategically pushes the trash-can in front of the doors. Hopefully that’ll dissuade any nosing around, though with three hockey players in the next room hungry for snacks and only enough food for two, he’ll need to keep a constant eye on it.

Second biggest issue: food. Everything in the fridge is out. Shane had deliberately chosen a menu of aphrodisiacs, and it was Hayden who sent him that article. At least he doesn’t have to pretend that oysters are food.

There’s got to be a way to get them out, right? This apartment is one big danger zone.

“Ah, I didn’t really cook for four,” Shane says, trying to keep his voice level. “Do you guys mind going out for pizza?”

“We should order in!” Scott says.

Damn it.

“I know Montreal pizza is probably shit—” Scott says.

“Es-tu malade, cave tabarnak?” JJ asks.

“Oi!” Scott says. “C’est toi le malade, connard!”

“Uh, Shane?” Hayden asks. “No comprende?”

“JJ doesn’t like Scott insulting Montreal pizza, and so he insulted Scott. Scott speaks French, and is offended,” Shane sums up. “Such a shame! I guess we’ll have to call dinner early, then, and get these two home, eh?”

“Uh, I don’t think we need to?” Hayden asks.

He points to Scott and JJ, who are now happily gabbing in rapid French. Fuck. So much for that plan.

“Did you know he spoke French?” JJ asks Shane, back to English. “Wait, is this how you always know our strategies?”

“It’s not my fault you call them out in a language half the league speaks!” Scott says. “Am I supposed to shut off my ears?”

“How does a guy called Scott Andrew Ben Hunter learn French?” JJ asks.

“When the Ben is short for Benoit,” Scott says, smug. “My grandfather’s name.”

JJ shoots Shane a look that can only be described as I approve. Oh fuck. They’re going to think he’s dating Scott.

“What the fuck?” Hayden asks, from behind him, and Shane curses, staring at the pantry. Undisturbed, which means… “Shane, you freak!”

Oh fuck. The bedroom.

Shane sprints over, JJ and Scott on his heels, to where Hayden is… oh good. He’s not in the bedroom. He’s in the hallway, staring at the gigantic photo of Scott’s win last season, strategically placed where it’s impossible not to see as you go into the bathroom.

“Why the fuck is this here?” Hayden asks, outraged. “He’s our competition! He beat us, remember!”

“Uh…” Shane says. “Motivation?”

In truth, Shane had read somewhere (on a really creepy website, but the reviews were all positive, and most things people do for sex seem creepy to Shane) that reminding someone of sad times in their life is a good way to seduce them, and he’d figured it couldn’t hurt.

“Wow,” Scott says, staring at it intently. “My hair was fucking amazing that day.”

Mission failed on multiple levels, then.

“We should really order that pizza!” Shane says, high-pitched. He turns straight into JJ, who’s leaning closer to peer at the poster.

It seems to happen in slow motion. JJ topples, backwards onto the open door of Shane’s bedroom. Scott’s hand reaches out, stopping him from a painful fall, but it’s not enough to prevent the door swinging open. Scott is easing JJ up back into a standing position, just in time for all four of them to stare and gawk at the elaborate array of champagne, rose petals, and chocolate-covered strawberries that is suddenly revealed.

Scott grasps the door, firmly closes it, and turns to a now gawping JJ and Hayden.

“Let’s leave Shane his privacy,” Scott says firmly.

It’s the worst possible thing he could say. Hayden is no longer sceptical, he is now looking at Shane and Scott with a mix of relief and joy in his eyes. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Uh, I already ordered pizza,” JJ says, reeling. “It’ll be here soon. Should we, ah… talk?”

“Sure!” Scott says, smiling.

Shane has no choice put to follow his three closest friends (Ilya notwithstanding) back into his dining room.

“So,” JJ says. “I heard that for gay relationships, age is less important, right?”

Shane wants to slam his head on the table.

“I mean, I don’t know if it’s a universal thing,” Scott says, like this is a casual conversation and not an interrogation. “But yeah, I think the idea is, like… you have far fewer people to choose from, especially since so many of us died from AIDS, so the age ranges are wider. Plus, I mean, the power dynamic between a guy who comes out at 20 and a guy who comes out at 40 is different, right?”

It’s a fascinating topic. Shane would love to pick Scott’s brain on it, at any other time.

BANG

How the fuck had Shane stopped paying attention again?

“Uh,” Hayden says, from the pantry, where he is now covered in pink glitter. “What the fuck?”

“Maybe we should go?” JJ asks. “I mean, we got what we needed, right?”

“Pizza hasn’t even come yet!” Scott protests. “Don’t you guys want to eat first?”

“Uhh…” JJ says. “Tell you what. I forgot to get drinks. Do you mind walking around the corner and picking some up? It’ll just take a minute!”

“Sure!” Scott says, accommodating.

Shane slinks to the floor in agony as Scott leaves.

“So,” JJ says. “He’s a bit old, but—”

“I am not dating Scott Hunter,” Shane says.

“Right,” JJ says, sceptical.

“I was trying to seduce Scott Hunter,” Shane says.

“Uhuh,” Hayden says. “You? Were trying to seduce a guy? With roses and champagne? And that guy was Scott Hunter? And he isn’t this boyfriend we’ve heard about? Shane, are you cheating?”

“No!” Shane insists. “It was a bet!”

“You’re seducing the only other gay guy in the league as a bet?” JJ asks. “What would you have done if he said yes?”

“I didn’t really get that far,” Shane says to his knees. “I kind of thought he’d say no.”

“And you thought glitter would help?” Hayden asks. “This stuff will be coming off me for weeks.”

“I saw this internet thing,” Shane says. “It said something about, like, negging? And—”

“Shane, do not go on that website again,” JJ suddenly warns. “And seriously, a bet? Why?”

“He said he wouldn’t date a hockey player,” Shane says. “Said he’d rather chew his own arm off.”

“Fair!” Hayden says.

“Yeah, I’m with Hunter here,” JJ says. “No normal person wants to date a hockey player.”

Shane can’t help glaring at him for that. Unfortunately, JJ is also a smart guy.

“Wait,” JJ says. “You hate cheating. You wouldn’t do a bet like this unless it was with your boyfriend, or he knew about it. And that was the first time you told someone about it, just now.”

“And your boyfriend wouldn’t agree to the bet unless he was a hockey player,” Hayden says, dawning horror in his face. “Because why else would he be offended?”

“And there’s only one guy in the league who’s as ridiculously competitive… oh my God, Shane, are you dating Ilya fucking Rozanov?” JJ asks.

“Yeee-essssss?” Shane says, slowly.

“Is this a bad time?” Scott asks, coming back in with a bag of drinks in one hand and pizzas in the other. He looks like the God of Bros, coming in with big biceps and snacks in both hands to placate the hockey-playing masses.

JJ stares at Scott.

Hayden stares at Shane.

Scott is politely laying the table, opening up pizza boxes, and bringing out plates and cups from Shane’s meticulously organised pantry.

“I was much happier three minutes ago,” JJ whispers.

“Why him?” Hayden moans. “He’s so mean.”

“He doesn’t even speak French,” JJ continues.

“Hunter is way hotter,” Hayden says. “Like, yeah, Rozanov’s hot too, I guess, if you’re into male blonds, but guys shouldn’t be blond after age, like, 8!”

“I agree,” JJ says. “If I were gay, I’d fuck both, but I’d much rather do Hunter. But I feel like Rozanov is equally hot. I’d just have to gag him first.”

“Uh, guys?” Scott says. “Are we going to eat? It’s getting cold.”

“Montreal pizza is served cold,” JJ says.

At least Scott now looks as annoyed as the rest of them do. Shane is never letting Ilya drag him into this shit again.

April 13, 2013

“I do not understand,” Ilya says, for the fourth time.

“Look, it’s a big thing, right? Meeting the parents,” Shane says, jiggling his hands.

“I have met your parents,” Ilya says. “We play Words with Friends.”

“Yeah, but this is, like… official boyfriend meeting,” Shane says. “It’s different. You have to prove yourself.”

“I have proved myself,” Ilya says. “I won with onomatopoeia. I don’t even know what it means, and I won!”

“Yeah, and now dad thinks you cheated, which was not a good start,” Shane says. “It’s fine. We just go in, eat Italian food, and pretend to be a normal couple.”

“We are not normal,” Ilya says. “We have to hide our identities like spies! We are insanely hot hockey players! We are millionaires!”

“Then pretend,” Shane says. “For me?”

“Fine,” Ilya says.

He breaks out his phone.

Ilya is brushing his hair when Scott replies.

Ilya frowns. He knows the second acronym, but not the first. Google informs him that Scott is wishing condolences for his death.

“Fuck,” Ilya says.

June 22, 2013

Shane regretted his decision to host the final watch-party the moment he made it, but he’s the only one of them with enough space in Montreal to accommodate all their idiot friends now that Hayden is remodelling.

“Should have been us,” Hayden is grumbling at irregular intervals.

True, their six-game defeat to fucking Pittsburgh in the Eastern Conference finals is still wearing at Shane, too, but even he’s getting annoyed at the grumbling. And then, like clockwork:

“Gee, if only you hadn’t knocked out the only teams that could beat Chicago,” Vaughny says.

“If you couldn’t beat us, how the hell—”

“If you do not both shut up right this second, I am calling your mothers,” Sveta says.

Hayden and Vaughny freeze, and thankfully obey.

“Why can’t you be more like them?” Sveta asks, nodding at Scott and Marlow.

“Because we’re not gay,” Hayden whispers, getting a punch on the shoulder from JJ.

Scott is laughing at something Marlow is saying, blushing a little. He’s also hitting the booze, which he insists is fine once in a while, but still has Shane mother-henning.

“What does he have that we don’t?” Ilya asks petulantly, arm in a sling, as he stares at one of his best friends flirting with another of his best friends. “Sure, he is big and strong, but so am I!”

“Maybe it’s just that they’re closer in age?” Shane asks.

“Or maybe you’re not as hot as you think you are,” Sveta says.

Ilya throws popcorn at her.

“Oh Cliff,” Scott says, leaning his head on his palm, his elbow on the table as he smiles. “You’re so funny.”

“So is Marlow, like, into this, or?” Shane asks Ilya.

Ilya shrugs.

“Are we going to have to avert a hate-crime?” Shane clarifies.

“You know we can hear you, right?” Marlow says.

“Can’t a guy be nice to another guy?” Scott asks. “Does it have to be flirting?”

“Your tail is wagging,” Ilya grumps.

“Gross, Roz,” Marlow says. “Scott’s a buddy! Sure, I dreamed about it once or twice, but I’m not sleeping with a buddy!”

“Bad idea,” Scott agrees. “Normal people don’t have sex to spite their friends.”

“We already said sorry,” Shane says.

“Through your mother!” Scott protests. “You guys know I have abandonment issues! That could have seriously backfired!”

“Sorry,” Shane says again.

“You are forgiven, Shane,” Scott says. To Ilya: “See, was that so hard?”

“Sorry,” Ilya says.

“Blow me!” Scott replies.

“Why does he get forgiven and I do not?” Ilya asks, incensed.

“Because he’s not a Satanic—” Hayden begins.

“Hey Pike, you wanna pipe the fuck down?” Scott says, changing tack so suddenly it almost loops back to being graceful. “Ilya’s a great guy when you stop holding his rookie season against him!”

“You were bitching him out a second ago!” Hayden protests.

“It’s different, I’m his friend. I’m allowed to be mean,” Scott says.

“I don’t know if you idiots are aware,” Sveta says. “But there is a hockey game happening.”

“Pittsburgh is going to lose,” Scott says. “I know it, you know it, what’s the point in pretending? We all knocked each other out of playoffs contention and let the dregs fight the best of the West.”

“At least it’s not LA,” Shane says. “Or New Jersey. Or Toronto.”

“I wanted to know the end of Pike’s insult,” Ilya says. “Satanic what?”

“It’s Pike, so probably nothing groundbreaking,” Marlow says. “Whore, right?”

“I was going to say delinquent,” Hayden says. “And fuck you too, pal!”

Ilya is googling delinquent on his phone. He reads the definition and smirks, satisfied.

Meanwhile, mom walks back in, beer in hand.

“Nope,” she says, taking one look at Pittsburgh’s defensive line-up and exiting in disgust. “I can’t watch these idiots for one more second!”

It’s the third time she’s had to walk out, but it must be a record for time.

“Seriously, how did they make it to game six?” Sveta asks. “Is it rigged?”

They all turn to Scott, the only one in the room to have won a Stanley Cup.

“It’s not rigged,” Scott says, rolling his eyes. “Chicago just sucks at closing. Shaky hands, all the way down the line. Pittsburgh won’t let them choke this one out, though.”

“If only a better team were in the final,” Vaughny whispers.

“That was a regulation goal!” Hayden says.

“That was offside as fuck!” Vaughny counters.

“Four testicles,” Sveta says, rhetorical. “Four earrings? Two earrings and a necklace? What do you think, Hunter?”

“Please don’t castrate Vaughny,” Scott says. “He’s a nice guy.”

“What about me?” Hayden asks.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to get fixed?” Scott asks.

“That’s not what a vasectomy is!” Hayden says.

“Oh hey!” Shane interrupts. “Chicago wins. Huzzah.”

“Thank God,” Sveta says, turning the tv off in disgust. “What’s for dinner? I need to wash the bile out of my mouth.”

August 17, 2013

“I could have been in Spain,” Ilya says. “I could have been in sunshine with Scott and Vaughn.”

“It’s not that bad,” Shane says, like he’s not wearing four layers of jackets in mid-summer. “Just a little nippy.”

“Yes, I can see both of your nipples,” Ilya says. “It’s that cold.”

“You like my cottage!” Shane says. “What does Spain have that I don’t?”

“A tan,” Ilya gripes.

“You’re just a big whiny baby inside, huh?” Shane says. “I don’t get why I love you.”

Ilya freezes.

Shane panics.

“I mean, I… fuck.” Shane has no excuses. It may have slipped out, but correcting himself would be a lie, and he hates lying. “Look, you don’t have to say it back.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya says. “I love you.”

Shane’s face splits into the biggest smile he’s ever felt. He feels a warmth in his chest, an openness in his lungs, like breathing in deep after the longest run of his life. He’s clutching Ilya tight, but he can’t get any purchase on his skin, because he’s wearing four fucking layers of jackets.

“Fuck sake,” Shane says. “Let’s go inside.”

“Small problem,” Ilya says, gesturing expansively at the lake. The lake around their boat, no shore in sight. “Where are we?”

Shane frowns. “Why didn’t we go to Spain again?”

Ilya glares at him. It’s a loving glare, Shane thinks.

“The sun sets in the West…” Shane says.

“Which way is the dock, Shane?” Ilya asks. “West is meaningless!”

Shane needs to get Ilya home now, and he’s not fucking about with this bullshit any longer than he needs to.

“I mean,” Shane says. “Some people huddle for warmth, right?”

Ilya stares at him, pupils dilating. “Okay,” he says, shedding layers immediately. “But no lube, so only blowjobs.”

“There’s lube in my pocket,” Shane admits.

“I love you, my little freak,” Ilya says, launching on to him and laughing.

October 6, 2013

Scott doesn’t know where he is.

Now, that’s not a big deal. He’s a New Yorker, he’s always a short subway ride to his home in Chelsea. Moreover, he’s still in the city itself, so finding out where he is shouldn’t be hard.

No, the issue is that he’d gone on a quick run before his game today and, on a whim, had decided to try his therapists advice of listening to music instead of a podcast. It’s been a good start to the season, so he’s hesitant to break any of his rituals, but as Jessica keeps reminding him, the rituals are a bad idea, actually. So he’d popped in a playlist of his favourite songs, and ran. And ran. And ran. And eventually, it seems, lost track of time, because his phone is almost flat and it announces that it is no longer mid-morning.

Four hours. He’d run for four straight hours. Admittedly, he’d wanted to, so he tries not to feel too guilty about it. Feeling guilty for doing thing he enjoys is the number one thing Jessica has tried to address in sessions. Still, it’s undeniably a stupid decision.

