Preface
Unlikely Animals
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at https://archiveofourown.org/works/85148181.
- Rating:
- Teen And Up Audiences
- Archive Warning:
- No Archive Warnings Apply
- Categories:
- Gen, M/M
- Fandom:
- Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types
- Relationships:
- Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter
- Characters:
- Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Shane Hollander, Kip Grady, Carter Vaughn
- Additional Tags:
- Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Break Up, Post-Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, Drunken Confessions, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov Friendship, sad gay boys, Closeted Character, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, All my homies Hate AI
- Language:
- English
- Stats:
- Published: 2026-05-19 Completed: 2026-06-02 Words: 15,679 Chapters: 4/4
Unlikely Animals
Summary
"Rozanov?" he says, almost without meaning to. Surely he's mistaken and is about to be told to fuck off. Or, even more alarmingly, he is correct, and then he is certain to be told to fuck off, and possibly punched in the face. The man shifts, eyes drifting from his drink up to Scott and— well, there's no denying it. The captain of the Boston Raiders is drunk in Scott's neighborhood dive bar.
"Fuck," the response is slow, the delayed reaction of molasses spilling out of a jar carelessly knocked over on the kitchen counter. "I must have overdone it. I have summoned the Ghost of Hockey Past."
Scott could just leave. He could turn on a heel, and leave this drunk asshole to discover on his own what consequences are.
Because he's stupid, though, because he's nothing if not a responsible captain even when the drunken idiot in question isn't even one of his own teammates, and yes, because a small part of him can't help but love a good train wreck when he sees one, he sits down instead.
__
Or, Scott Hunter runs into Ilya Rozanov sometime around midnight after a game, and the two saddest, loneliest, most closeted hockey players in New York end up sharing more than they mean to.
Notes
oh no, I wrote 8k words in a fugue state. enjoy the first installment <3
Chapter 1
New York, January 3, 2017
Scott
There are certain teams that Scott dreads playing against. Hockey is hockey, by and large, and home games always carry a certain comforting air of familiarity in the ice, the fans, the locker rooms, but Scott has found that there are some teams that insist upon themselves to such an oppressive degree that games against them are things to be endured, more than played. Boston, for the last few years, at least, has been one of those teams.
Not for the same reasons as most of the other teams in that category, Scott has to admit. Toronto and Vegas tend to pass slurs around the ice as if they have specific drills for it in practice. Philadelphia and Vancouver forego technique for brute force, embodying the philosophy that it's easier to win hockey games if you've sent a third of the opposing team's starters back down the tunnel with the medical staff. Boston is, admittedly, a physical team, not afraid to check hard and drop gloves, but that's not what Scott hates about them.
No. What Scott dreads about playing against Boston is that he knows he'll be forced to spend the evening face to face with the the League's Number One Pain in the Ass, Ilya Rozanov.
Rozanov is mostly harmless— Scott is fairly certain. If he wracks his brain, he can't recall a single instance of Rozanov resorting to bigotry or the sort of cheap blows that he hears falling from the mouths of other players in the league. He's obnoxious and loud, and his play style is aggressive enough to provoke all but the most level-headed players into the occasional penalty, but Scott has to begrudgingly admit, he hasn't actually seen or heard Rozanov do anything actually malicious.
That doesn't mean he has to like the guy. In fact, it's more than enough grounds to actively dislike him, for exactly 60 regulation minutes, give or take an overtime period three times each year. More, maybe, depending on preseason games, playoffs, and the All-Stars game.
So— fine, Scott can't stand Ilya Rozanov for a grand total of ten or so hours each year. He's able to balance this out by largely not thinking about him for the remainder. He tells himself this as he skates to center ice, preparing for the first puck drop of the night. He doesn't need to worry about Rozanov. While Scott's performance lately has been inconsistent, to say the least, it's not like Rozanov's has been much better. The last few weeks have been— well, disastrous would be harsh, but not totally inaccurate— for the Boston captain. Scott anticipates that he'll be even punchier than normal, full of stupid little chirps, doling out extra checks whenever he thinks he can get away with them.
He skates to center ice and prepares for the drop. He tells himself he's going to ignore Rozanov, he's not going to let him get under his skin. In fact, he won't even acknowledge him across the face off. He gets in position and braces for the first idiotic chirp of the night.
Nothing comes.
Scott glances up, curiosity getting the better of him, and is surprised by what he sees. Rozanov barely looks as if he's even there. His eyes are almost vacant, fixed on the frozen surface between them, his mouth drawn and tense. There's a lack of vitality there that is more unnerving to Scott than anything else would have been; Ilya Rozanov, for all his faults, is nothing on the ice but unapologetically, gregariously alive. Tonight, he seems like a reanimated corpse of himself, acting out the motions of a hockey player long after the soul has left the body.
It's not a great game.
The Admirals manage a win, at 2-1. Scott is responsible for one of the goals, and he can't help but feel an embarrassed sense of relief. It's been a few games since he's put any points up, and he is grateful that at least for one day, the morning pundits won't be going on and on about whether Hunter has lost his edge for good. Although, he can't fully ignore the tiny voice in the back of his head telling him that, had Rozanov been on his game tonight, the scoreboard would probably have looked different.