It’s fine. He’s a fit guy, one long run won’t kill him. He’ll just try to go a little bit less hard tomorrow, and conserve his energy for the rest of the day. That means two things: food, and a ride home.

His driver asks him where he is, and all Scott can think to do is walk to the nearest recognisable shopfront – this one is in red and blue, so that should do it – and spout it at him.

His next step, finding food, is also solved by the shopfront. They sell smoothies, it seems, and Scott will need something easy and digestible now, and a bigger meal later.

Bemoaning his incredibly sweaty appearance, Scott decides to go in quickly, get his drink, and go. It’s a good plan, and— Scott’s brain shuts off for a second.

The smoothie guy is asleep, clutching a big book reading ART HISTORY (gee, I wonder what that’s about). He’s in a silly hat and an ugly brown apron, clearly worked to the bone.

He’s also, somehow, the single hottest guy Scott’s ever seen. Maybe it’s the four hours of running making his sex-drive go into conniptions, or maybe it’s the curly hair poking out under the cap, but there’s a !!!! flashing in Scott’s brain. He needs this man. Biblically. More than he has ever needed anyone or anything.

He coughs, gently, and wakes the guy up. Gets a nice recommendation – blueberry with extra banana. What comes out is more juice than smoothie, but it’s delicious juice. Sweet, tart… almost as irresistible as the man making it.

Scott shakes himself. Hands the guy a fifty, and walks outside to await his driver. But he’s already mentally pencilling in another visit to this place tomorrow morning.  

Chapter 7: Pride and Precarity

Chapter Summary

Scott tries to woo a smoothie barista, and to show gratitude for those who have helped him. He's... mostly successful.

Chapter Notes

Hello fans, old, new, and threads-recommendation derived!

First things first: for those of you who wish to speak to me outside of the comments, which I have fallen well behind on replying to, you can find me on tumblr at epexegetical.tumblr.com

Second: my apologies for the delay. This chapter fought me, and I also had some personal stuff to deal with. But, in the spirit of Jacob Tierney, here is your Skip bottle episode, and I hope the next chapter will be here quicker.

7 October, 2013

“How do you find out if a guy is gay?” Scott asks.

Svetlana blinks owlishly at him through facetime. It’s 11 in the morning – he can’t have just woken her, surely?

“I met a guy,” Scott says, redundantly.

“You?” Svetlana says. “You met someone?”

Scott doesn’t really appreciate the scepticism in Svetlana’s tone. Sure, it took him until age 31 to find someone he has even the slightest romantic interest in, but he’s always been capable! His life has always been really busy, even before the closeting thing!

“His name is Kip,” Scott says.

“Not very Russian,” Svetlana says. “Russian names are longer.”

“Uh, okay,” Scott says.

“You should date someone Russian. Better at hiding the body when you snap and kill your pawnbroker,” Svetlana says.

“You know, I have read Crime and Punishment,” Scott says. “I know exactly what that implies, and I do not appreciate it.”

Nice man, rescues orphans out of burning buildings, goes crazy in isolation and loneliness and murders people because he thinks he’s special. It’s a shockingly unkind metaphor, honestly, but he knows now that unkindness is probably unintentional. Svetlana probably thinks Raskolnikov is a tragic hero, and that his only flaw was not being tough enough to commit to the murders.

“Fine. But I’m not kidding about the Russian thing. I can find you Russians. Gay Russians, bi Russians, Bolshoi Russians, ballet Russians. Belorussians,” Svetlana trails off.

Scott waits.

“Damn it,” Svetlana says.

“Out of ‘b’ words, huh? Back to the point, then? How do I find out?” Scott asks.

“Why are you asking me?” Svetlana asks. “Why not one of your gay men friends? I’m not some gay savant.”

“Because, much as I love them, they’re all bad at this,” Scott says.

“Worse than you?” Svetlana asks.

“Shane didn’t even know he was gay until he was in his twenties, after ten years of jacking it to thoughts of me,” Scott says. “Ilya thinks he has perfect gaydar, but he fully thought I was straight until he overheard me saying otherwise, and how long did it take you to clock me?”

“Ten minutes, when I was twelve, but Ilya spotted it quickly too! He just convinced himself it was wishful thinking… so yes, probably good you didn’t ask him. What about Razumikhin?” Svetlana strokes her chin as she speaks.

“Vaughny?” Scott asks, before continuing at Svetlana’s nod. “Slightly less offensive metaphor, I guess… well, Vaughny probably would be able to tell, he’s weirdly good at it, but he’s still overprotective since the… incident. He’d show up at Straw + Berry with half the Admirals to ‘scope it out’ and scare Kip off.”

“Straw + Berry being…” Svetlana asks.

“Smoothie shop. It’s where he works,” Scott says.

“I hate it, it’s so disgustingly cutesy,” Svetlana says.

“Focus!” Scott says.

“Give me a minute!” Svetlana says.

Scott looks at his watch, counts out exactly sixty seconds, then looks back at the screen.

“Is this him?” Svetlana asks.

Scott fumbles the phone as the notification chimes, dropping it straight onto his nose. Ow.

“You need to trim your nose hairs,” Svetlana comments.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Scott says. “How—”

“His name is Christopher Grady, he lives in Brooklyn, and he is both gay and single,” Svetlana says.

“Jesus, how did you get all that?” Scott asks.

“I checked his Instagram, you fucking moron,” Svetlana says. “There are three Kips in New York and only one of them is hot enough to get you this stupid. His profile reads Brooklynite, 25, forever alone, rainbow flag, gay man pride flag.”

“Oh,” Scott says.

He wasn’t aware you could do that, honestly, but he was taught to not use his real name on the internet or a secret cabal of perverts would find his address. Kip is of a different generation, clearly.

“So what’s the plan?” Svetlana asks. “Three dates, kiss on the first, sex on the third?”

“Do I really have to wait that long?” Scott asks.

“If you don’t want him to know how much of a slut you are, yes, that is the custom,” Svetlana says. “Though your sluttiness is one of the more normal things about you, so it might balance out the rest…”

“Why are you so mean today? I’m starting to wonder if you even like me!” Scott says.

“I like you immensely, Scott, but you’re stranger than Shane and Ilyusha combined and it is grating this early in the morning,” Svetlana says.

“Well that’s just uncalled for,” Scott says.

He’s never tried to seduce anyone with glitter bombs or by jerking off in front of them! He’s a weird little freak, sure, but they’re worse.

“What’s the colour scheme going to be for your wedding?” Svetlana asks.

“Well, Admirals red for me, and…” Scott trails off at the horror on Svetlana’s face. “You were testing me, weren’t you?”

“At least ask him out before you take his name, freak!” Svetlana says. “Also, Admirals red is disgusting for a wedding, what is wrong with you?”

11 October, 2013

Scott is a tight ball of anxiety as he steels himself to enter Straw + Berry for the third time.

Last time, he had told Kip he’d come back for a superstition, which was… at best half-true. Mostly, he had wanted to see Kip again, but framing it that way was a little less creepy. As a bonus, it introduced Kip to Scott’s wonky brain in a way that didn’t make him seem like a serial killer, and which wouldn’t destroy his career if TMZ was secretly recording... or if Kip sold him out.

That was four days ago. Scott hasn’t been mobbed on his way to Straw + Berry. He’s noticed no uptick in articles about his mental health or vague allusions to him ‘getting fruity in a Manhattan smoothie bar’. Kip has more than enough to make a killing, selling rumours and gossip to some tabloid – especially with the Olympics coming up, the only time America cares about hockey, and Scott having just been named captain, earning a flurry of unwanted attention – but he hasn’t. And it’s so, so stupid, but Scott is taking this tiny data point as motivation to trust Kip fully.

Still, Scott’s nervous, and thus far from his best. After he buys his smoothie, he asks Kip if he can sit, as though the restaurant isn’t full of seats for exactly that purpose. When he realises the stupidity of his own question, he has to resist the urge to smack his head against the tiled counter he’s leaning against. He has no real reason to be here, so he ends up doing BuzzFeed quizzes, glancing up at Kip periodically. He accidentally makes eye contact, panics, and blurts out some weird crap about serial killers, which definitely breaks Svetlana’s implied advice to keep his crazy to a minimum. He can’t help it. Scott tries to subtly inform Kip that no, he doesn’t have CTE, promise, but it turns into some weird conversation about playoff rituals and he’s making vaguely unkind jokes about Kip not knowing science and… God, it’s a disaster. Scott’s just about to get up and throw himself into a volcano when Kip, blessedly, interrupts him.

“And by the way, I’m not complaining about the whole no shaving thing. You all look like hot lumberjacks by the end of May,” Kip says.

Scott is… absolutely floored. That’s flirting. That’s the classic reel: a vague allusion to being gay, to being attracted to Scott, that is just vague enough for plausible deniability if Scott gets weird or violent. Somehow, in spite of his weird rambling, Scott has managed to catch Kip’s interest.

He’s trying to control his face, stop it from doing anything weird, but he’s also smiling in what must be a frightening fashion. Whatever his face is doing, though, Kip seems to relax at the sight of it.

“Hey, so—” Kip begins.

“Do you want to come to my game?” Scott blurts out. “Shit, sorry, I interrupted—”

“I would love to,” Kip says.

“And…” Scott pauses. “I have two seats, so you can bring a friend, if you want. But, maybe… dinner after?”

Kip smiles at him, perfect teeth on full display.

“And by the way,” Scott says, suddenly feeling brave. “This is me asking you out. On a date.”

“Thanks for the confirmation, Scott,” Kip says. “I would love to watch you get hot and sweaty while you play with your massive stick, and then get dinner after.”

Maria walks in from the store room immediately after, and Kip blushes adorably, though there’s no chance she heard him… probably. Actually, based on her smirking face, she probably did, but oh well. Can’t win them all.

“What did you talk about?” Svetlana asks, in their debrief.

“I am going to be completely honest with you, Svetlana, it was a mess,” Scott says.

“It can’t have been that bad, if he said yes,” Svetlana says reasonably.

“I told him about my thing for murder books—” Scott says.

“What the fuck is a murder book?” Svetlana asks.

“You know, true crime, thrillers, whatever,” Scott says. “Anyway, then he asked about playoff rituals and I basically pinky swore that I don’t have CTE.”

“And he liked that?” Svetlana asks.

“Apparently,” Scott says.

“Are you sure he’s not a serial killer?” Svetlana says.

“Yes,” Scott lies.

In reality, it’s less sure he’s not and more wouldn’t mind if he was, because he could run me over and I’d say thank you, but he doesn’t want Svetlana to get concerned. He could probably take Kip in a fight. Probably.

“Maybe it’s like microdosing. You show him a little bit of your crazy at a time, instead of dumping him into the ice bath,” Svetlana says.

Scott likes that explanation. Sure, his therapist would probably call it negative self-talk and say there’s nothing wrong with you, Scott or whatever other crap he pays her to spout at him, but he knows the truth. Scott Hunter is not okay, he never has been, and the survival of his relationship with Kip depends on at least passably feigning sanity for long enough to… well. Put his best foot forward? Provide enough redeeming features to balance out the rest of it? Scott doesn’t actually know what those redeeming features are, but the best people he knows all care about him, for whatever reason, so there must be some. Or maybe they just like him for his good looks and his hockey skills…

“Why do you like me?” Scott asks.

Svetlana frowns at him.

“Oh God, do you not—”

“I hope you’re not bringing this self-loathing on your dates, Scott,” Svetlana says.

Fuck. The only thing worse than a “I secretly hate you” speech is a “you should be nicer to yourself” speech. Scott abandons the line of questioning entirely.

“Anyway, the game, any tips?” Scott asks.

Usually he’d die before asking for advice (this is hockey! It’s what he’s best at!) but he does not want another kumbaya ‘love yourself’ speech unless it’s being delivered by Kip, and ‘self’ being loved is Scott’s dick. Svetlana gives him a look that informs him she sees right through his attempts at distracting her. Fortunately for him, they’re playing New Jersey, and Svetlana fucking hates New Jersey, so it still works.

“New Jersey’s goalie is injured,” Svetlana says instead, and Scott tunes in carefully.

Scott skates towards the benches holding his seats, and nods at Kip. Kip doesn’t respond.

He slides over, in a wide arc, and salutes this time, hoping this one will elicit a response. Nope.

He tries a third time, waving, and this time, Kip does wave back! Hurray! His friend (Scott really, really hopes she’s just a friend, but Svetlana is not infallible, so who knows) waves too, a little.

“We’re playing a fucking game, bro,” Vaughny complains, as they stretch out on the ice. “Focus.”

“There’s a hot guy in my seats,” Scott says.

He’s grinning through his lunges, but making sure to angle his face down, just in case a camera is pointed this way. Why hadn’t he told Vaughny, again? He should be telling everyone! He got Kip to wave at him!

“Wait, what?” Vaughny asks. “He just walked up and took them? Dick move!”

“No, I gave them to him,” Scott says. “He’s my guest.”

“Really?” Vaughny asks. “What’s his name?”

“Kip,” Scott says.

“Well isn’t that just fucking adorable,” Vaughny says. “What does Kip look like? Fuck, which seats are yours, anyway?”

Vaughny begins scanning the crowd, like he can find a single guy in a crowd of thousands when the only description available is ‘hot’.

“You’re being very conspicuous,” Scott comments, as he slides into a core stretch.

“You were waving like an idiot, fuck you!” Vaughny says.

“Excellent choice, Scott,” Matti says, sliding up. “He looks very sweet. Lovely hair.”

“How the fuck has Matti seen him before me?” Vaughny hisses.

“Sorry, I assumed, since he was in your seats,” Matti says. “They’re right next to mine. My brother will be watching today, he’s not here yet.”

“Does your brother also look like a Hemsworth?” Vaughny asks.

“See for yourself,” Matti says. “Slowly.”

“You first,” Vaughny says to Scott. “So I know where to look.”

Scott subtly, carefully cranes his head to look at his seats. Kip is smiling at him, clearly having already been looking his way before Scott had even glanced over. Kip’s friend had not, but notices Scott’s gaze immediately. Worrying. There’s enough intelligence and cunning in her gaze as she looks at him that he knows she’s not anything romantic to Kip, because no person who’s into men can look at all of Scott, Vaughny, and Matti without even a shred of lust. Between the three of them, they cover all tastes. Does Kip have his own Svetlana? That’s entirely too many Svetlanas.

Matti’s brother, beside Kip, is huge and insanely hot, but so is Kip, if you ignore the 10-inch height difference. It’s actually kind of gratifying, that Kip can be sitting right next to Matti’s supermodel brother (Scott calls him Liam in his head, because Vaughny has the fucking Hemsworths on his mind) and still focus on Scott.

“Alright, you can look,” Scott says, drawing his eyes back.

“Fuck me, your brother is huge!” Vaughny says.

“He’s single, if you’re interested?” Matti offers.

“Tempting, but I have a girlfriend,” Vaughny says. “And Kip looks cute too. He’s staring straight at you! I don’t think he’s even noticed me.”

“Alright, head back in,” Scott says.

“I’m waiting for him to notice me,” Vaughny says. “Oh shit.”

Vaughny wheels his head straight back in.

“What?” Scott asks.

“His scary lesbian friend just flipped me off,” Vaughny says.

Scott really should have put some effort into logistics when he planned out this date. Like organising a place for Kip to meet him. Or getting his phone number. Or not scoring a hat trick, because it takes him fucking ages to get out of press, and it’s almost deserted by the time he does.

Still. Two hat tricks in three games is nice. Doesn’t happen often. If only it didn’t mess up this far more important game, which hasn’t even started and is already 0-1.

Scott is half hoping that Kip will have somehow joined the camp of press waiting to greet him as he exits the stadium, but he is not. Fuck. What is he gonna do? He finds a quiet alley to think about his options, but it’s sketchy as fuck and—

“Hello,” says an apparition.

“Fucking hell!” Scott says.

He clutches at his chest, as the terrifying spectre emerges from the shadows.

“I don’t have any money!” Scott says.

“Fuck off,” the spectre says.

She continues to come closer. Scott always harboured vague thoughts about becoming Batman, but he never thought he was going to become Batman’s parents.

“Please don’t kill me! I finally have something to live for!” Scott says.

“I’m Kip’s friend,” Joe Chill says, before stepping under a street light and confirming her story. Thank God. Those would be terrible last words.

“Oh,” Scott says.

“You’re an idiot,” Kip’s Friend says.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. “Where’s Kip?”

“I’m Elena, by the way,” Elena gripes. “God, I hate men.”

“All of us?” Scott asks, before shaking his head. “Where’s Kip?”

“Ask a third time, maybe—” Elena says.

“Where’s Kip?” Scott asks.

“He’ll pop up like Bloody Mary,” Elena finishes.

Scott looks around. No Kip. Should he look behind the dumpster? Oh God, is he dead? Did Elena mug him and dispose of him in some other alley, and Scott caught her in the act?

“He’s at Bloody Mary,” Elena says. “The restaurant? It’s right down the street.”

“Thank you!” Scott says. “Do you want my watch or something?”

“Why would I want your watch?” Elena asks.

“So you don’t have to mug anyone else,” Scott says. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You’re such a little bitch,” Elena says. “You’re perfect for him.”

“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” Kip says.

Scott is sliding into his seat as Kip says it, their smiling hostess, dead behind the eyes, leading him to the seat. Scott notices at least four sticky patches that his shoes catch on in the short walk to the seat, and between the red-blue lighting and the vaguely haggard look of the entire clientele, he honestly feels more sketched out than he did in the alley.

“Neither did I,” Scott says. “I got mugged in an alley on my way here.”

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Kip asks.

“No. Your friend Elena is scary,” Scott says.

Kip laughs. Score! 1-1 now.

“I can’t believe I didn’t give you my number,” Scott says.

“I can’t believe you’re even into me,” Kip blurts out.

“I’m so into you,” Scott says. “You’re amazing.”

“You barely know me,” Kip says.

“I know I want you to crush my head with your—”

“Are you two ready to order?” a waitress interrupts.

“Thighs,” Scott finishes.

“I’ll give you a few more minutes!” the waitress says, undeterred.

“Thanks for the compliment,” Kip says, not meeting Scott’s eyes.

“Hey,” Scott says, reaching out and grabbing Kip’s hand. “You’re insanely hot, yeah, but I’m surrounded by hot guys all the time. Well, two or three. Most hockey players are kind of ugly.”

“Even before they lose their teeth,” Kip agrees.

“But I like you, Kip,” Scott says. “You’re funny, and sweet. I’m not just after a hook-up, here.”

“But you’re not out,” Kip says. “I would have heard if you were.”

“I’m not… not out,” Scott says. “My team knows. It’s just, you know. No one wants to be the first.”

“Won’t you need to be out if you start dating people?” Kip asks.

“No,” Scott says. “I could walk arm in arm with Matti Jalo and make-out with him on the beach, and the papers would still call us ‘good friends’. The MLH is good at burying bad press… when they want to.”

Scott’s tone gets a little bitter towards the end, but he can’t quite help it. He’d spent years fitting the perfect MLH mold in his press conferences, his actions, his fucking charitable contributions. He knows that fucking NY Post article could and would have been buried if it was about anyone else in the league, but because exploiting Scott’s trauma is such a consistent money spinner, for the press and the league, he got fucked. Again. He shakes his head to clear the dark thoughts, anyway. No point dwelling.

“I saw that article, a few years ago, after you won the cup,” Kip says. “You should have sued. They basically stalked you.”

“I should have,” Scott admits. The bit about how often he visits his parents’ grave had definitely taken the article from inappropriate to stalkerish, so he’d probably have had a case. “But I was super fucked up back then. That was before I went to therapy.”

“You’re allowed to go to therapy?” Kip asks.

“As long as I keep quiet about it, sure,” Scott says.

“That just your life, then?” Kip asks. “You can do whatever you want, but you have to keep quiet about it?”

“Kinda,” Scott says. “I mean, I could talk about it. Nothing’s stopping me. It’s just… why would I want everyone to know exactly what’s wrong with me? Guys would chirp, the press would gossip… it’s just easier not to talk.”

“Alright, if you two don’t order soon we’re gonna have to take your table,” the waitress says.

They’d only turned her away once, and she said she’d be gone for a few minutes but disappeared for fifteen, which is almost enough to stave away that little bit of discomfort that Scott gets whenever he feels like he’s being criticised. Almost. Mostly, though, he has to bite back the urge to stammer out an apology. He hasn’t even looked at the menu, but he did notice the specials board as he walked in, so he blurts out the only thing he remembers.

“I’ll have the wagyu, rare, and a coke,” Scott says.

“Me too,” Kip says. “Thank you.”

The waitress wanders off, without taking any notes. Scott hates it when they don’t write stuff down.

“I’m paying, by the way,” Scott says. “In case that wasn’t clear. So feel free to go nuts on dessert.”

“Oh?” Kip asks. “Why are you paying, Scott?”

“Because I asked you,” Scott says.

“Alright,” Kip says. “Then I’m asking you on the next date. And I’m paying.”

“Your funeral,” Scott says. “I eat like a pig.”

“So do I,” Kip says. “But that’s good for me. The cheaper the restaurant, the bigger the portions.”

“Please don’t give me food poisoning,” Scott says.

“No one is getting food poisoning, you fucking Manhattan snob,” Kip says. “I bet you think you can’t step foot into Brooklyn without catching dysentery.”

“Hey, I’m just saying!” Scott says. “And I love Brooklyn, actually! It’s where I lived when I first moved here, in Dumbo.”

“Dumbo is basically Manhattan,” Kip dismisses.

“Now who’s the snob?” Scott asks.

The waitress drops their steaks in front of them from a height, sliding away. Their drinks are still absent, and the impact of the drop has half of Scott’s fries sliding off.

“She didn’t even give me a knife,” Scott says.

“Either she’s a homophobe, or she’s an Angels fan,” Kip says. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we shouldn’t tip.”

“You monster,” Scott says.

“Being bad at her job is one thing, but she’s being rude! I would never treat a customer like this!” Kip says. “At the very least, you should tip her a normal amount, not a fifty.”

“I only carry fifties,” Scott says. “In a clip. It makes me feel like Batman… oh shit.”

“What?” Kip asks.

“When I thought Elena was mugging me, I told her I didn’t have any money,” Scott says. “That was fucking dumb.”

“I’m sure she won’t hold it against you, Bruce,” Kip says. “Do you have a butter knife?”

“Nothing. What am I supposed to do, eat it with my hands?” Scott asks. “I’m so hungry.”

“Hold on,” Kip says.

He rises, and departs. For long enough that Scott starts to wonder if he’s been ditched. Figures. He’s fucked up every part of this date so far, and he’d probably shown too much interest in his food or something.

Scott is just thinking about paying the bill when Kip comes back, with a blonde woman in tow.

“Hi!” says the woman, looking harried and haggard, but with a steak knife in hand. “Kip told me about Stacy: I’m so sorry about her, she’s new. I’m happy to fetch your drinks now, if you don’t mind the wait? And of course, a knife for you.”

Scott doesn’t hesitate to start devouring his steak the moment he receives his blessed utensil, drinks be damned.

“You know, most people don’t order coke with steak,” Kip says.

“Most people are stupid,” Scott says. “Why do I gotta pretend to give a shit about wine just because I’m spending three hundred dollars on a steak?”

“That is not a three-hundred-dollar steak, Scott, it’s $35,” Kip says.

“Really?” Scott asks. “Huh.”

“You have absolutely no understanding of money, do you?” Kip asks. “Do you even invest, or do you just have $100 million in a bank account at Chase?”

Scott hesitates.

“Oh my God, you do?” Kip asks.

“Not a hundred million!” Scott says. “More like… fifty…”

Kip shoots him a staggeringly judgmental eye.

“I have way more money than I need!” Scott says. “But I also need to be prepared, in case I get injured! And what happens if I have a family, and I gave away all my money betting on stocks? They’ll starve!”

“You could buy bonds,” Kip says. “Just as safe, but higher returns.”

“I don’t know what that means and I don’t want to,” Scott says. “I have enough money, why risk it getting more?”

“That’s—”

“You cheating bastard!” their first waitress, Stacy, screams from the kitchen, the entire restaurant falling silent. “You worthless son of a whore! How dare you? She loved you! She was in love with you! I knew you didn’t deserve her!”

“Oh,” Scott says. “It wasn’t about us at all.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but can we just leave the money and go eat somewhere else?” Kip asks. “This place is fucking weird.”

“You want to go to a secondary location with me?” Scott asks.

“Uh,” Kip says. “Yes? New Yorkers might pretend not to recognise you, because we’re nice, but they’d definitely notice you murdering me.”

Scott flicks back a few fifties on his clip out and, at Kip’s judgmental eye, puts a few back until he receives a begrudging nod. He leaves them on the table, puts a glass on them to pin them down, and nods at the second waitress.

They’re walking into the late evening chill, hands in their pockets, when Scott’s guilt bubbles up in his throat and bursts out.

“I’m sorry,” Scott says.

“What for?” Kip asks.

“I’ve kind of fucked up this date,” Scott says. “First with forgetting to give you my number—”

“You still haven’t,” Kip says.

“Oh fuck,” Scott says. “And then that fucking restaurant, too… I was trying so hard to get things right and I fucked it up.”

Like I always do, he just barely keeps himself from saying.

“Hey!” Kip says. “You did fine! Any fuck ups you made were mine too, remember? I picked the restaurant! Mostly because everywhere else was ridiculously expensive or full, and I kind of thought you'd want a sit-down place, but still.”

“I’m sorry,” Scott says. “I should have reserved something.”

He raises his cupped hand in the direction of Kip’s face and, at his unspoken invitation, slides it in to grasp Kip’s jaw.

“I really wanted to make today nice for you,” Scott says. “You deserve it.”

Kip blushes. Well, at least Scott can still do that. Or maybe it’s just his hot hands, and Kip is melting. Scott loosens his already feather-light grip to just a few fingers, but the blush stays. Scott Hunter, 2, city of New York and its determination to ruin his happiness, 1.

“I know a burger joint,” Kip says. “Way less… that. It’s right nearby. Do you maybe want to just get some burgers and milkshakes?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “I do.”

13 October, 2013

Scott is so pleased at his magnificent performance with Kip, ending with a chaste kiss on the lips and walking him home, that he pulls one out on the ice, too. It snaps Boston’s ten game winning streak, and it takes a great deal of effort on Scott’s part not to launch into a backflip after his sixth point.

“Hey Hunter!” Ilya calls, from where he is consoling his team (with ‘I love you’s’, the absolute weirdo). “Too bad there’s only one of you, eh! Still only 6-5! Without you is 5-0!”

“Go fuck yourself, Ilya,” Scott shouts back.

“Why, you want to watch?” Ilya asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Cliff laughs. No one else does. A few of the Raiders don’t even bother to hide their disgust, but Scott doesn’t know if that’s homophobia on their part, or if they know Scott is gay and think Ilya’s being homophobic. Probably the former, but Scott is an optimist.

“I’m good, bud!” Scott says.

Yeah, they may be struggling to find wingers after trading them all away (it turns out ‘we always have a few waiting in the wings’ was based more on superstition than reality, and they’re now all taking a turn on the right wing since Huff was traded, Scott included) but they’re still doing okay! They have a good core. They’re not as good as Boston this year, but they’re not actively bad.

Scott passes his stick off to someone in the Boston crowd, and they thank him for it, even though they’ve probably spent most of their lives burning his jerseys and cursing his name.

He heads back into the locker room and, for the first time in a very long time, he breaks one of his rituals. He checks his phone before he hits the showers, and sees a single text. “Good thing you won. I would hate to have to kick you out of your adopted home.”

Scott smirks, and starts planning his return volley as he heads into the shower.

14 October, 2013

“Guess hockey’s your thing again, huh?” Shane asks, completely expressionless.

Scott doesn’t reply. The 3-2 win is the first time Montreal have lost at home to Scott’s Admirals since… well, since the Admirals’ successful Stanley Cup run, and all that followed. Shane getting antsy at losses is nothing new, and whilst Scott had hoped it had changed now that they’re so much closer, he knows that hockey will always be Shane’s top priority, and Scott maxes out at fifth, depending on how Shane is feeling towards Hayden or JJ at any one time. And right now, Shane is dealing with an angst that Scott knows extremely well: a team that keeps just falling short of where they should be, whilst he delivers hall-of-fame goals every game.

“Whatever,” Shane says, sliding off in a huff.

“He alright?” Vaughny asks, sliding over to take Shane’s place, as is his new custom. Scott veers between finding the constant checkups charming and annoying, depending on the day.

“He’s fine,” Scott says. “I can’t apologise for winning, and he’d hate me for trying, so the best we can do is just leave him alone.”

Vaughny gets a look on his face, at that. Ah. Right.

“Shane and I are very different,” Scott says. “You can’t handle us the same way. Just ask Ilya, he’s the expert.”

“On what?” Vaughny asks, as they head into the tunnel. “Undiagnosed mental illness?”

Scott stares blankly at him.

“Too soon?” Vaughn asks.

Scott rolls his eyes and elbows Vaughny in the side. The walk to the locker room is spent on the same kind of stupid pushing and shoving that Scott had worried would die forever once his team knew he was gay. Once again, he thanks his lucky stars that he got drafted to the most inclusive team in the league.

“How’s the boyfriend?” Vaughny asks.

“Not my boyfriend,” Scott says. “Yet.”

“Scotty’s on the hunt!” Lewie shouts from Scott’s right, perforating his eardrums.

“Yeah, Scott, you pound that guy!” Pierre says, smiling so tightly and uncomfortably that he might as well be frowning. “Go gay people?”

Scott takes it back. He’d rather he was on literally any other team.

15 October, 2013

Scott can feel his heart pounding out of his chest as Kip extols the virtues of Scott’s beautiful apartment (now complete with a bit of soul and life, since he ripped out the beige wallpaper and had it replaced with nicer tones).

Three dates before sex, Svetlana had said. Technically, they’ve achieved that. The disastrous first date at Bloody Mary, the second, nicer date at the burger joint, and today. It’s a tenuous claim, since two were on the same day, but if they include the smoothie bar and Scott’s games, they might even be at like… seven or eight. It’s definitely enough that, if Scott wanted, he could take his shirt off and offer Kip a trip to his bed.

He doesn’t. He needs to do this right, and whilst he’d love to ride and/or be ridden by Kip today, he’s not going to get anywhere by rushing.

“What were you feeling?” Scott asks. “Still Mexican?”

“Uh,” Kip says. “Maybe something a little less… messy?”

Scott frowns – Mexican food isn’t messy! – until he reads between the lines. Kip doesn’t want to eat Mexican because he wants Scott too, and Mexican is an unideal pre-sex food.

Scott grins.

“Uh, maybe some salads? Protein?” Kip asks.

“And carbs too, right?” Scott asks. “Just so we have energy to burn?”

“Sure,” Kip says, not meeting his eyes.

Fuck. Too eager. Scott thinks it through as he puts in the order. How can he get this back on track? What’s the normal thing to do when you invite someone over?

“Want a drink?” Scott asks. “I have everything.”

“Straight vodka,” Kip mutters under his breath.

“Coming right up!” Scott says. “I assume you want the good Russian stuff, not the crummy Grey Goose?”

“In what universe— no, I want the Grey Goose!” Kip says. “Who’s picking Russian vodka over that?”

“I have a Russian friend,” Scott says vaguely.

He doesn’t really want to think about Ilya when he’s imagining the terrible things he wants Kip to do to him. It feels weirdly incestuous.

“Well, I’m half Russian, and I will take the Goose,” Kip says. “Figures your friends would also be snobs.”

Scott snorts. He could describe Ilya a lot of different ways, but snob is… actually, it’s weirdly fitting, but he can’t say that.

Kip laughs back, a little awkwardly, then self-censors. Scott can see the recrimination on his face, knows it immediately, because his face does the same thing.

“Is there something wrong?” Scott asks. “Do you…”

Scott feels a little bit of bile at the back of his throat, but he swallows it down and continues.

“There’s no pressure,” Scott says. “If you want to have sex, we can. If you want to drink, and eat, and go home after, you can. If you want to leave and never come back… I’ll live, but I really hope you don’t.”