He doesn't like winning because other guys played like shit. Still, a win is a win.
Scott leaves the rink with every intention of going directly to his apartment, despite Vaughn's half-hearted entreaties that he come out for a few drinks. He and Vaughn both know it's more of a kind gesture rather than a serious invitation. He's tired, they're only three days into the new year, and the clouds above Manhattan are dusting the streets with diesel-scented snow.
Scott makes it into his apartment and drops his bag in the hall. He goes to his kitchen, pours himself a glass of water, and drinks half of it as he paces the apartment, feeling prickly and restless.
He enjoys spending time with his teammates, truly. After ten seasons with the New York Admirals, his teammates have become his brothers. Most of them he even considers friends. But— Scott swallows a large sip of water, wincing at the chill as it hits the back of his throat— there is an undeniable gap that exists between them, a deep, yawning chasm with no way across. On one side stands not just his team, but also the entire league and an army of loud, faceless hockey fans. On the other side, stands Scott.
He can never cross that gap; it's too far to jump. If he tries, if he takes a running start, leaps as hard as he can, his fingertips might brush against the other side before he falls, dashing his body against the unforgiving ground miles below. So he stays planted where he is, separated by inches that feel like miles, while the rest of the world smiles back at him, unaware that the gap even exists.
He sets the glass down on the counter harder than he means to, wincing at the sharp sound. Fuck, he gets miserable around the holidays. None of this even matters, not right now. He still has at least a few years of good hockey ahead of him. He wants to focus on the game, on being the best he can be. The last few weeks notwithstanding, the Admirals have had a strong start to the season, and it's never too early for Scott to begin thinking about playoff chances. He has no time right now to think about sex or romance, so what difference does it make if he's gay?
It doesn't matter if he's gay, because he's not planning on doing anything gay. That's such a small part of who he is, and does he really need to share that with anyone else? His team— his family, they know almost all of him. They know the parts that matter. It's fine if they don't know the rest.
He should go to bed.
He really could use a drink.
Scott mentally runs through a quick inventory; he thinks there's a can or two of beer left in the fridge from the last team gathering he'd hosted shortly before Christmas. And he's fairly certain he's got a bottle of vodka gathering dust in a cabinet.
They aren't particularly appealing options.
The solitude of his apartment has taken on a life of its own, watching him stand tensely in the kitchen. He could use a drink, yes, but more than that, he needs an escape. He needs to not be alone with his thoughts in this fucking fortress of an apartment that he has so carefully edited to present the image of the Scott Hunter the rest of the world knows: the apartment of a comfortably heterosexual man.
He should really go to bed.
Eventually, his feet make the decision for him. He turns and finds himself being carried back out of his apartment, down the elevator, through the lobby, and out into the cold January air. There's a bar a few blocks away— a dive bar that looks like it forgot to go out of business a decade ago, kept afloat by the patronage of a rotating few handfuls of sad fucks nursing glasses of cheap whiskey while a dingy TV alternates between ESPN and Fox News.
Scott isn't too proud to admit that he's counted himself among those sad fucks on more than one occasion over the years. It's a good place to be nobody; despite the sports that play on repeat on the TV, no one has ever approached him with anything remotely resembling recognition.
It's the anonymity that he needs tonight; a place where he can be a nobody while he numbs his brain with alcohol to drown out the silence waiting for him at home. He pulls open the door and steps through it, the stale warmth strangely comforting. He begins to shed his jacket as he scans the room.
It's as he expected. Four, maybe five sets of hunched shoulders are scattered around the bar. The TV shows what scant highlights there were from tonight's game— Scott is frankly surprised they managed to scrape together much of anything for the reel. The footage cuts to four men sitting behind a desk, who begin to express roughly the same sentiment. Scott ignores it, and, beginning to feel assured that he will be able to stew in peace, approaches the bar. He orders a beer, and then, before he can think better of it, a shot of whiskey. He's not much of a drinker during the season, but the holidays seem to get harder every year, and anyway, tomorrow is a day off.
He tosses back the shot, thanks the bartender for the beer, and turns. There are plenty of seats at the bar, but tonight he longs for the dark, sticky comfort of one of the four battered vinyl booths against the far wall. Only one is occupied; perfect. Scott makes a beeline for one of the open ones, when he stops, suddenly, squinting disbelieving eyes at the man scowling down at a mostly-empty rocks glass.
"Rozanov?" he says, almost without meaning to. Surely he's mistaken and will probably be told to fuck off. Or, even more alarmingly, he is correct, and then he is certain to be told to fuck off, and possibly punched in the face. The man shifts, eyes drifting from his drink up to Scott and— well, there's no denying it. The captain of the Boston Raiders is drunk in Scott's neighborhood dive bar.
"Fuck," the response is slow, the delayed reaction of molasses spilling out of a jar carelessly knocked over on the kitchen counter. "I must have overdone it. I have summoned the Ghost of Hockey Past."
Scott could just leave. He could turn on a heel, and leave this drunk asshole to discover on his own what consequences are.
Because he's stupid, though, because he's nothing if not a responsible captain even when the drunken idiot in question isn't even one of his own teammates, and yes, because a small part of him can't help but love a good train wreck when he sees one, he sits down instead.