“I just don’t get it,” Kip admits. “You’re you and I’m… me.”

“Look, I know athletes have a reputation, but I’m not like that, I swear,” Scott says. “And maybe I’m not the smartest—”

“Scott, no,” Kip says. He keeps glancing up at Scott, and then back down, like he can’t hold Scott’s gaze. It’s worrying. “That wasn’t an insult. You’re… I mean, how much did this place even cost?”

“About two years’ salary,” Scott says, trying to keep the desperation from his tone. “Look, I get it, we’re different, right?”

“Very,” Kip says, toying with his glass.

“But not completely,” Scott says. “We’re both anxious as fuck right now, right?”

Kip laughs genuinely at that one. It’s the encouragement Scott needs to push forward. But he hesitates. He could go all out: tell Kip that he wants him to stay, that he doesn’t care how rushed it is. But he doesn’t want to frighten Kip away, especially when he’s already so skittish, so he settles on a partial truth instead.

“I feel safer around you,” Scott says. “I feel like… no matter what happens, I can trust you. And that’s… not something I’ve had a lot of in my life.”

Kip is still toying with his glass.

“Please say something,” Scott says.

A knock on the door. Their food. Scott, waiting a moment more just in case Kip responds, finds himself rising sadly.

He collects their food, and tips generously, because it always makes him feel a little better to see the joy it brings. It’s a fucked-up world, and Scott is glad he can make it a tiny bit easier, some of the time. But right now, with the sting of rejection so very fresh, he’s just annoyed he has to. Annoyed that he gets paid millions to hit a puck with a stick, while people like Kip – and this delivery guy, probably – are breaking their backs for a pittance.

He turns, and collides into Kip, a mountain of muscle who steadies him, eyes burning with determination.

They kiss. Not the simple, chaste goodbye kiss of Friday night: a proper one, deep and back-bending. Scott can taste a little bit of vodka on Kip’s lips, along with a vaguely citrussy flavour that tells him Kip was snacking on the orange cakes at the gala. No wonder Scott couldn’t find any.

Kip withdraws eventually, and Scott tries not to swoon in his arms.

“Dinner first,” Kip says. “But then… I think I want to take you apart.”

“Yes sir,” Scott says, instinctively, before blushing slightly. “I mean, yes Kip.”

“No,” Kip says. “I like sir. Stick with that.”

16 October, 2013

Scott can tell something is wrong the moment he wakes up. It’s dark. It’s also cold. Scott has managing his body temperature down to a science, and he had deliberately picked a single blanket knowing he’d have another warm body beside him.

Kip’s gone. It’s fine. This is normal, right? They may not have made any plans for the fourth date, but Scott has Kip’s number on his phone.

Still, Scott sends a text, just in case.

Hey Kip. Had a lovely time today. Just hoping you got home safe?

The message reads sent. Not delivered. Scott hesitates, because he knows his brain can take him to dark places sometimes, but he googles what it looks like when you send a message to a blocked number. It fails to send, right?

It doesn’t. Heart in his throat, Scott calls Kip’s number. It rings once. Then straight to voicemail.

Well. So much for that, then.

20 October, 2013

“Scott!” Svetlana says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Just in the area!” Scott lies.

He has his best, fakest smile pasted on. He knows she can read through it, knows she must understand the sheer improbability of him being in Boston the day before a home game, but he hopes she’s nice enough not to mention it.

“Scott—”

“I wanna throw a party,” Scott blurts out. “For Shane and Ilya, you know? I always miss their birthdays, because they’re right in the middle of playoffs, and I figure they deserve something nice. Can I come in?”

Svetlana looks sceptical, but she opens her door wide, and Scott ducks inside. He lets his fake smile slip immediately once he’s through the door, and the threat of paparazzi is well and truly extinguished. Svetlana’s place is extremely nice, which he always appreciates. She, unlike Gremlins 1 and 2, understands the value of keeping a neat space.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Svetlana.

Scott shakes his head. He’s not sure he can, not without crying, and he refuses to cry over something so fucking stupid. He knew Kip for, what, two weeks? It’s far from the first missed connection in his life, and whilst it is the first time he’s been outright cut off, it’s still no excuse for being such a little bitch about it.

“Do you want to cry about it?” Svetlana asks, not unsympathetically.

Scott shrugs. He could cry about it, sure, but he doesn’t want to.

“Alright,” Sveta says. “Why do you want to throw a party?”

“I told you—” Scott says.

“You lied,” Svetlana says. “You can say whatever horrible things you want to me, Scott Hunter, you can deflect, you can evade, but I will not accept lies. Not from my friends.”

Scott sighs.

“I… was, until quite recently, the happiest I’d ever been,” Scott says. “And… I mean, it’s because of them.”

“Really?” Svetlana asks. “They went to therapy for you, did they?”

Scott rolls his eyes.

“If not for them, I wouldn’t be here,” Scott says. “I would have crashed out, given up. And if not for me… well, they’d be fucking fine. Married by now, probably. Out, for sure.”

“Are your delusions always steeped in self-hatred, or only when you get dumped?” Svetlana asks.

Scott flinches, hard, and Svetlana looks immediately guilty.

“I just want to give back,” Scott says. “And focus on something happy, for once. I’m so tired of being… I don’t know. Do you ever feel like a liability?”

“No, friendship is very different to liability,” Svetlana says.

“I lean on all of you way more than any of you have ever leaned on me,” Scott says. “It’s not equal, and it’s not fair. I can’t fix that, but I can show my gratitude in other ways.”

“Gratitude for what? Friendship isn’t pity, either,” Svetlana is getting impatient, he can tell.

“You’re misunderstanding me,” Scott says.

“Then explain it better.”

Svetlana’s arms are crossed, her face is pulled into a scowl, and he knows enough of her, by now, to know when her anger is hiding concern. Scott closes his eyes, thinks hard, and just blurts out the closest thing he can to complete honesty.

“I just want them to feel as happy as I did,” Scott says. “Because they’re my family, and I love them, and just because I’m miserable doesn’t mean they have to be.”

God must be smiling on him today, because it works.

“That’s what you should have said to begin with,” Svetlana says. “I can accept mushy.”

23 October, 2013

“Monogamy looks good on you, Cap!” Virty says. “I’ve never seen you play so well.”

“No monogamy,” Scott says.

“Oh, shit, sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed,” Virty says. “I know a lot of gay—"

“No,” Scott says, louder than he intends, and Virty immediately looks embarrassed, ashamed. Fuck. “There’s no man. I fucked it up.”

Virty looks uncomfortable. Figures. Nobody wants to talk about feelings in a locker room. Vaughny is looking over from the shower he’s just emerged from, but Scott sends him the most pleading look he can muster, and Vaughny halts.

“Forget it,” Scott says, to Virty. “It’s fine. Like you said. I’m playing better than ever, right?”

After all, hockey is the only thing he’ll ever be good at, the only thing that’ll ever provide a speck of meaning to his miserable life. If his personal life has to be an unmitigated disaster, at least his professional life can be a success.

“Scotty,” Virty begins.

“I’ll see you at practice,” Scott says, storming out.

25 October, 2013

Six games undefeated. Scott’s therapist would tell him to mark the moment, to buy himself something to celebrate, but all he can think of is blueberry banana smoothies, and his stomach churns at the thought.

28 October, 2013

A loss, at last. San Francisco is looking good for the final this year, and West Coast matches always take a toll on the body.

Scott isn’t upset. At least, no more than he already is. It’s just a game, after all.

3 November, 2013

“Alright!” Vaughny says, barging in. “You have been moping for long enough!”

Scott looks up from his couch, where he is lying in his boxers eating chunky monkey ice cream. Great. Another fucking intervention.

“Fuck me,” Vaughny says. “You look like Bridget Jones.”

“Thanks, Vaughny,” Scott says.

“Look, man, I don’t know what happened—” Vaughny says.

“Neither do I,” Scott says. “It was going so well. And then he left.”

“Maybe he didn’t mean—” Vaughny says.

“He blocked my number,” Scott says. “That seem like an accident to you?”

Vaughny sighs, and shakes his head. Scott’s eyes are drawn back to his ice-cream, but his eyes snag on something else on the way down.

“What’s that?” Scott asks, nodding at the tote bag slung loosely in Vaughny’s hands.

“Well…” Vaughny says, before pulling out a pint of cherry garcia. “Great minds think alike?”

“Or maybe we’re just the least masculine hockey players alive,” Scott says.

“Oh yeah, nothing says masculinity like refusing to wash your ass and thinking sending flowers to your ma is gay,” Vaughny says.

Scott curls up his nose.

“Who’s not washing their ass?” Scott asks.

“Nobody on the Admirals,” Vaughny says. “But there’s a reason Comeau always smells fucking rank. Come on, what are we watching?”

Scott nods at the screen, where Meryl Streep is singing ABBA and reminiscing about her slutty European days, before responsibility shackled her down, and her true love tragically betrayed her. He was just about to skip forward to the bit where she finds out it was all a misunderstanding, because he needs a happy ending right now.

“Oh cool, I've always wanted to see a White movie,” Vaughny says.

11 November, 2013

“Good game,” Shane says, dead behind the eyes.

“You too,” Scott says, probably no more enthused.

Shane’s eyes flash, rage at Scott’s apathy, probably, but he just shakes his head and storms off.

As has become his habit, Vaughny slides over right after, playing babysitter once again. Scott doesn’t feel resentful, exactly – knows Vaughny still feels guilty about last time, and is over-correcting – but he’s also not in the interest of spending his every night crying over ice cream and watching Mamma Mia. Three times is more than enough.

“Still not over him, huh?” Vaughny asks.

“It’s so fucking stupid,” Scott says. “It’s been almost a month. I knew him two weeks. Why am I still upset?”

Aren’t these stupid drugs supposed to make him happy? Scott wants a fucking refund.

“You still feeling up for the party?” Vaughny asks.

“Party?” Virty asks, tilting his head sideways like a dog lapping up a puddle.

“Maybe we should start spelling it out so he can’t hear us,” Vaughny says.

“Hey!” Virty says. “Fuck you too! Why aren’t I invited to the party?”

“It’s in Ottawa,” Scott says.

“Ew,” Virty says. “Okay, never mind.”

16 November, 2013

“And I know eventually we’ll be togetherrrrrrrrrr,” Scott slurs into the microphone.

“One Sweet Dayyyyyyyyyy,” Ilya chimes, his accent somehow even stronger when he’s singing than when he’s not, but his voice surprisingly melodic.

Scott loses track of what’s happening for a moment, and when he regains his balance, the microphone is being taken out of his hand.

“Oh, I was’unna to do another!” Scott says.

“You’re done,” Svetlana says.

“But—”

“My ears, Hunter!” Svetlana takes the microphone and pokes him in the direction of Ilya.

“She used to says I was a good singer,” Scott says, sadly. “Did I fuck that too?”

“When sober, your voice is beautiful,” Ilya says.

“I think’m a better singer when drunk, ackshually,” Scott says.

“I disagree, but is okay,” Ilya says.

Scott is dropped gently onto a beanbag, because they’d had to organise a dozen extra seats short notice and this seemed easier. Shane is looking judgmentally on from his own adjacent beanbag, sipping what looks very much like a ginger ale in a garnished and mini-umbrella’d cocktail glass.

“Are you supposed to be drinking on your meds?” Shane asks.

“Sorry, ma,” Scott says.

Then he stops, and looks at the sky.

“No, we’re not fucking doing that today,” Shane says.

“Shane!” Ilya chides. “He is upset.”

“What else is new,” Shane mutters.

Scott pokes Shane in the face. Shane turns to him with a glare.

“Are you angry with me?” Scott asks, suddenly sobered.

Shane deflates.

“No, sorry,” Shane says.

“No,” Scott says. “You should be angry. This is supposed to be your party, and I’m fucking it up. God, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Shane says. “This is actually kind of fun. I had no idea Vaughny was so good at dancing.”

“He’s good at everything,” Scott says.

He’s trying hard to focus, even though he’s maybe nine whiskies deep and his eyes are crossing.

“You two are good?” Scott asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says.

“Eh,” Ilya says.

“Because I love you both so fucking much,” Scott says. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. You’re both so fucking… kind, and generous, and, and…” the word escapes him for a moment.

“Sober?” Shane guesses.

“Innocent!” Scott says. “You should have stayed away, but you didn’t. Even though you knew what a fucking wreck I was.”

“Was? You still are,” Shane says, but this time, it’s with his teasing smile instead of his glare, so Scott just smiles back.

“I used to just bottle it up and shout it at the sky once a year. I didn’t cry for… so long.” Scott says.

“Do you miss it?” Ilya asks.

“God no,” Scott says.

“Well, you’re allowed to cry on Ilya as much as you want,” Shane says.

Ilya rolls his eyes.

“Thanks, but I’m not gonna do that,” Scott says.

“Hey!” Vaughny calls. “Shots, shots, shots!”

“Please don’t—” Shane says.

“What harm could it do?” Scott asks, and Shane relents.

Five minutes later

“Why don’t he want me?” Scott sobs into Ilya’s shoulder.

He can vaguely hear Shane’s I told you so in the background, but he’s too busy soaking up Ilya’s lovely warm shoulder with his tears to care.

“Whad’I do wrong?” Scott asks.

“Look, this happens,” Ilya says.

“But why?” Scott sniffles. “Is so sad.”

“You will find someone better,” Ilya says. “I can find, if you want?”

“Not the gay Russian thing ‘gain,” Scott moans.

“I am bisexual,” Ilya says, sounding slightly offended.

“No, the… oh, never mind, ask Svetlana,” Scott says.

“You ask Svetlana for advice? Svetlana? Not me? Svetlana?” Ilya asks.

“She’s smart,” Scott says.

“You went to evil bisexual Russian and it is not me?” Ilya asks.

Ilya is pulling away the crying shoulder. Scott watches its departure in misery.

“No puppy eyes! This is wrong!” Ilya says.

“Sorry,” Scott says, miserable.

Ilya inhales deeply, once or twice, before seeming to decide something.

“Is fine,” Ilya says. “I can fix.”

Scott is extremely worried by that. He’s about to say so, but Ilya offers the crying shoulder again, and Scott is content.

“Shh, Scott, is nap time,” Ilya says.

Scott doesn’t quite know how he missed nap time, he loves nap time! But he follows the instruction, because he’s a good boy. He could be so good, if people would just let him.

17 November, 2013

Scott wakes in a warm bed, two advil (that he has recently discovered he cannot actually take) and a glass of water on the bed-side table.

He recognises it shortly after: this is his old room in the cottage, where… oh God, how much did he drink last night?

He blearily trudges into the kitchen, not bothering with a shirt, hoping everyone else has cleared out by now.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Yuna says.

“Mrs Hollander!” Scott says, covering his nipples shamefully with his palms.

Yuna looks at him, utterly unimpressed. He notices that Svetlana is sitting beside her, a mug of something dark (hot chocolate, maybe?) in her hands. She, too, is staring at his pitiful attempts at modesty with eminent judgement, and Scott drops his hands in response.

“Do Ilya and Shane know you two are making friends?” Scott asks.

“They have other priorities,” Yuna says.

“How are you?” Svetlana asks.

Scott takes stock. He has a fucking horrible headache. His mouth feels like something has crawled into it and died. His eyes are crusty, his nausea is immense, and he’s pretty sure his skin isn’t supposed to get this red when he drinks. But…

“Hungover,” Scott says at last.

“And?” Svetlana asks.

“And that’s it,” Scott says.

“And Kip?” Svetlana presses.

“It sucks,” Scott says. “But… I guess it’s fine? I mean, I’ll meet someone else. I think I might be over it?”

Scott is actually a little impressed with himself. No public meltdowns, no dramatic denouement, just a few weeks of ice cream binges and a single day of getting drunk. He’s growing. Pretty soon, he may even be able to go back out there, and try the vicious, constant rejection that he’s pretty sure awaits him in online dating.

Svetlana and Yuna share a look, however, and Scott realises there’s more to this story.

“What?” Scott asks.

“I swear we tried to stop them,” Svetlana says.

Svetlana is wearing a long-suffering expression. Yuna, meanwhile, looks like she’s a half second away from cackling manically.

“What…” Scott starts, but then he trails off. He knows that look on Svetlana’s face. He’s worn that look, many a time. “Where are Shane and Ilya?”

“New York,” Svetlana says.

“Where is Cassanova?” Ilya asks the idiot stoner at the counter.

“Whuh?” Idiot Stoner says.

“Listen,” Ilya leans over the counter, fingers the name-tag, and thickens his accent deliberately, “Yeff, we need to find your friend Kip.”

“Kip doesn’t work Sundays,” Jeff says.

“Then call him and say is emergency,” Ilya says, impatient.

They did not drive seven hours in the dead of night, on next to no sleep and with Shane judgementally rejecting every snack Ilya brought with him, to go home defeated. Kip will answer for his crimes.

“A… smoothie emergency?” Jeff asks.

“Jeff, fuck off!” calls a voice from the back, and Idiot Stoner Jeff wanders off, replaced by a shorter woman in an apron.

“What do you… oh shit, you’re Ilya Rozanov,” the new person says. She comes close enough for Ilya to read the word Maria off her breast, attracting a glare from Shane.

“And me,” Shane says. “I am also here.”

“Did Kip sleep with your boyfriend? Because if so, he’s really sorry about it, probably, but I’m not bringing him here for you to attack him for it,” Maria says.

“Kip committed grievous crime,” Ilya says.

“Kip fucked and dumped a friend of ours, and he’s really cut up about it,” Shane says.

“Semantics,” Ilya says.

“Kind of important semantics, we’re not cops,” Shane says.

“Look guys, I would love to help you with… whatever this is, but Kip is a nice guy, and I can’t really let you murder my one competent coworker,” Maria says. “You can murder Jeff.”

Maria pauses, like she’s expecting Jeff to chime in. The sudden silence allows Jeff’s snores to hit their ears.

“Seriously, I’ll help,” Maria says.

“Have you tried putting a frozen banana in his work bag?” Shane asks. “It’ll melt while he’s at work, and then everything in there will be ruined. Plus, when he sticks his hand in there later, he’ll be so grossed out, but too embarrassed to go to HR, because he won’t remember if it was his fault or not.”

Ilya side-eyes him for that.

“It’s how I get the guys to stop bringing weed to practice,” Shane says.

“When is Kip’s next shift?” Ilya asks.

“Uh… I am not sure I want to tell you that, but I can offer you a delicious strawberry kiwi smoothie?” Maria says.

Ilya thinks on it.

“What are the macros?” Shane asks.

By the time Scott gets back home, he knows he’s at least five hours behind Shane and Ilya, and is dearly hoping his one attempt at romance hasn’t ended with a homicide.

He knows Straw + Berry is closed, at any rate, and he hadn’t thought to call someone on the team until he was already on the plane, so he’s just hoping for the best.

Scott storms into his own apartment like a SWAT team, arms in karate pose, fully expecting a crime scene.

He sees, instead, Shane playing Scott’s ancient Playstation 2 whilst Ilya mopes.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve fucked and dumped before, Ilya,” Shane says. “Hi Scott!”

“Hi Shane,” Scott says, weary. At least they haven’t killed anyone.

Shane jumps sky high.

“Scott! You’re home!” Shane says.

“Uh, yeah? You just said hello to me?” Scott says.

“Not real you,” Shane says.

“What…” Scott’s eyes catch the screen. “Oh fuck off.”

Shane is playing MLH 2004. His little avatar walks up to a frowning Scott, 21 years old, who immediately breaks into a horrifying cartoon smile and says ‘Welcome to the Admirals! We’re happy to have you!’ before frowning again. Scott has tried so very hard to erase that fucking character model from his memory banks. Why is he so polygonal?

“Where did you even find this?” Scott asks.

“Vaughny’s place,” Shane says. “It’s where we went after we finished up at the smoothie shop.”

“Finished up… please tell me you didn’t kill Kip?” Scott says.

“He wasn’t working today,” Shane says.

Scott breathes a sigh of relief, but it’s quickly cut short, because—

‘Welcome to the Admirals! We’re happy to have you!’ Creepy Game Scott repeats.

“Please stop,” Scott says.

“It’s so funny, though,” Shane says.

‘Welcome to the Admirals! We’re happy to have you!’

“We failed you,” Ilya says.

His arms are crossed, and though his tone is flippant, Scott can tell he’s genuinely upset. Poor guy. Scott takes a seat beside him on the couch, and tugs him in.

“Ilya, bud,” Scott says. “I appreciate the assist, I really do, but some battles aren’t yours to fight.”

“He broke your heart!” Ilya says.

“Yes, but that’s my cross to bear, not yours. You don’t see me playing relationship counsellor for the two of you, do you?” Scott asks.

“Pretty sure a relationship counsellor is supposed to know what they’re doing,” Shane says.

“Cheap,” Scott says.

“True,” Shane retorts.

‘Welcome to the Admirals! We’re happy to have you!’

“I am going to break the fucking screen,” Scott says.

“There’s a split screen multiplayer,” Shane says. “We can play each other?”

“Can we do literally anything else?” Scott asks. “Unless you have to leave… Ilya, don’t you have a game tomorrow?”

“Is fine, is against Brooklyn,” Ilya says.

“And if you don’t stat pad against them, how are you going to get most goals this year?” Scott asks.

“I mean, I will sleep here,” Ilya says. “And then tomorrow, I will find Kip.”

“Please don’t,” Scott says. “Look. You had that whole… thing, with Sasha, years ago, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya says.

“If that hadn’t crashed and burned so spectacularly, would you be with Shane now?” Scott asks.

“Probably would be three-way,” Ilya says.

“I wouldn’t touch Sasha if it cured world hunger and brought peace to the Mid-East,” Shane says.

Scott looks up, because Shane’s voice is now coming from an entirely different part of the room, and notices that Shane is now scanning Scott’s drawers for something else to play. Thank God. He makes a mental note to smash that copy of MLH 2004, and maybe to buy every copy of it that exists and bury them in the Nevada desert.

“The point is, we’re all here now, we’re all happy, so why don’t we just enjoy our unexpected day together instead of dwelling on past romantic missteps?” Scott says.

“We could discuss Shane’s romantic missteps,” Ilya says.

“Jessica and I broke up fairly amicably,” Shane says.

“She has blog post where she calls you neurotic neat-freak with no fashion sense,” Ilya says.

“Hence the ‘fairly’,” Shane says. “Please don’t drink today, Scott. You get very floppy when you’re drunk, and lifting you to bed last night gave Ilya a sore back.”

“Did not!” Ilya says.

“Did you enjoy your party, at least?” Scott asks.

“It was nice,” Shane says.

“Would have been better with gifts,” Ilya says.

“You did get gifts, I just had them sent to your actual homes,” Scott says.

Ilya and Shane’s eyes light up.

“No, I’m not telling you what they are,” Scott says.

Shane deflates.

25 November, 2013

Scott hovers outside the entrance of Straw + Berry for at least ten minutes before he musters up the courage to enter.

Maria looks up, worried.

“Blue Moon Over Brooklyn, please,” Scott says. “Extra banana, if possible?”

“Ah, sure,” Maria says.

Scott waits patiently as the cup is filled. Maria hands it out to him with a frown. He tastes it: still watery. Still delicious.

“Kip—” Maria says.

“No,” Scott retorts, and Maria says nothing more.

He hands her a fifty, anyway.

“Oh, you’re not supposed to tip anymore,” Maria says.

“Call it our secret,” Scott says. “And uh… just so you know, I’ll be here next home game day, too. And all others. In case… any arrangements have to be made.”

“Noted,” Maria says.

12 December, 2013

“Your parents would be so proud. Especially your mother,” Tom says, that ingratiating, presumptuous smile on his face.

“If you say so,” Scott says.

His eyes scan the crowd, seeking an escape, as Vaughny visibly holds back the urge to slap their aging GM. Scott’s eyes almost miss Kip’s, but somehow, they both manage to turn at exactly the right moment to be staring right at each other.  

Scott can’t handle it, actually. Being done with Kip was easy when he thought they’d never see each other again, and tipping his toes into Straw + Berry had seemed so brave at the time, but there’s a sick little feeling in his stomach, and Scott suddenly needs some air. He says as much to Tom and Vaughny, and though he hates making Vaughny’s attempts to hold in his rage that much harder, he’s not sure he can stay in here. He pushes out into the antechamber, a quiet little place occupied only by two bouncers and a few drunk couples, and then into the cold air of the side entrance, the smell of cigarette smoke his only company as he takes a seat on the steps. The side gate is locked, so it’s not really ‘outside’, but it’s as close as he can get to fresh air, and he feels the heat in his face fade in the brisk November air.

At least, his only company for a moment or two. It could be anyone who walks through that door – Scott can’t see their face, after all, only hear their heavy, anxious steps – but somehow, he knows.

“Hey, Scott,” Kip says.

Scott doesn’t reply.

“Just, uh, wanted to see how you were,” Kip says, awkward. “I know you—”

“You know fuck all,” Scott says.

“Right,” Kip says. “I’ll just… go…”

“Yeah, you’re great at that,” Scott says, under his breath.

Kip clearly hears him, though, because instead of leaving, he joins Scott on his step.

“I owe you an explanation,” Kip says.

Scott agrees, but he’s not sure he wants to hear it.

“I panicked,” Kip says.

“Cool,” Scott says. “You’re forgiven.”

“You seemed so… fucking perfect, and I didn’t want—” Kip says.

“Are you actually giving me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech?” Scott asks. “For fucking real?”

“I’m sorry,” Kip says.

“You were the first person I ever had the slightest bit of interest in, and you cut me off,” Scott says. “It hurt like a bitch, but I survived. So what the fuck do you want now, Kip?”

“The first?” Kip asks.

“Oh fuck you,” Scott says, rising in a huff.

Kip stops him with a hand, and though Scott hates it, wishes he could toss Kip’s hand away and leave, he’s frozen in place, instead.

“I regretted it the minute I left,” Kip says.

“Then why did you?” Scott asks.

“Because why did you want me?” Kip asks. “I’m a 25 year old fuck-up with no real job, a fuckload of student loans from a degree that I’m never going to use, and I literally cater the events you attend as a guest. I don’t know what fucking drugs you were on—”

The door opens again, and Vaughny pokes his head out.

“Hey, man, you’re up in ten, just making sure you’re good?” Vaughny asks.

“All fine,” Scott says, smiling falsely at Vaughny.

Vaughny clearly wants to stay, but, maybe in deference to Kip, still clutching Scott’s hand, or maybe just because he knows how difficult these things are for Scott, he ducks his head back in, closing the door behind him.

“Brintellix and gabapentin,” Scott says.

“What?” Kip asks.

“The drugs I’m on,” Scott says. “Brintellix and gabapentin. One’s for my depression, and the other’s for my pain, though it helps a little with my anxiety, too. Neither do much for my OCD, but everything else made me feel like I was dying, so…”

“That’s…” Kip trails off.

“I don’t know what fucking pedestal you’ve put me on in your mind, but I’m just a fucking person, Kip,” Scott says. “And as a fucking person, how do you think I felt when you fucked me, left me, and then blocked my number, all in the space of about six hours?”

Kip doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Whatever,” Scott says, dropping Kip’s hand again.

“I never wanted to leave,” Kip says.

“Yeah, you’ve said,” Scott says.

“No, I mean I wanted to never leave,” Kip says. “I wanted to stay forever. I wanted to burrow into your arms and just… stay there. Stop applying to grad school, stop going to work, just let you pay all my bills and be your sugar baby.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Scott asks.

“Because it wouldn’t be real!” Kip blurts out. “It would have been a fucking lie. An escape from all the things I’m fucking up. And eventually, you would have realised you could do better than a fuck-up with nothing to offer, and then I’d be fucking nowhere, because I gave it all up to be with you!”

Now Scott’s the one who doesn’t know how to respond, because that’s… so far from what he expected that he’s kind of stunned.

“You’re fucking perfect,” Kip says. “And I’m not. So unless you’re looking for a housewife, I don’t think this is going to work.”

Scott rolls his eyes so hard he’s convinced they’re going to fall out of his head.

“I am emotionally reliant on two twenty-two year olds who each live four to five hours away from me. My only family are those two, a guy on my team who is also way younger than me, and a terrifying Russian woman who only tolerates me because of her best friend. I’ve had three concussions. I can’t buy a fucking breakfast bagel without the New York Post writing about it. I’m about to go to fucking Russia as a closeted gay man, and I’ve made all my money from hitting a little disc with a stick. If that’s your definition of fucking perfect, then you’re so fucked up… but still not as fucked up as I am, because I have diagnosable problems that I am only just starting to fix,” Scott says.

And on that, Scott wanders into the antechamber, fuming, to deliver a speech he’s pretty sure he’s going to botch.

“Scott!” Tom says. “I hope you know I didn’t mean anything by it!”

“Not now, Tom,” Scott says. “Speech now.”

The crowd are already lining up, ready to hear Scott present his trauma on a silver platter for their consumption. As Scott nods to the usher and gets introduced, he can see Kip sliding back into the room.

“If anyone here has already heard my sob story… well, you’re in luck, because I’ve decided to change things up this year,” Scott starts.

A few startled laughs. A worried look from Vaughny. But it’s Kip’s blank face that Scott looks into as he speaks.

“When I was twelve years old, my parents got hit by a drunk driver,” Scott says.

He pauses for a moment, allows it to sink in, and continues.

“They died instantly. Their killer didn’t. He spent two weeks on life support, in what I’m told was an unbelievable amount of pain, before eventually passing in the middle of a sixteen-hour surgery. When they told me that, afterwards, it was the first time I’d actually believed in God,” Scott says.

Silence from the crowd. A few shocked titters. Scott doesn’t see any pearl-clutching, but he’s sure it’s happening inwardly. He also sees a few people nodding in agreement.

“Because during those two weeks after my parents died, I discovered that grief isn’t a moment, it’s a lifestyle,” Scott says. He looks directly at Kip, again. “My home, where I’d lived since I could remember, was sold off, the proceeds put into a trust that I couldn’t access until I was 21, by which point I was already a multi-millionaire. The only family I had left told me in no uncertain terms that they blamed me for my parents’ death. So I went into foster care, where I learned that love is a priceless currency, and, like all other currencies, it was one I lacked.”

The offense is fading in the crowd, replaced by a kind of pity. Scott hates pity, but he’ll take it, right now, because it means he won’t get pulled away by security for being a bad Catholic.

“That’s when I received the St Thomas Scholarship,” Scott says. “I was plucked from my foster home by a charity that I’m told had only heard of me that week, because the hockey scouts who’d been eyeing me since I was nine were worried my career would end before it would begin. And with that scholarship, I entered a new life. A new family. My days were spent doing everything possible to be the best hockey player I could ever be. My upstate accent slowly turned Canadian, a little, though I think I’ve got it back?”

A few chuckles. Mostly, though, the crowd is too captivated to respond. Kip is starting to cry. Vaughny too.

“My peers, I was told, would become my brothers… except no one wants to deal with a crying orphan, least of all a bunch of twelve-year-old boys. I taught myself to be quiet, to shut the fuck up and do as I was told, so I could get… the smallest echo of the love that my home had been filled with, from teachers, mostly. It wasn’t enough,” Scott says.

Scott could hear a pin drop, now. This isn’t the usual gala speech, the classic things were shit but then they were fixed, give us your money! This is different. This is, as Kip would put it, fucking real.

“And so things went,” Scott says. “The years passed. I made the draft. I got rich. I tried to buy back my old house, in Rochester, but it had been auctioned off and rebuilt. There was nothing left of the place I knew. I convinced myself that I was fine, and to the rest of the world, that’s what I was. The perfect gentleman, philanthropist, exceptional player, whatever… except I wasn’t. I was 28 years old. I had no friends, no family, nothing except mountains of cash I had no idea what to do with, because it didn’t feel earned. Money didn’t make me happy. It just gave me an excuse to hide my misery, to pretend I was fine, because I didn’t think I had a right to be sad.”