"You played like shit tonight," he opens with, not trying to hide the smirk on his face. "Pressure of the season getting to you?"
"It must be nice," says Rozanov contemplatively.
"What?"
"Playing hockey without the pressure of any expectations from your fans. They know you are too old to bring them the cup now, so as long as you don't break a hip and die mid-game, they will leave satisfied, yes?"
Oh, well fuck you too. Scott grimaces and makes a noise that he hopes sounds like a laugh.
"Worry about your own fans, Rozanov. I'm sure Boston isn't too thrilled that Hollander's been holding that cup over your head for the past two seasons."
At the mention of the Montreal captain, Rozanov's face does something odd, too quickly for Scott to fully register, but long enough for him to take note of it.
"I don't want to talk about boring fucking Hollander. I will fall asleep on the table right now if you mention him again." Rozanov signals to the bartender, and Scott takes the opportunity to glance around the dingy, largely unoccupied bar.
"You here by yourself?" he asks in what he hopes is a casual tone.
"No, Hunter, I'm here with all of my invisible girlfriends." Rozanov deadpans, spreading his arms out sarcastically.
"Whatever, man." Scott makes a move to stand up, but Rozanov calls towards the bartender.
"Ah, yes, another round for me and another chamomile tea for my elderly friend here."
"It's a fucking lager," protests Scott irritably.
"Whoa, a lager? Slow down Grandpa."
"I'll have another shot, actually" Scott says to the bartender, aware that he's rising to the bait and letting it happen anyway.
"Better. Now, sit and drink. We can be pathetic miserable fucks together."
"Fuck you, who says I'm miserable?" Scott says, bristling at Rozanov's bluntness.
"Oh, is your team invisible too?" Rozanov makes an exaggerated sweeping look around the bar. "Or are you here alone? After a win? At midnight on a Tuesday?"
"I live nearby, I just wanted a drink."
"Ah." Rozanov says, clearly unconvinced. The bartender sets their drinks down on the table in front of them— a tumbler of amber liquid for Rozanov, and a shot for Scott. Rozanov picks up his newly refilled drink from and raises it sarcastically in Scott's direction. "Cheers to your win tonight, Hunter. Who knows? Maybe this will be your year after all."
Ilya
His eyes slide open, feeling as if someone had dusted them lightly with sand the night before. Oh. Fuck. He rolls over and his brain belatedly joins him, roiling like unsecured cargo on a small ship in open waters.
Ilya swallows down a wave of nausea and breathes through the throbbing in his head.
Fuck. Okay.
He is in a hotel room in New York. He played against the Admirals last night. He lost, because he is terrible at hockey these days, because—
Another wave of nausea hits him, this one too strong to hold in. He makes it to the toilet, barely, and as he finishes heaving the sorry contents of his stomach into the bowl, his brain drifts aimlessly, slowly settling into place.
He'd been somewhere… shitty. Some shabby bar somewhere, the kind of place you go to drink to forget about things.
He had wanted to be alone, but… he'd been talking to someone.
Hunter.
Ilya forces his eyes open. He lifts his head from where it was resting on his arm, on the seat of the toilet.
Hunter.
He was drinking with Hunter.
Ilya scans back through the scant memories of the night before. He tries to remember what on earth they could have talked about— it's not like they are friendly, or have anything even remotely in common. They must have talked about hockey. Of course they did— that's the only thing they have in common. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure they did. They definitely talked about the cup, he remembers that.
His stomach continues to twist unhappily around itself as he's met with a new unpleasant realization. He'd been feeling so goddamn pathetic about Hollander, so sad and lonely that he'd accepted attention from Hunter, of all people. On any other day, he would have sent him away with a few sharp edged words. On any other day, he never would have even been in that dump. Ilya slowly settles back, resting his back and head against the bathroom wall, and considers whether this meets the criteria for his own personal rock-bottom.
"Roz? You alive?" The voice came muffled through his hotel room door, but unmistakeably belonged to Marly. Ilya groans and lets his head drop forward, regretting the movement immediately, before reluctantly forcing himself to stand. He shuffles towards the door and pulls it open.
"Marly. If you are not here to kill me, go away."
Marly ignores this and steps into the room, two coffees in his hands. He sets one down on the desk and runs an appraising glance over Ilya. His poker face has always been shit, so Ilya knows he must look as though he spent the night in the dumpster out behind the hotel.
"How ya doin', cap?" he asks, doing a terrible job of sounding casual.
"I feel like I got run over by a fucking cement truck, idiot. What do you want?"
"Yeah," laughs Marly, barely apologetic about it. "You were, uh, pretty out of it last night."
Ilya glares at him murderously.
Marly raises his hands in surrender. "Okay! Sorry! I was just giving you shit," he says, laughing again. "I just figured I'd bring you a coffee. Thought you could use it."
Ilya says nothing, but nods tersely. Marly shifts his weight, then moves towards the door.
"Okay, well, if you're good, I'm going to head out. Coach said to keep an eye on your phone— the snow is worse than we were expecting, it could mess with our flight time."
"Okay. Thank you for coffee."