It’s funny how Scott can tell exactly who in the crowd can fill the ‘conflicted nepo baby’ role, just by the reactions to that statement.

“I was speaking to the memory of my parents in empty rooms in the dead of night, because there was no one else to talk to,” Scott admits, and now he’s crying a little, too. “And somehow, a miracle happened. Someone – two someones, in fact – reached out a hand, and helped me. They made themselves my family, the family I craved, that I hadn’t had in so very long… and it’s funny. Because for years, I would come up here, on this exact podium, and talk about how hockey became my family. How the St Thomas Scholarships gave me that. And it’s not untrue. I wouldn’t be where I am today without that scholarship, without hockey, without this life. I would, probably, have been one of a million foster kids, ending up in a living hell without doing anything to deserve it. Being blamed for my trauma, instead of being helped.”

A few guilty shuffles, now. Scott is sure this speech will be a big money spinner.

“But in the end, it wasn’t just the scholarship,” Scott says. “It was the people. That helping hand. The knowledge that… no matter how bad things got, how little I had to offer, there would still be someone there to pick me up… if I was lucky. And I know that not everyone is so lucky. But… I was. More than once. And I can never properly give back, for that, but…”

Scott bites his lip as he thinks, tries to steer his rambling to something approaching a conclusion.

“But I will spend the rest of my life trying to. So I hope you can all give generously, today. So another kid can feel like somewhere, there’s someone who cares about them enough to help, even when their whole world has ended. But above all, I hope you can be generous. In your lives. With your friends, your families. Strangers on the street, even. Because a scholarship is great, but…” Scott pauses, meaningfully.

He finds Kip’s eyes in the crowd. Kip, of course, is enraptured. He’s also crying.

“But money is no substitute for love. For friends, family, a place where you belong. And it was those little shreds of love, those pats on the back from my coach, those kind words from my teachers, that kept me going, back then. Money fixes a lot of things. It can keep you warm, and fed, and clothed. But it can’t give you love. That, you need to give freely, and give generously, because there’s never enough of it, and you can never have enough of it,” Scott says.

It’s not really an ending, but he doesn’t know what else to say, so he calls it there. He’s off the dais and halfway down the stairs when his audience realises he’s finished, and then the applause starts. Much louder than usual. Scott gets a few hugs on his way down, from Vaughny, from Tom, from a woman he’s never met but who basically sobs onto his shoulder, and he returns every single one.

Kip is nowhere to be seen. But Scott hopes, at least, that he’s taken something from Scott’s rambling speech, even if Scott doesn’t know what that might be.

“Do you know him?”

Nouri has seen a lot of crap in his time as Scott’s driver. He’s not Scott’s bodyguard, because Scott doesn’t have a bodyguard, but he still likes to keep an eye out for things that Scott should be worried about, and a shadowy figure waiting outside Scott’s private elevator for him to come home is definitely a slightly suspicious thing.

“Yeah,” Scott says.

Kip doesn’t say a word as Scott strides up, just follows him into the elevator and, once they’re in the warm apartment, takes a seat on Scott’s couch.

“Here for another round?” Scott asks.

“You’re right,” Kip says.

“Don’t hear that one often,” Scott says.

“I shouldn’t have assumed,” Kip says. “I don’t know anything about your life. Not really. I just… how long?”

“Sixteen years,” Scott says.

Sixteen years of near complete solitude. Of trusting no one. Of not letting in even those who begged him to lower his walls, because his heart was safer locked in a vault. Because he had tried to reach out, in the immediate aftermath of losing his entire world, and he’d been beaten down for the privilege.

“I’m such an asshole,” Kip says, sliding his face into his hands.

“No,” Scott corrects. “You’re even more of an anxious wreck than me, somehow, but you’re not an asshole. I wasn’t… exactly myself, when we dated. I was… I don’t know. Trying to be perfect, so you wouldn’t leave. That really backfired, huh?”

“Maybe a little,” Kip says.

“I was going to ask you to move in on day one,” Scott admits.

“I might have stayed if you had,” Kip says.

“We’ll never know, now,” Scott says.

“No,” Kip says. “But…”

“But?” Scott asks.

“If you’re willing to forgive me… no, forget it, I shouldn’t even—” Kip says.

“I’ve already forgiven you, Kip,” Scott says.

Kip swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement, and he doesn’t have to say the offer in words for Scott to read it in his face.

Scott thinks about it. Yes, Kip had already left once, and it would be much worse a second time. But he’d survived it. He knows what a life without Kip would look like, and he’s sure it’d be fine. But a life with Kip…

“Yeah,” Scott says.

Kip smiles at him, before jumping at him.

“Fair warning,” Scott says. “My entire family is… unhappy with you, right now.”

“Guess I’ll have to win them over,” Kip says.

“Ilya likes vodka, and—”

Kip cuts him off with a kiss.

“I was thinking I would just try and make you deliriously happy, so you don’t have to give crazy depressing speeches that are definitely going to end up on youtube. You think that’ll win them over?” Kip asks.

Scott grins at Kip.

“I think it’s worth a shot,” Scott says, before drawing him in another kiss.

Chapter 8: Love in the Time of Melancholia

Chapter Summary

Kip makes amends, in a manner of speaking. Hayden and JJ should not be trusted with important issues. A new year beckons.

Chapter Notes

Apologies for the delay, i spent 75% of the last two months asleep and the remaining 25% unable to look at screens without a massive migraine.

You'll notice there is now a chapter count. Completion of this fic is dependent on my health holding up (dicey) and the homophobia of this fandom not completely burning me out (dicier) but I do now know how it will happen.

I will fix the text messages in this chapter for HTML when I have the energy to do so.

Bon appetit.

ETA: I somehow forgot the most important thing, which is to say that a character uses the f-slur in the 21 December scene.

13 December, 2013

Scott has spent most of his life as an extremely deep sleeper. It’s something he lost as he started hockey, and the aches and pains of his day-to-day existence kept him up all night, and something he regained when he started on his meds, which had the fortunate side effect of reducing those pains to something almost manageable. It’s extremely rare for him to be jerked awake suddenly, because he can sleep through a hurricane.

For those exact reasons, when he’s roused unexpectedly the early in the morning following his reunion with Kip, his first thought is really, again? Did Kip decide to slam the door repeatedly on his way out this time?

Sue him: he’s got trust issues. Being a people-pleasing orphan who forgives way too easily tends to lead to that outcome. When he hears the voices, however, he kicks into gear, leaping out of bed and – that’s a woman’s voice, so he takes the time to pull on his dress slacks before leaping out to meet it. Because god forbid the intruder see him naked…

“—suka blyat, idi na khuy—” comes an angry, but immediately recognisable voice. Albeit in a completely unrecognisable language.

“—kak de posmel—” says the other, slow and drawn out at the same time, like he’s emphasising his displeasure.

“HEY!” Scott shouts.

Svetlana and Kip quit their squabbling to stare directly at him, like a pair of misbehaving siblings called to heel. Scott tries not to think about what that makes him in this scenario.

“What the fuck?” Scott asks, as politely as he can manage.

Kip and Svetlana start pointing at the other, chattering angrily, and it takes only a moment before they switch back into Russian. Scott speaks three languages, and Russian is not one of them. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs, and tries again. At least the squabbling gives him a chance to wake up.

“Svetlana,” Scott calls, voice as sharp as Scott can manage between the December chill and his own exhaustion (and therefore, sounding like he’s swallowed a mouthful of gravel).

Svetlana stops fighting for the moment, glancing at Scott with her hands on her hips. From this angle, he can see that her lipstick is slightly smudged, her hair is fighting at the edge of the band she’s using to pin it back, and her dress is hiked up maybe half an inch more than the designer intended. By Svetlana’s standards, she’s a mess.

“I thought you had a hotel?” Scott asks.

Because he knew she was in New York, and he has given her a key, for emergencies, but she rarely uses it. Scott considers it an important part of friendship to identify the specific traumas of those he cares about, to avoid tripping over them, and Svetlana’s is in her manners. She’s always on time, never forgets a date or an anniversary, and always calls ahead. That makes her the opposite of Ilya, who Scott often finds camped out on his couch without warning or explanation, and for whose sake Scott has started wearing sweats around the house rather than merely his boxers (not that Ilya wouldn’t prefer he wore nothing, the lecherous troll).

“Evacuation,” Svetlana says shortly.

“Fire?” Scott asks hopefully.

“Active gunman,” Svetlana says.

Ah. Scott understands both the dishevelment and the rage, in that case: Svetlana, much as she pretends otherwise, thinks of America as an extraordinarily wealthy country which should be above such things as mass shootings, and the evacuation likely sparked a desire to be close to someone she knew. Or maybe she just didn’t want to find a new hotel at – Scott glances out the window, as though he could tell the time from the fucking moon – this early stage of the morning. Svetlana and Kip’s eyes follow the movement of his, and he hates their innate ability to read his stupid, instinctive gesture as they break into smirks. He also hates himself, for somehow ending up the stupidest person in the room.

“Kip?” Scott asks, then.

Svetlana’s eyes light up in rage (maybe she couldn’t recognise Kip in the semi-darkness, clean shaven? Oops) but she doesn’t say anything.

“I went out—” Kip begins.

Svetlana snorts.

“To the bathroom,” Kip stresses. “And I saw… someone who wasn’t there when we went to bed, on the couch.”

“He screamed like a little girl,” Svetlana says.

“Why do you hate little girls?” Kip asks, then continues before Svetlana can respond. Her eye is twitching now. Scott is touched at her indignation on her behalf, but also kind of afraid. “I understandably panicked, asked her who she was. She started asking me who I was, I told her it was none of her business, and then she tried to attack me with her shoe.”

“Right,” Scott says. “Svetlana, this is Kip—”

Svetlana bares her teeth at Kip, who responds with a snarky comment about her makeup. Good grief.

“And Kip, this is my friend Svetlana. I’m sure you both have many things you’d like to say, but for now, how about we enjoy the remainder of our nights by embracing our diurnality and slipping into blissful unconsciousness?” Scott asks.

“Are you deliberately using big words because you feel threatened by my intelligence?” Kip asks.

“Our intelligence,” Svetlana hisses.

“I have yet to see proof of that,” Kip says pleasantly. “Considering you lack the reasoning skills to deduce that the handsome man in your gay friend’s bed may be his lover.”

“Says the man who lacks the reasoning skills to realise that he’s punching way above his league and to grab on before age sucks away the last of his dwindling beauty,” Svetlana says.

Look, Scott likes a snark-off as much as the next gay, but he actually likes these two and does harbour dreams of them getting along some day, so…

“Next person who says a word is sleeping on the floor,” Scott says.

Svetlana and Kip let out identical, sceptical noises, then glare at each other. Scott gives up, at that moment, and goes straight for bed. Eventually, he hears Kip joining him.

“Such a comfortable bed you have, Scott,” Kip says loudly as he crawls in. “Much nicer than that crappy couch.”

Svetlana lets out a noise that only dogs and Scott Hunter’s can hear, but doesn’t respond beyond that. Thank God.

“Wow, it’s like you don’t want me to suck your dick tomorrow,” Scott says.

“I’ll be good,” Kip says.

*

“So,” Scott says. “Anything you two want to say to each other?”

“I think your taste in men is garbage,” Svetlana says, to Scott. “He’ll skip out again in a week, and find some halfwit twink that doesn’t make him feel threatened.”

“Oh, how cute, you think you can say something homophobic, swap out the slur for ‘twink’, and suddenly it’s okay. So brave. Almost as brave as your outfit, blending last decade’s corporate chic with this year’s modern prostitute—”

“Ey!” Scott says. “That is not what I meant and you know it! Come on! Be nice! For me?”

Kip rolls his eyes.

“Kip is moving in with me,” Scott tells Svetlana, who looks repulsed. “And Svetlana will be staying as long as she wishes,” Scott tells Kip, who rolls his eyes harder. “And I… am going to go for a run, so sort yourselves out before I get back.”

Scott is eager to get away from what he can only describe (reluctantly, as a person with no interest in new age who-hah) as the most disturbing aura he’s ever encountered. Part of him worries that they’ll just outright murder each other while he’s out, but he can’t really do anything to prevent it if they do decide to do that, so… exit stage right, Scott Hunter needs a smoothie.

He takes a long, slow, leisurely jog through New York’s open streets, trying to think about the game against the Cleveland Spiders today instead of the disturbing fact that of the three people in his apartment this morning, he, the one who owns the place, is the one who had to leave. Maybe he’s just a pushover.  

He ends his run as he crosses into Straw + Berry, and he smiles bright at Maria.

“Hi!” Scott says.

“You and Kip are back on, then?” Maria says.

Scott’s face falls. Is it that obvious? Does he have gayboi stamped on his forehead? Sure, he wasn’t planning on hiding it, but he doesn’t want to be open and upfront about it until he’s 100% sure how the league will take it, and he can’t manage that if everyone knows before he does.

“Kip texted me,” Maria says. “Also, I can see your tits again. You started covering up when things ended the first time.”

“I don’t have tits,” Scott says.

“Then what are these great big, sweaty honkers at my eye level?” Maria asks. “Do you prefer bosom, or cleavage? Because they’re right in my face, and unlike Kip, I’m not slutty enough to appreciate it.”

“…just make the smoothie. Please.”

Smoothie bars in this city used to be professional…

*

Scott takes a deep breath, straightens his back, curls back his sweaty hair, and tries to stand resolute as he enters his apartment. Sure, he’s attached to the place, but if Kip and Svetlana have smashed it up, it’s not a tragedy. It’s an opportunity to redecorate, and at least they’ll have gotten some of their feelings out. He doesn’t want them to feel bad, if that’s what they did (spine, Hunter, where is your spine? If they smashed your apartment you should be mad, not timid, your mother would be ashamed—)

“Preppy little manbabies who don’t know how to fight,” Svetlana is saying.

Bad sign.

“So just like Columbia then?” Kip asks. “A full ride is a full—”

“A full ride? For a Master’s at an Ivy League? In Art History?” Svetlana says. “No chance.”

“Uh, yeah. And I got it, by the way, to Columbia, which, last I checked, is an Ivy,” Kip says.

“Who did you blow?” Svetlana asks.

“I went there for undergrad and I am a brilliant student,” Kip says. “Plus, I have this great story in my essay about getting rheumatic fever from overstudying and how the A+ wasn’t worth my health.”

“Americans are soft,” Svetlana says derisively. “Right, Scott?”

“I… what is happening?” Scott asks.

“This idiot applied to BU for grad school,” Svetlana says.

“And turned it down,” Kip says. “We were talking about our home cities.”

“I thought your home city was Moscow? And I thought you two hated each other?” Scott says.

“I decided you’ll have enough trouble getting Ilyushka and Shane to behave around him, you don’t need me being snippy,” Svetlana says.

“She’s much calmer when she’s slept,” Kip says.

“And he’s much prettier in the daylight. I thought a troll was attacking me last night,” Svetlana says.

They both smile snarkily at each other over cups of tea. Scott decides to take the win.

“Also, you were gone a really long time,” Svetlana says.

“Seriously, I began to think ‘going for a run’ meant ‘going out for milk’ and you were never coming back,” Kip says.

“Don’t tempt me,” Scott says, marching to the shower

14 December, 2013

Scott, 2:21pm, yesterday: Since I know you’re going to make a big deal of it: I’m back with Kip.

“Hey Hayden,” Shane says, looking down at his phone.

“Yeah?” Hayden asks, putting his stick away with the same dejection as he’s had since he got the news that he wouldn’t be going to Sochi. Shane considers patting him on the shoulder again, but that didn’t seem to help much last time… ah well.

“What do you tell your buddy when he starts dating a…” Shane hunts for the right word.

“Bitch!” Comeau yells, bouncing around with his hands on his big toe. Poor man. Spent all his life trying to learn how to skate, ended up forgetting how to walk.

“That,” Shane says.

Hayden raises an eyebrow.

“What?” Shane asks.

Hayden just shakes his head.

“What?” Shane asks again.

“You wait for him to realise he can do better,” JJ says, startling Shane. “And try not to alienate either of them until then.”

“You also have to look out for the trap,” Hayden says, apparently shaking off whatever had him staring at Shane like he was missing something obvious a moment ago.

“What trap is that?” Shane asks.

“Your buddy breaks up with her. You celebrate. You tell him, ah yeah, I knew she was rancid, right?” Hayden says.

“Right,” Shane says.

“Even if it’s not true,” JJ says.

“Especially if it’s not true!” Hayden says. “You’re just trying to build him up, you know? He can do better, she was awful, you know, you get mean. Make fun of, I don’t know. Her looks. Her weight. Something below the belt.”

“Yeah, okay, so… what’s the trap?” Shane asks.

“Then bam! They get back together. Now, he knows how much you hate her. If you’re lucky, they break up again before it matters. Probably, though? He’ll tell her, she tells him to never speak to you again, and… well…” Hayden trails off meaningfully.

Shane still does not get it.

“He takes her side, because they always do,” JJ says.

Shane thinks back.

“I think I’ve already fallen into the trap,” Shane says.

Hayden and JJ lock eyes.

“Well, then you need to nip it in the butt,” Hayden says.

“Bud,” JJ corrects.

“Yeah?” Hayden asks.

“No, bud, as in, it’s nip it in the bud, not the butt,” JJ says.

“Why are you nipping your buds?” Hayden asks.

“Like a flower bud,” JJ says.

“There’s a flower called a bud?” Hayden asks.

“Guys?” Shane says.

“Sorry,” Hayden says.

“You need to break them up now, before he pushes you out. I mean, unless you think your bud has, like, mad stoic energy,” JJ says.

Shane shakes his head. Scott is very good at pretending to have ‘mad stoic energy’, but he’s probably the most soft-hearted person Shane knows.

“Bros never put bros over hoes,” Hayden says.

“Right,” Shane says.

Well, fuck. Shane’s never broken up a couple in his life. Good thing he has Ilya.  

15 December, 2013

Having become the main character of twitter once or twice, Ilya has a good understanding of the cycle of virality.

A video gets posted. It generates a little bit of buzz. It disappears. Then, days or years later, an algorithmic quirk presses it into every small screen in America. It’s complete luck that Scott’s outburst at the gala falls under the category of days and finds Ilya so quickly, because it just as easily could have come three years late – though can it be an outburst, when it’s delivered with so much cold certainty, so little visible emotion?

The title refers to Scott only as “hockey player”, presumably for wider appeal, and the footage focuses mostly on the looks of Anglo-Saxon horror as Scott describes his extremely Christian yet somehow controversial desire for an-eye-for-an-eye and kindness to thy neighbour. It’s funny, Ilya can admit. The slow-motion shot of a woman dropping her champagne glass in shock, set to Celine Dion, and the return to normal time and sound when she immediately clicks her fingers obnoxiously at a waiter to clean it up? Memorable, hilarious, and deeply sad all at once. A cinematic masterpiece, deserving of a place in Cannes. Ilya is sure that woman will be the main character today, and she definitely deserves it.

The top comment for right now reads ‘These people would not survive three pages of the actual bible’, and the second top comment is a kind of lustful sympathy, telling Scott he can find succour in the commentor’s ample bosom. The content of the speech, however…

It’s funny, because for every line Scott speaks, Ilya hears something else.

Scott says it was the first time I actually believed in God and Ilya hears she would have wanted you to have it from Alexei, before something turned him cruel, handing over the cross their mother had treasured and which made her so strange in their so recently-Soviet, so urban and atheistic corner of Moscow. Scott says grief isn’t a moment, it’s a lifestyle and Ilya remembers those cold few years after mama died, when papa decided to organise every single decision, every hobby, every spare second Ilya had. When the days he could spend pushing through archaic Russian literature for his demanding tutors was a blessing, even as Svetlana swore every page of War and Peace was a pagan curse. At least he wasn’t staring at his father’s imposing brow as he did it, at least the ancient narratives came close to being enjoyable instead of the cold, endless grinding on ice that nearly killed his love of hockey. Scott says they blamed me for my parents’ death and a montage plays in Ilya’s mind, of his beloved older brother’s warm eyes turning slowly to hate as their only living parent decided to write off his mini-me as a lost cause, a crime for which Alexei blamed the both of them in equal measure.

That’s as far as Ilya gets before he turns off the video, his eyes stinging. It’s as much as he can stomach before he flicks desperately through channels on his obnoxiously oversized television set, trying to find any distraction that anchors him in the present.

The show about the Mormon man and his four wives is exactly the kind of ludicrous, innately American garbage that Ilya’s shuttered adolescence would never have permitted. Papa taught Ilya that all American television is propaganda, and whilst that may be true for much of it, this program cannot be anything other than proof of this nation’s endless decadence, of the funds that never run dry, because who could possibly benefit from this? It doesn’t make America look good. It doesn’t project soft power. It’s just deeply stupid. An opiate for the masses with no other purpose, so unlike the carefully selected propaganda of Ilya’s youth. It’s so unlike any kind of family he’s familiar with that he lets the show run to its conclusion, even with distraction successfully attained in the first five minutes. After that comes more ridiculous reality television, though at least he can vaguely understand the message 90 Day Fiance is supposed to impart (do not come to America unless you are rich and frivolous).

When Shane calls, two episodes into this slightly less infuriating (and sadly, far more compelling) series, Ilya’s voice is free of all evidence of tears.

“We need a plan,” Shane tells him.

He says many other things, then – some nonsense that idiot Pike has got into his head about Scott replacing them (ridiculous, Scott would never choose between those he loves, he would merely stare doe-eyed at them all until they agreed to get along). Ilya lets Shane speak, lets the cadence of his lover’s voice lull him to a stupor. At that moment, it doesn’t matter that he’s alone, watching women throw their lives away for men who will lose interest the moment their beauty fades. It doesn’t matter that his mother is dead of an illness that will finish Ilya off long before his father’s ailment makes itself known. It doesn’t matter that no one on team Russia will answer his calls, despite him being their fucking captain. He has Shane, he can imagine the little crinkle between Shane’s eyes as he plots out a ridiculous plan (it becomes obvious that Shane was raised on exactly this American reality TV nonsense the more he talks), and he has a distraction to keep him going. Asking for more… well, maybe Alexei’s right. He is spoiled.

15 December, 2013

“You don’t have to do this,” Kip tells him.

“I know,” Scott replies. “I want to.”

They’re already late. Scott can see the anxious crowd through the window, waiting for the festivities to begin. You can’t have a birthday party without the birthday boy. But the birthday boy is outside in the cold, holding his boyfriend’s hand, because said boyfriend is a coward—

“Let’s go,” Scott says, for the third or fourth time.

He does yet another cursory check for paparazzi – none, and his constant nervous gazing is doing far more to make him look suspicious than walking into a gay bar ever could – and this time, manages to take a single step.

Kip looks at Scott’s foot, and the new print it’s formed in the slowly falling snow, with hope. It’s that hope that gets Scott to turn that step into a second, a third, until he’s right in front of the door, where he relies on his momentum to carry him forward into the room.

Nothing happens. No one jumps out of the rafters to call him a slur and beat him with a hockey stick. There are no goons holding blindfolds, no suited executives dropping their monocles into their martini glasses, and though Scott can’t be sure, he’s pretty confident none of the twenty inhabitants of this grimy bar are undercover journalists.

Scott anchors himself in the physical. It doesn’t matter what this place means, what it represents, the shelter it provides for guys like him. It doesn’t matter that he’s spent years on the cusp of places just like this, wanting. Right now, he’s just a human, flesh and blood, surrounded by bricks and mortar. Seeking shelter from the storm. Warm, comfortable enough, safe.

A thousand other doorways coalesce in his mind. The gay and lesbian alliance office at his college, which he glanced at a thousand times but never entered. The dozens of bars, clubs, events, parades he’s witnessed just by virtue of being a New Yorker. Or, more abstractly, the makeup palettes he’s contemplated to cover up his perpetual under-eye bags, the colourful clothes his sponsors offered that hinted just a little too far into fruity, the flowers he thought would brighten up his home but he constantly rejected in case someone saw.

“Introduce me?” Scott asks.

And Kip smiles, bright and earnest, as he leads Scott wholeheartedly into a world he’s only ever glanced at before.

21 December, 2013

As teambuilding goes, house parties are easiest for Shane.

Going to the club is tolerable, when he has enough warning and it’s a proper North American club, where the smoke isn’t so thick that you can’t breathe, but Shane doesn’t ever love it. He’d much rather be at home watching game tapes, or in the gym doing drills. Proper team dinners are the worst, all that awkward conversation and fake comradery. Shane usually ends up between two women he has no recollection of ever meeting, shoving photos of their babies under his face and saying isn’t he cuuuute? No, Amanda-with-an-e (Emanda? Amenda? Amande?), he looks like a potato with hair. Not a nice potato, either. The kind that Shane’s mom would see in the display pile at the grocer and wrinkle her nose at before selecting a different one.

“Heyyyyyy,” Comeau says, draping himself over Shane like a weighted blanket with boundary issues. “Whatcha doin, Cap?”

“Just, uh, admiring your hat collection,” Shane says, nodding at the framed glass case of baseball caps.

“What?” Comeau shouts.

Shane grits his teeth at Comeau’s unnecessary volume, and repeats himself at the exact same volume. Either he’ll hear it, or he’ll leave Shane alone, and either option would bring joy.

“Oh, the hats?” Comeau says, registering the words thirty seconds late. Finally, something Shane can relate to. “They’re not mine! They’re Rachel’s!”

“Huh,” Shane says. Rachel did always give him the impression that her goal was to marry an athlete and being stuck with a hockey player was a deep source of resentment for her, but he didn’t expect her to be so obvious about it…

“The photo is me!” Comeau says, volume not quite right still.

And sure enough, atop the case is a gigantic picture of Comeau, shirtless, hoisting a fish. Shane wonders how he missed it. A lifetime’s experience of tuning out the sight of half-naked male torsos, maybe? Though that implies some part of Shane might find Gilbert Comeau attractive, an unpleasant thought. He’s a good player, sure, but he also kind of looks like all of his facial features fell off in an earthquake and were pasted back on in a hurry.

Shane pastes on a painful smile as Comeau explains his love of fishing. It’s not all bad. Comeau’s on his team for Sochi, and that’s half the reason he decided to come: two birds, one stone. They’ve never been the closest, and this is a chance to change that, especially since there’s no one else on Team Canada that Shane has ever played with.

“-and it’s so peaceful, you know? No whining about sticking my laundry in the basket!” Comeau says.

Shane has always wondered what it is with hockey players and marrying women they secretly hate. Is it a hockey thing? Does everyone do that, and Shane’s parents are an exception?

“Ah, don’t worry!” Comeau says, apparently reading something into Shane’s face. “You’ll meet a chick eventually!”

Shane nods, for lack of a better response. He dearly wishes Hayden or JJ were here. Unfortunately, Hayden is at home with his kids, and JJ refuses to go to any house party that doesn’t serve food. Shane’s not interested in beer pong or weed or whatever else these idiots do to “blow off steam”. He is, however, interested in building some of that fabled team morale he’s heard so much about, and this seems like a good start. If it fails, at least he’s told no one of his attempts, and no note will be made of his failure. Dad once joked that mom and Shane share a motto: if at first you don’t succeed, destroy all evidence you tried.

“It’s all that time with Hunter,” Comeau continues, leading Shane outside by a limp arm. “Dude has, like, negative game, and I think you caught it.”

“I also spend time with Rozanov,” Shane says mildly.

“Rozanov doesn’t have game either, Boston’s just full of sluts,” Comeau says.

Maybe there’s a reason Shane and Comeau aren’t close. Shane again resists the urge to respond, this time by imagining how Svetlana would react at that statement. Probably it isn’t great for team-building for Shane to be imagining Comeau in a body-bag, but he’s never had difficulties playing with teams who he hates. Team-building is for other people’s benefit. Hockey would be so much easier if Shane’s teammates could just put their petty emotions aside and remember how to do their jobs…

“Seriously, if I had to pick a dude, it’d be Hunter, but he’s, like, thirty and I think he’s a virgin. Unless he’s a fag?” Comeau says.

It takes Shane a moment to realise that Comeau is expecting a response to that one. Great.

“You know those two sentences kind of contradict each other?” Shane says.

Comeau looks confused.

“You’re a mean drunk,” Shane tries instead.

“Pssht,” Comeau says, but he seems to accept that as an answer. “You ready for beer pong?”

Shane cannot think of anything less appealing at this moment, but it’s fucking freezing and the beer pong table is right by the fire, so…

22 December, 2013

Ilya, 10:27pm: I fucking hate Buffalo.

Shane, 10:28pm: I fucking love Buffalo.

Scott, 10:29pm: All streaks have to end eventually, Ilya. You’ll get them next time.

Ilya, 10:30pm: :(

Ilya stares at the messages, trying to think of something else to say, for long enough that he’s sure he’s lost Shane and Scott’s fleeting attention. He doesn’t know how to explain it, the urge for company, so he just doesn’t.

“See ya, Roz,” Marly says, patting him on the shoulder as he departs, leaving Ilya alone in the locker room and taking away yet another chance at human interaction.

The problem with losing at home is that no one exactly wants to celebrate afterwards, leaving Ilya with nothing to do.

He can’t go to a club, not without tabloid articles about his work ethic which usually he could ignore, but this close to the Olympics would just make him the ideal scapegoat were things to go as poorly as Ilya is increasingly sure they will. He can’t visit Svetlana, because she’s in New York for another week, staying with Scott (something that fills Ilya with a strange mixture of joy, jealousy, and trepidation). So he sits, and he waits. Calling Shane the night before a Montreal home game is a sure way to get his head ripped off, and Scott is… doing the stupid things young people in love do, only he’s at least ten years too old to be letting scumbag exes come crawling around…

“Uh,” comes a voice, and Ilya looks up to see a member of the cleaning crew.

“Sorry!” Ilya says, trying to soften his features and smile at the man.

Terrorising other players is one thing, but this nice man is just doing his job, Ilya’s not a monster.

The smile seems to unsettle the man more than it reassures him, and Ilya curses his bone structure. He can do sexy, he can do non-descript, and he can do cartoon villain, but ‘sincere’ is something he leaves to Scott and Shane and their inexplicably soft faces. Hell, even Marly is better at it, and he looks like a bouncer.

Ilya notices the desertion as he departs, no press to capture him leaving the stadium, just a few cars and an empty howl of wind. How long had he stayed? His phone tells him his last text had been over an hour ago, but he can’t imagine how that time could have passed without his notice. It’s not the first time he’s lost time, but it’s the first time in a long time.

Ilya’s driver is still here, at least, smoking a cigarette. He enters the car without a word as Ilya approaches, still smoking, though he holds his hand out of the window, as though that will keep the smell out of his upholstery. No chance, but Ilya doesn’t mind. The smell of cigarettes is as constant a companion to him as the sound of graphite scraping against ice, or the sight of an opponent cursing viciously as Ilya celebrates a goal.

“No goals today,” Ilya says.

The driver doesn’t respond. Ilya has no idea what his name even is, knows him only as one of a dozen interchangeable men and women who ferry him from place to place. Ilya’s phone chimes again.

Scott, 11:53pm: You’ll like Kip, I think. When you’re not trying to threaten him.

Ilya snorts. Doubtful.

23 December, 2013

“You know,” Scott says, as he meticulously polishes his kitchen counter. “I don’t think I’ve ever spent the night with just women before.”

Svetlana looks up from the couch, where she’s reading from Scott’s old, battered copy of In Cold Blood. She’s wearing thick-rimmed glasses, a soft set of silk pajamas, and bare feet. Kip is out, at his dad’s, so it’s just the two of them, and whilst both he and Svetlana appreciate a comfortable silence, Scott is feeling chatty today.

“I mean, in my house,” Scott says. “Other than my mom, I guess, when I was a kid.”

“You never had a beard?” Svetlana asks.

“Nah, I knew I was gay in boarding school, and I didn’t really feel the need to pretend after I graduated,” Scott says.

“No female friends?” Svetlana asks.