He closes the door behind Marly and groans. Where the hell is his phone, anyway? He drags a hand across his face and crosses the room to where his clothes from the day before lay in. pile on the floor. He bends down, wincing, and picks up his jeans, fishing the phone out of the pocket. It's dead, of course.
Ilya curses and plugs it in next to the bed, then forces himself back into the bathroom to clean himself up. He emerges ten minutes later, feeling marginally more human, and slowly lowers himself back onto the mattress with his coffee.
He plucks his phone up off the bedside table and groans at the notifications he'd apparently ignored all night long. Slowly, he goes through, dismissing almost all of them. Suddenly, a new message notification pops up at the top of his screen from an unknown number. Against his better judgment, Ilya taps it, and feels his stomach drop again.
Unknown number: hey. This is Scott.
Unknown number: Hunter.
Unknown number: let me know when you get this.
Unknown number: we should really talk about last night.
Chapter 2
Scott
"So, what are you doing here, anyway?" Scott asks, the pleasant buzz of a few drinks humming comfortably under his skin.
"Oh, isn't it obvious? I'm here for the delightful atmosphere and lively conversation."
Scott doesn't dignify this with a response; instead he waits to see if he can draw an actual response out of Rozanov. When none is forthcoming, he decides to take his chances at poking the bear.
"You've been off your game lately."
"Ah, so you know how to work the internet? You have been looking up my stats?"
"Well? Anything you want to talk about?"
Rozanov throws his head back and barks out a harsh laugh. "Ah, yes, Hunter. More than anything in this world I want to sit in this depressing shit hole of a bar and tell my deepest, darkest secrets to the oldest man alive. How did you guess?"
"To be fair, depressing shit holes are a good place to air that kind of shit out."
"Okay then," says Rozanov, sniffing and leaning forward with a challenging look in his eye, "You first. Why is New York's favorite hockey player drinking alone tonight?"
Scott chews his lip and considers, trying to find the balance between honesty and self-preservation. He's not sure why he's letting himself get sucked into this conversation, anyway, with Rozanov of all people, but maybe he's beginning to believe his own bullshit. Maybe these kinds of conversations really do only happen at midnight on a Tuesday, in a depressing shit hole dive bar. With a surly Russian jackass.
"The holidays are hard for me," is what he ultimately comes up with. "I'm an only child, and ever since my parents died it's just… tough. Everyone goes home to spend Christmas with their families, and I'm just kind of left behind."
He feels Rozanov's eyes on him, contemplative. "I didn't know about your parents," he says quietly. "I am sorry."
Scott shrugs. "Thanks. It was a long time ago, I was twelve." At this, he sees Rozanov visibly stiffen, the hand around his drink tightening its grip. He looks up and, with a flash of concern, sees a stricken look on Rozanov's face. "You okay?"
"Twelve," Rozanov says dully. "What a coincidence."
"What do you mean?" asks Scott cautiously.
Rozanov swallows the last of his drink and signals to the bartender for another round before answering. "I was twelve also. When my mother died."
"Oh. Fuck, Roz, I didn't know. I'm sorry."
Rozanov shrugs and taps the side of his thumb softly against the table. "Was a long time ago."
"Sure. Because that makes it hurt less," says Scott, and Rozanov, still staring at a ring on the table in front of him, gives the faintest ghost of a smile.
"Ah, yes. In Russia we have strict mourning period. You are allowed to be sad for one week. Then back to work. Labor for the Motherland."
"Harsh, but fair," Scott says, nodding, with only a trace of amusement in his voice.
"Yes, exactly. That may have actually been my father's rule, now that I think about it." Rozanov says with a pained grin as he accepts his drink. Scott considers asking about Rozanov's father, decides quickly he'd rather throw acid into his own eyes, and instead orders another round for himself.
"Well, there. I told you why I'm here. Your turn," Scott says as Rozanov sets his glass down. Rozanov looks at him with appraising eyes.
"Hmm. I think you told me one reason you are here."
"What, do you need another one? Are you my therapist now?"
"Fuck no, I don't need to hear ten thousand years' worth of personal trauma. I have a flight to catch tomorrow afternoon"
"Then it's your turn, asshole."
Rozanov rubs a thumb against the side of his nose and tries unsuccessfully to look nonchalant. After a beat, he shrugs. "Is nothing serious. A break-up, if you want to call it that."
Scott nods, interested in spite of himself. "Your girlfriend broke up with you?"
"Not girlfriend… just— we were casual. We live in different cities, we would meet up when I was there for games. Things ended the last time we were together. Like I said, nothing serious."
"Yeah, it seems really not-serious," remarks Scott flatly. "So, why did she end it? She get sick of being just one stop on the infamous Rozanov party circuit?"
"Jealous, Hunter?"
"Fuck you, no I'm not jealous. But I could see how a girl would get tired of putting up with that shit."
Rozanov smiles bitterly. "Ah. No. Maybe almost opposite to that." His face drops and he continues quietly, "I wanted more. She didn't. Not with me, anyway."
Scott feels a stab of guilt at the look on Rozanov's face. Clearly, the alcohol was working to lower his defenses, maybe a bit too well, and in the dim light of the bar, for just one moment, he looks exactly like the man he is— young and heartbroken.
"She is with someone else now. Someone much better."
"Damn. I'm sorry, Roz. That sucks."