“No. Well, there’s Janice, I guess, but she only moved back to New York a few months ago, and she thinks my apartment is a great beige monument to repressed homosexuality,” Scott says.

“She’s not wrong,” Svetlana says. “She knows?”

“Suspects. She’s the captain of the women’s team, so we see each other at the Olympics—” Scott begins.

“Ah, that Janice,” Svetlana says. “I like her. Good teeth.”

“I… what?” Scott asks.

“Only bad hockey players are missing teeth,” Svetlana says.

“I’m pretty sure hockey players who don’t wear a grille are missing teeth, but okay. Anyway, it’s just weird, I guess,” Scott says.

“Yes, not wearing a piece of essential safety gear because you don’t like how it looks is weird,” Svetlana says.

“No, I mean the being alone with a woman other than my mother overnight for the first time thing,” Scott says.

“Don’t worry, Hunter, your virtue is safe with me,” Svetlana says. “It’s a shame, though. I’m in a multi-millionaire orphan’s disturbingly clean penthouse apartment. You’d think I’d be getting murdered or getting some.”

“Very funny,” Scott says.

“Especially since the tabloids already call me your puck slut,” Svetlana says.

Scott drops the tea towel in his hands. Svetlana doesn’t notice, of course, because it’s a tea towel and it makes no noise, but Scott still feels like time stands still for a moment.

“They what?” Scott asks.

Svetlana looks over, eyes wide. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t read tabloids,” Scott says. “Who do I have to sue?”

“No one,” Svetlana says.

“Svetlana—” Scott says.

“I said NO,” Svetlana says, louder than Scott’s ever heard her before, and he feels his brows rising. “Sorry. Tired of this conversation.”

“Oh, sorry,” Scott says. “You want to read in peace, I understand.”

“No, this gay man’s psychosexual obsessions are boring me,” Svetlana says, folding the corner of the page she’s on and closing the book. “Tired of the I will destroy them for besmirching your name, Svetochka conversation. I don’t mind your prattling.”

“Ah,” Scott says.

Scott continues to clean the counter, thinking of a new subject.

“You never ask,” Svetlana says.

“Hmm?” Scott says.

“About my family,” Svetlana says.

“I figure you’ll tell me if you need to,” Scott says.

“Charming,” Svetlana says. “Now the real reason?”

“Ilya told me not to,” Scott admits.

“Overprotective idiot,” Svetlana says, fond.

“Families are… tough,” Scott says.

“Says the man who used to call a sports league is his family,” Svetlana says, now leaning on her back and gesticulating as she speaks.

“That was a metaphor, I wasn’t angling for an invite to Christmas at the Crowell’s,” Scott says. “It was more about… you know, what hockey represented in my life.”

“Your sad, lonely, miserable life,” Svetlana confirms.

Scott tosses a (clean) tea towel at her. It unfolds in the air, landing perfectly over her face, and Scott instinctively fist-bumps at his aim. A few moments later, Svetlana is joining him on the counter, gaze pensive.

“Uh-oh,” Scott says, because he knows when a serious conversation is coming.

“I thought your medication was supposed to fix that?” Svetlana says.

“The cleaning thing is separate from the OCD thing,” Scott says.

“Hmm,” Svetlana says.

They sit in that for a little while. Scott’s spent enough time talking with his therapist about his need to exert control over his living space that he knows maybe his cleaning has more to do with the general unsettled feeling he has at having other people actively in his life. He also realises how fucking ungrateful that is, to spend so long complaining about his isolation and then to complain when it’s taken away, so he’d rather not spend too much time talking about it.

“Freedom is important to you, yes?” Svetlana asks, eventually.

“Ah… is this a dig at the American… no, okay,” Scott says, noticing Svetlana’s shaking head. He thinks for a moment, but thankfully, he’s had this conversation with his therapist. More than once. “It’s not freedom, it’s autonomy. My formative years were marked by immense tragedy, and afterwards I was sent to an extremely repressive environment—”

“Too late in the day for therapy words,” Svetlana says.

“Catholic school strict. Little Scott wanted to be a good boy, and so he had no friends. Big Scott left Catholic school and decided he doesn’t like being told what to do, except he still didn’t have friends, so he got weird and neurotic,” Scott sums up.

“Same as me, then,” Svetlana says. “Except it was my mother, instead of school, and I was never a good girl. Or neurotic.”

“Notice you’re not denying the weird,” Scott says.

“How can I? I’m friends with you,” Svetlana says, sweet as sugar.

Scott rolls his eyes, and decides if the conversation is going to continue, he might as well get in a nice deep clean of his espresso machine, which is getting far more use now he has guests.

“My father is a government minister,” Svetlana says.

“Yeah, I’ve heard. Good for him,” Scott says, scrubbing away at the milk foamer. Kip insists on drinking something called a flat white, which Scott is pretty sure is just a more pretentious latte. And to think, he used to consider latte’s the most pretentious of the drinks…

“No. Not good for him. He works for a vicious dictator, an oligarch who orchestrated a war to gain power, and— are you paying attention?” Svetlana asks.

“Yes, vicious dictator, I’m with you,” Scott says, continuing to scrub. If he stopped buying milk, would Kip switch to black coffee or just buy his own? It’s probably not that much of a hardship to clean the foamer each morning, but maybe Kip is just getting pretentious because the overpriced coffee machine is making him feel guilty for drinking normal drip… “Would you prefer I was making intense eye contact and holding your hand?”

“Gross. Anyway, I don’t want to go home,” Svetlana says.

“I think you skipped, like, three parts of that story,” Scott says.

“Alright then, I love my papa and I can’t even look at him,” Svetlana says.

Scott stews on that for a moment. He’s lucky, in some ways: everyone reaches the point where they have to take their beloved parents off a pedestal and see them as mere human beings. Scott’s parents died before he could do that, and their memory is unblemished by sin.

“Are you going to?” Scott asks.

After all, not wanting and not doing are two very different states.

“Of course I am. I’m not leaving Ilyusha alone with his psychopath father,” Svetlana says.

“You know Shane and I will—”

“You’re competing against him,” Svetlana says.

“We’re still his friends,” Scott says, a little offended. “We won’t toss him to the wolves.”

“He won’t speak to you. Not in Sochi. Russia thinks he’s too American as it is. If you’re his friends, you’ll stay away from him until he’s back in Boston. Especially Shane,” Svetlana says.

“The Olympic Village is off limits to press,” Scott says.

“Doesn’t matter. Someone will rat him out, and I know the Russian coach, he’ll take it very badly,” Svetlana says.

“I’m starting to think maybe neither of you should be going to Russia,” Scott says, completely sincere.

“If we’re lucky, it’ll be the last time,” Svetlana says, grim.

“And, stop me if I’m way off base here, but you want me to relate none of this conversation to Ilya on New Years?” Scott says.

“You’re learning,” Svetlana says.

“Pretty sure I’ve got far more experience than you at keeping things from my friends, kid…”

31 December, 2013

“Don’t know why he’s even coming,” Shane says.

“Hmm?” Ilya asked.

“Kip,” Shane said, dark. “We giving people a pass to treat Scott like shit now?”

“Scott has low self-esteem and also is bad at saying no. He will come to senses eventually, usually he is smarter than this. He’s just dickmatized,” Ilya says.

“Dick… what?” Shane says. “That’s not a word.”

“Urban slang,” Ilya says.

“I’ve never heard that… oh whatever,” Shane says.

“I thought you had plan?” Ilya asks, raising both eyebrows and tilting his head to the side as he says plan.

“I don’t think you need to take that tone,” Shane says.

Sure, Shane’s last few plans may not have been ideal, but he’s thought this through! He’s got a list of hard questions to ask Kip, the guy will bolt by the second course, and though Scott will be hurt when Kip runs again, this time, everyone he cares about will be on hand to take his mind off it.

Scott and Kip arrive first, of course. Svetlana isn’t with them, because although no one even told him she was staying with Scott, almost ruining Shane’s plans, she decided to return to Boston the night before those two. Circumstances had required Shane to keep the guest arrival time vague until today, so Svetlana and Scott, both unfailingly punctual, probably have no idea their invitations have a one-hour discrepancy. It gives Shane plenty of time to run the plan without interference, and means he can get the measure of Kip without anyone else serving as a distraction.

Kip is… well, he’s no Ilya. Sure, he’s buff, big arms, big legs, but what does he have beyond that? Can he score a Michigan in overtime with fourteen thousand fans booing him? Does his hair shine like canola flowers on a warm summer’s day? Can he eat fourteen McGriddles in one sitting? The answer, looking at him, is no. Also, he’s short.

Shane keeps his stiffest, creepiest smile on throughout their introduction, the one that his ex-girlfriend once told him made him look like the puppet from Goosebumps. It seems to have no effect, but Shane is undeterred. Even if Ilya keeps shooting him mildly uncomfortable looks.

They’re all sitting at the table, sipping on Ilya’s pre-appetiser cocktail. Unbeknownst to them, Shane is sipping a ginger ale in an opaque glass, because Ilya’s drinks are insanely fucking strong and he doesn’t want to be knocked out before the grilling starts, either the conversation kind or the food kind. He’s feeling hungry today.

“Thank you for having us,” Kip says politely, like he has any right to speak on Scott’s behalf. Shane throws subtlety out the window.

“Aren’t you worried about the power imbalance?” Shane asks.

Kip looks confused. Scott is glaring at the blatant attempt to frighten his boyfriend off, but it’s for his own good, so Shane doesn’t acknowledge the twinge of guilt.

“Like, between the two of you?” Kip asks.

“What?” Shane asks. “No, between you two.”

“I mean, there isn’t? A power imbalance? Between us?” Kip says, upwardly inflecting every few words like he’s asking a question, and pausing just long enough each time that Shane thinks the sentence is ending. Maddening.

“He’s so much richer and more famous than you?” Shane says.

“Yeah, he is, but— no offence babe, but I have a much stronger support network—”

Shane looks to Ilya to refute that statement, but he seems to be pretending Kip doesn’t exist. Shane doesn’t know how this turned into good cop bad cop (or indifferent cop bad cop?) but he’s starting to feel hemmed in.

“—and the fame is a double-edged sword, especially when you consider that I’m out and he’s not. Sure, he could dox me, and I’d have to move in with Elena until the heat died down, but there’s not much else he can do to me. Whereas I could out him to TMZ at any time, ruining his career and resulting in a massive risk to his personal safety. It’s not like my career would be affected, and if it was I can sue for discrimination. Whereas Scott’s bosses could just freeze him out indefinitely and blame it on his age,” Kip continued.

Shane looks to Scott, then, hoping that incredibly callous summation of events would maybe advise him to find someone better, but Scott looks… oh God. He looks aroused by the thought of Kip ruining his life. Shane can’t judge, but… he’s judging, and his mind is suddenly full of the image of Scott sheepishly returning from a hookup with bites and scratches down his back.

“We’re not equal, but I’d say we’re definitely equitable. Honestly, if it wasn’t for Scott’s so good, so supportive friends I’d say the power would be mostly on my side. For which we thank you. Right babe?” Kip finishes.

“Hrm?” Scott asks. “Yes, sure.”

Scott kisses Kip, though his eyes are still angry and glare-y. Ilya prods Shane, like he’s forgotten something, and—

“What do you mean we’re imbalanced?” Shane asked.

“Well, you’re Canadian and he’s Russian,” Kip said.

“So?” Shane asked.

“So… you could face all the same consequences as Scott, if you were outed. Pretty bad. But you’d have all your money and your celebrity to help you deal with it. Plus support from family, and presumably at least some of your teammates. Whereas Ilya… is a major celebrity from a country where being homosexual is all but illegal. He could be deported, he could be arrested on those fucking gay propaganda laws… not the most equal,” Kip said.

“I… is that true?” Shane asked Ilya.

Ilya looks truly torn between his desire to continue ignoring Kip and his desire to reassure Shane (Rude!) but he eventually says “Is fine. I trust Shane.”

“And I trust Kip,” Scott says.

“No, hang on,” Shane says. “You’re saying my relationship is more unequal than yours?”

“Unequal? No. You two are equals in most ways, and Scott and I live very different lives. But we’re not inequitable, and that’s where power dynamics come in. A lot of inequitable power dynamics are between equals. Coworkers, for instance…” Kip says.

“He’s older than you,” Ilya says, finally joining in.

“Barely, I’m 26 and he’s 31, that’s nothing,” Kip says.

“You have nothing in common,” Shane guesses.

“You’re quite confident in that for someone who’s just met me,” Kip says.

“Can I talk to you two, outside?” Scott interrupts, through gritted teeth.

Uh-oh. Shane thought they’d at least get to dessert before Scott got pissed off enough to intervene. They’re only one-third of the way down the list.

Scott doesn’t pinch their ears and drag them into the soundproofed guest bedroom, but it feels like he wants to. When they arrive, he says nothing. Just stares at them both, arms folded, until the tension gets unbearable. Shane manages to hold back a comment about Kip stealing the silverware whilst they’re gone, but the louder the silence gets, the more uncomfortable he becomes.

“We’re just looking out for you,” Shane blurted out.

Ilya closes his eyes, like he’s disappointed, but he knows Shane isn’t good with awkward silences.

Scott continues to glare.

“He’s going to leave again eventually—” Shane says.

“Like you did?” Scott asks.

Shane falls silent for a moment, outraged, but Scott just keeps glaring, so Shane eventually trots out a petulant “That’s not fair.”

“How is it not fair?” Scott asks.

“Ours was an accident,” Shane says.

“You accidentally blocked my number on your phone?” Scott asks.

“We only muted it—” Shane says.

“Which was worse, because it hurt just as bad and was also confusing as fuck,” Scott says. “No mixed messages from Kip!”

“And we were… we thought we were… we apologised! You said you forgave us!” Shane said.

“I did. Just like I forgave Kip. And, like you, he thought he was doing me a favour,” Scott says, somehow picking up on what Shane was going to say as well as what he actually did say. “He was wrong, but the motivation was the same. So I ask again, how is it not fair?”

Shane has nothing. He looks to Ilya.

“We will stop,” Ilya says.

Shane feels a stab of betrayal – not even a fight? He’s just siding with Scott? Sure, Shane has no answers now, but that’s just because he’s been put on the spot – there’s a difference! He’s sure there is!

“Thank you,” Scott said. “Now, when did you tell everyone else to arrive?”

Ilya looks at Shane.

“Nine,” Shane says, reluctant.

“For future reference, JJ, Carter, and Cliff being late is believable, but all three of them at once and Svetlana? Work on your excuses. And your communication, because Kip is smarter than all three of us combined, and if you piss him off, he can turn you against each other in four seconds flat,” Scott says.

“Pfft,” Shane says.

“Please, can we enjoy nice dinner?” Ilya says, deliberately strengthening his accent the way he does when he’s trying to play distraction. Where that was ten minutes ago, Shane doesn’t know. “I cooked. I slaved away at stove top—”

“You ordered from a restaurant,” Shane says, because he’s feeling petty.

“I reheated at stove top! Please! We are family!” Ilya says.

And that stops Scott in his tracks.

“Yeah, you are,” Scott says. “So please, as my family, agree to trust my judgement? I promise, I’m going into this with my eyes open. Wide open.”

Scott is looking between both of them, but Shane can tell they’re aimed at him specifically, and he… folds like a cheap suit.

“Fine,” Shane says. “But he’s not allowed any dessert.”

“He won’t eat it anyway,” Scott says. “Empty calories.”

1 January, 2014

“Shouldn’t you be heading to bed?” Scott asks.

Ilya doesn’t reply, twirling his glass – of water, because it’s 3 in the morning and he does have some respect for his liver – in his hand.

“Ten years,” Ilya says simply, and Scott immediately understands.

“She’d be proud of you,” Scott says.

“Hmm,” Ilya says, sipping.

“Twenty, for me,” Scott says, joining him at the window.

Ilya suddenly wishes it was vodka in his hand. Still, Scott’s hand on his shoulder is almost as warm.

“Go to bed, Ilya. It’ll feel better in the morning.”

Ilya nods, but he waits to turn until he sees Scott doing so. Just in case.

“Besides, I have a good feeling about this year,” Scott says, wandering towards his assigned bedroom. “For all of us.”