He shrugged, and took another sip. "Is fine. Lets get shots."
"Maybe we should get some water first," says Scott doubtfully. He doesn't know how many Rozanov had before he'd arrived, but he's counted four or maybe five rounds since then.
"Ugh. Water is boring."
"How do you feel about hangovers?"
Rozanov ignores him and stands. "Go home, then. I'm getting shots."
Scott sighs, and begrudgingly follows him to the bar. Maybe he can get Roz to give him his phone so he can call one of his idiot teammates to come collect him.
Rozanov waits at the bar as the bartender lines up four shot glasses. "Jesus, Roz, no fucking way. I'm not letting you do four fucking shots, I don't want to have to carry your ass out of here."
"Then do two of them," shrugs Rozanov, throwing back the first in the line. Scott curses under his breath and knocks back one of the shots, following it up quickly with the next. His head is swimming; Rozanov sets the second glass back down on the bar.
"Two waters please," he says, panting slightly, "So Father Time stops making that face at me."
Ilya
Ilya stares at the text messages with a mixture of irritation and apprehension. Why the fuck is Scott Hunter texting him? What the fuck had happened last night that they needed to talk about? Panic begins to rise in his chest as he scrambles to remember something, anything, about the previous night.
What if he'd said something about Hollander? Oh, fuck, if he'd said something— if he'd somehow outed himself, outed Hollander—
If he'd outed Hollander, he'll have to kill himself, if he doesn't just keel over and die from sheer shame and self-loathing. Because there's no way he would ever be able to face having that conversation with him. Remember how badly you freaked out when I made you a sandwich in private? You'll never guess what I told Scott Hunter in public last night.
No. That can't be it, there's no way he would do that, even as drunk as he was. He wouldn't cut his own arm off; he certainly wouldn't announce his sexuality and throw himself at the mercy of the league, his father, and the Russian government. He wouldn't tell anyone about Hollander— after all, he'd promised he wouldn't all those years ago, and he'd meant it.
Enough spiraling. He needs answers. He considers replying by text, but at the last minute, changes his mind. He taps the number, and brings the phone to his ear, grimacing at the unpleasant buzz of the ringing line.
"Hello?"
"Hunter," Ilya croaks out, aware that his voice is rough and raw from last night's indulgence. The vomiting probably didn't help, either.
"You got my texts, I guess?"
Ilya rolls his eyes. Obviously I got your fucking texts, why else would I have called? For half a second, he considers trying to play it cool, to see what information Hunter will be willing to supply on his own, but the painkillers he took have only barely managed to dampen the pounding in his head, and thinking in English certainly isn't helping matters.
"Yes, I got your texts. What the fuck happened last night?"
Ilya can almost hear the smirk through the phone and makes a mental note to take out Hunter's knees at their next game.
"Last night? Not too much. You had a drink, or twelve. We chatted. You puked on the sidewalk, and then you went back to your hotel."
"Okay? So why the fuck did you text me that we need to talk?"
There's a pause on the end of the line. Ilya almost hangs up in frustration, before Hunter begins speaking again. "This might be more of an in-person conversation, actually."
Fuck. This sounds serious. Fuck.
"I fly out this afternoon."
"It won't take long," promises Hunter. "Hey— there's this smoothie place I've been wanting to check out, meet me there in half an hour?"
"I don't like smoothies."
"Come on, it'll help your head. And," says Hunter, his voice dropping into a more serious note, "I do really think we should talk before you leave."
Ilya groans audibly, before reluctantly agreeing and ending the call. Fine. He'll go meet Hunter, force himself to take two sips of some terrible smoothie, and hear what he has to say. Maybe this is better, he thinks grimly as he pulls on his jacket. If he ends up having to kill Hunter to keep his secret (and Hollander's) safe, it'll be more convenient than trying to hunt him down across the city.
Scott
"Hockey players are stupid," says Rozanov a few minutes later, glaring at the water Scott has insisted he finishes before he can order anything else.
"Yeah? Present company included, I'm sure," he says with a sloppy grin. Fuck, he really was not used to drinking this much.
"Of course. We are the stupidest ones I think."
"Nah, come on, we're just regular stupid."
"No." Rozanov slams a palm down on the table and points at Scott with glassy eyes. "You are very stupid because you are so lonely, but you refuse to be with your friends and instead you are here."
"Okay— first of all, fuck you, and second of all, you're stupid for thinking that a girl was going to wait around for you to stop fucking your way across the continent and settle down to be your girlfriend, or whatever."
"So stupid," says Roz miserably, not even trying to deny it. "It was stupid to begin in the first place. It was never going to be possible for us."
"Why not?"
Roz says nothing, but slowly leans forward and rests his head on his forearm. Muffled, he says, "It was a secret. Had to be secret."
"Don't tell me she was, like, married or something," says Hunter, knowing he's entering dangerous territory, his curiosity driven forward by the impulsive momentum of the alcohol.
"No. She was… never mind." He mumbled something that might have been Russian.
"You can tell me, if you want. I promise I won't say anything to anyone, and it's not like I know her."
"Yes, you do."
Scott absorbed the words with confusion as he tried to think of what possible overlap his social circle could have with Rozanov's.
"Does she live in New York?" he asked. "Or— wait, is she, like, a sports reporter or something?"
"No," says Rozanov, reluctantly sitting back up and sinking back into the booth.
Scott tries again. "Does she work for one of the teams in the league? Oh— or do you mean she's, like a public figure, like a celebrity?"
Rozanov seems to find this line of questioning darkly funny. "Yes."
"To which one?"
Roz doesn't answer, just smirks.
Scott feels more confused than ever. Roz's mystery girl, or ex-girl, now, is either a celebrity or works for one of the teams. He slowly starts to think out loud, his head frustratingly cloudy with the haze of whiskey.
"If she worked for another team, I guess I could see why you felt like you needed to hide it, but I mean, it's not totally unheard of! You just disclose the relationship with your teams."
"Ah, is that it? I will call her and tell her." Rozanov rolls his eyes. "So simple, I can't believe we didn't think of that."
"Alright, well then why don't you tell me what's so damn complicated about it?"
"I have said too much already, Hunter. If you can't figure it out on your own, I'm not going to spell it out for you."
"Okay, hold on," says Scott, not one to back down from a challenge. "She lives in a city with a hockey team. She was apparently cool with casual hookups, but didn't want anything more serious, and you say that it wouldn't be possible to get serious anyway, because it had to be a secret. She works for one of the other teams, or she's famous, but I don't see why either of those things would be a problem—"
Rozanov is grinning humorlessly at him across the table. "And."
"What?"
"You said 'or', just now. Should have said 'and'."
Scott mentally replays his last comment once, twice. Slowly, unsure of the words coming out of his mouth, he says, "She works for one of the teams… and she's famous."
"Yes. By hockey standards, yes, famous."
Fuck. Okay. The night had just taken a very sharp turn that Scott hadn't remotely anticipated. He knows the answer, but he's afraid to ask the question anyway.
"Is it possible that your mystery girl maybe isn't a girl?" He asks haltingly, in a low whisper. The bar has almost completely emptied at this point, but Scott's heart is pounding in his ears as if he's the one revealing a deep secret about himself.
Rozanov raises his hands slowly, and begins to clap. "Congratulations. I had to spoon feed it to you, but you got there in the end."
"Fuck, holy fuck Roz—"
"Is a problem?" suddenly Rozanov is looking at him with challenging eyes.
"No! Shit, no, it's absolutely not a problem, I—" the words get stuck in his throat. I'm gay too, I understand, but he can't force them out. Not even here, in an empty room, where the only other person within earshot just came out to him and probably won't even remember the conversation tomorrow. He feels a pang of self-loathing, but Rozanov has already moved on.
"Anyway. Now you know why I am here, drinking alone. I think I am ready for bed, now." He stands and sways. Scott stands up quickly, too.
"Whoa, Roz, take it easy. Let's go settle up and get you back to your hotel."
Chapter 3
Ilya
Ilya's brow furrows as he approaches a shop with an idiotic, cutesy name. His head throbs stubbornly, the Advil he swallowed 20 minutes ago having barely shaved off the rough edges of his hangover. He sees Hunter standing hesitantly outside the shop, as if he's unsure whether to wait for Ilya inside or not. He spots Ilya then, and somehow manages to look even more awkward than he already did.
"Hey, Rozanov, thanks for agreeing to meet up," he says, extending an arm for a handshake.
"Is no problem," Ilya says, accepting Hunter's hand with more than a little suspicion.
"Well, no point in standing out in the cold," Hunter says after a moment. He glances at the door. "I pass this place on my runs, I've been wanting to check it out."
He pulls open the door and gestures for Ilya to go ahead. Warily, Ilya steps forward into the warmth of the shop. He looks around; the shop is empty, save for one woman standing at the counter, and the employee currently adding yogurt and fruit to a blender. The employee finishes blending the smoothie, pours it into a cup, and hands it over to the woman before turning his attention to Hunter and Ilya.
Ilya glances at him. He's in his early-to-mid twenties with dark curly hair and a bit of stubble, and his eyes linger on Hunter in a way that Ilya immediately recognizes. He subtly turns to look at Hunter with a "you first" gesture.
"Hey," says Hunter to the employee, with an air of forced nonchalance that Ilya has to work hard not to smirk at. "I've never been here before, what's good?"
The menu, Ilya notes, is prominently displayed above the counter, with ingredients for each ridiculously-named smoothie listed below.
The employee seems flattered that someone is asking for his professional opinion. Or, more likely, Ilya thinks, he recognizes Hunter, and is hoping that a bit of extra effort and charm will persuade him to leave a three figure tip. "Personally, I like the 'Blue Moon over Brooklyn', but I add an extra banana," he says conspiratorially, as if he's inviting Hunter to participate in an art heist rather than suggesting he add slightly more than the standard amount of banana to a drink that only contains three ingredients.
"Sounds great, let's do that," says Hunter with a smile that Ilya privately feels is far too genuine to give to a stranger who made the groundbreaking recommendation of adding fruit to an entirely fruit-based beverage.
Ilya becomes aware suddenly that both of the other men are looking at him expectantly. He blinks and glances up at the menu, before participating in the humiliation ritual of ordering something called a 'Monkey Business' containing banana, Greek yogurt, and peanut butter. Hunter pays, Ilya lets him, and wanders over to a table near the back of the cafe, close enough to the restrooms in case he needs to vomit again, and far enough away from the front window and the counter to hopefully reduce the chances of being noticed or overheard.
Hunter waits at the counter, making what can generously be described as small talk with the smoothie man. Ilya's English is pretty good after years in the US, but he must be misunderstanding something, because he's pretty sure he just heard Hunter say something about serial killers. If Ilya didn't feel as though there were tiny workers with jackhammers attacking the inside of his skull, he'd probably be more interested in observing the fascinating display of Hunter trying and failing to act like an ordinary guy. Instead, he pulls out his phone and checks social media for probably the fifteenth time since he woke up to make sure he isn't trending after doing something unimaginably stupid last night. Luckily, the few mentions he can find of himself are limited to commenting on his lackluster performance over the last few games. Which is… great. Perfect. Ilya scrolls and very intentionally does not click on the trending tags #RoseLandry, #ShaneHollander, or #Hollandry.
"Here you go," says Hunter, setting down an unappetizingly tan-colored smoothie with a large, neon green straw in front of Ilya. For himself, he holds a purplish concoction that doesn't seem anywhere near thick enough to qualify as a smoothie containing an above-average amount of banana. He takes a sip and gives it an impressed look. Ilya watches in baffled silence as Hunter turns back towards the front counter and gives a thumbs up to the worker, who returns the gesture with a grin.
"How's your smoothie?" asks Hunter, and Ilya glances at it before taking an unenthusiastic sip. It tastes like banana. And peanut butter. And vanilla yogurt.
"Fine," he says, and because he still doesn't know what the hell he's doing here or what kind of dirt Hunter might have on him, he bites the inside of his cheek and continues, "It's good, actually, thank you." Hunter nods, satisfied, and takes another sip of his own smoothie. Ilya waits silently for Hunter to begin whatever disaster of a conversation they're about to have.
"So," he begins finally, looking directly at Ilya with a serious expression. "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Fine," says Ilya shortly, growing impatient. "What did you want to talk about?"
"First, what do you remember about last night?"
"We talked. Drank a lot," says Ilya with a shrug.
"You remember what we talked about?"
"If I did, I would have said that, Hunter." Ilya hears the irritation creeping into his voice and doesn't bother trying to hide it. "Why don't you tell me so we can get to the point?"
For the first time, Hunter's eyes flit away, back towards the front of the store. The employee was busily preparing smoothies for a trio of teenage girls, the whir of the blender covering any noise from their own conversation.
"Well, we talked about our parents."
It wasn't what Ilya was expecting, and it sent an icy jolt through his stomach, but all things considered, it wasn't the worst thing Hunter could have said.
"Our parents?" he repeated, hoping for more information.
"Yeah," says Hunter with a nod, frowning. "I— you asked me what I was doing in a bar by myself, I told you the holidays are a tough time for me, because I don't really have family. My parents died when I was young. You told me your mom passed away, too."
Passed away, thinks Ilya dully. He has always hated the euphemism; there are so few situations when it feels correct. She passed away peacefully in her sleep, at 104 years old, surrounded by three generations of her beloved family.
His mother did not pass away. She died alone on the floor of her bedroom with lungs full of vomit, a stomach full of sleeping pills, and a heart too broken for Ilya to fix.
He doesn't say this. He forces the image back into the small box in the back of his mind that he keeps locked up tight, and nods tightly.
Hunter, to his credit, moves on without comment. "So, I told you why I was drinking alone in a bar, and asked you what the hell you were doing there."
Ilya forces himself to breathe evenly. He wouldn't have been that stupid. Even black out drunk, he wouldn't have come out to Scott Fucking Hunter. He tells himself this with more conviction than he feels. A new wave of nausea begins to churn in his stomach and he steadfastly avoids looking at his smoothie.
Hunter glances at him, then away, shifting in his seat.
"And?" says Ilya in a low voice, "What answer did I give you?"
Hunter takes a long sip of his smoothie before answering. "You said you were going through a break-up."
Ilya stares at him, hoping his face gives nothing away. "Yes," he says, because it's not like he can deny it. "That is true."
"You said it had been casual, you lived in different cities and didn't see each other often."
Ilya shrugs. "Yes."
"You said you wanted more, and that was the problem."
"I was there when it happened, Hunter, I don't need a summary of my own break up."
"You wanted me to tell you what you said last night," says Hunter with a hint of exasperation.
"Fine," says Ilya, sitting back heavily in his seat, fixing Hunter with a frown. "Continue, then."
"You said it was impossible for you two to be together."
Ilya rolls his eyes. "Well, yes, Hunter. When you want to be with someone who does not also want you, it is impossible."
It's a weak rebuttal, and they both know it. Ilya takes another sip of his smoothie just to have something to do, and immediately regrets it. He doesn't even like banana, what was he thinking?
"Well, I asked you what was so impossible about it," says Hunter carefully, fully averting his eyes now.
Don't. Don't say it.
"You… hinted that the relationship would have to be secret. That it wouldn't be… accepted. By other people."
"Hunter," his voice is a warning, barely above a whisper.
Hunter looks pained. "He's another player, isn't he?"
The floor falls out from below his chair. The lo-fi music that had been playing softly over the cafe's speakers was replaced by a high pitched ringing and Ilya's own heartbeat, thudding rapidly. Why were his palms so sweaty?
It's over. Fuck. Fuck. I'm so fucked. I can't ever go home again.
"Rozanov?"
So stupid, so reckless, fuck!
"Hey—"
He stands and walks towards the door. The walls of this place are closing in, he needs to breathe.
"Rozanov, wait!"
The door slams shut behind him, and a gust of frigid January wind hits him in the face, giving him a convenient excuse for the tears that are threatening to fall at the corners of his eyes.
Scott
Rozanov, apparently, had not been paying attention when his team had checked into their hotel earlier in the day. He can't remember the name of the hotel, the direction it's in, or his room number. He also may or may not have lost his key card at some point in the evening. Scott glares at him as the wind bites into his exposed skin. Rozanov ignores the irritation aimed at him and sets about lighting a cigarette.
"I can't believe you fucking smoke."
"Yes, he hated that, too."
"Oh, so he sounds like he had common sense. Obviously not much, considering he slept with you on multiple occasions, but still more than you."
Rozanov ignores that too.
"Give me your phone," Scott finally snaps, exhausted and cold, and finally Rozanov looks at him with confused irritation.
"What? Go home, Hunter. I don't need a babysitter. I will finish my cigarette in peace and go back to the hotel. It's that way, I think." he waves vaguely down the street.
"Call one of your teammates, or I will," growls Scott.
"Ugh. Fine," Rozanov pulls the phone out of his pocket, dropping it immediately. He curses in Russian and bends down to pick it up. He taps at it with a frown, before giving up and handing it over. "Fine. Call Marly. Don't go through photos unless you want to see my dick."
"I could happily go the rest of my life without seeing your dick."
"Your loss, it's very nice."
Scott determinedly ignores him and opens the call log. He scrolls through the contacts until he finds one labeled "Marly", and taps it.
The phone rings three, four times, before someone answers. "Hello?" calls a deep voice, booming out over club music playing in the background. "Roz, you good?"
"Uh, hi, Marlow? This is Scott Hunter," Scott says, feeling awkward and stupid.
"Hunter?" the background noise fades, as if Marlow had found somewhere away from the racket to conduct the phone call. "Scott Hunter? Is Roz with you?"
"Yeah, he's here," says Scott, looking over to Rozanov, who leans against the side of the building with a slightly nauseated look on his face. "Shit. Uh, look— I found your boy at this bar near my place, can you come get him?"
Marlow curses and Scott hears him shouting, as if addressing a group of other people on his end of the phone. "Hey dickheads? Who the fuck was suppose to be on Cap duty tonight?" Indecipherable chatter breaks out on the other end of the line. Scott pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a sigh of exasperation.
Marly returns to the conversation. "Hey, I'm really sorry, brother. Thanks for looking out for him, he's been kind of going through some shit lately."
"Yeah, that's pretty obvious," Scott says dryly. "I'll send you our location, and I'll wait here with him till you get here."
"I'm leaving now, I'll be there right away," Marly promises. "Thanks again, man. I know he's a pain in the ass, but he's really not a bad guy."
"Yeah. Hurry up, Marlow, he looks like he's going to puke." Scott ends the call and casts another glance back towards Rozanov, who is, indeed, hunched over, looking slightly greenish.
Scott opens the text messages, and scrolls to the conversation with Marlow. He quickly types in the address and sends it off, getting a prompt thumbs up emoji in response. He moves to lock the phone, but…
Rozanov has stopped paying attention to anything other than his own breathing, and trying to remain upright. Scott gives in to temptation, and quickly scrolls down through the list of recent texts. It is largely unremarkable— a team group chat, a few conversations in Russian, and then— Jane. Last message sent early November. An alias, maybe? Scott's finger hovers over the name, knowing it would be wrong to click into the conversation, knowing that there's a greater than even chance if he clicks on it, he'll become much more acquainted with Rozanov's body than he wants to be. Still, his curiosity is strong, and the alcohol is making it hard to focus on the part of his brain that cares about being reasonable and respectful.
The sudden, visceral noise of stomach contents leaving a body breaks the spell. Scott flinches and whips around; Rozanov is bracing himself against the building, breathing raggedly over a foul puddle of vomit.
"Jesus, Rozanov," mutters Scott. "You good?"
Rozanov spits twice and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, not bothering to respond. Scott holds out the phone awkwardly, and Rozanov shoves it back into his pocket.
"I hate the holidays too," comes a slurred voice to break the almost companionable silence that had settled over them as they wait for Marlow. Scott shifts slightly and glances to his right where Rozanov was smoking a second cigarette.
"Yeah. I guess you don't exactly get to see family either," mumbles Scott, staring at a stain on the sidewalk in front of him.
"Seeing family would make it worse, probably."
"Ah," says Scott, like an idiot. Then, apparently to double down on his own stupidity, he finds himself saying "so… you're not straight, then?"
Rozanov manages to fix him with a withering glare. "Ah, yes, completely straight, Hunter. I just suck dick for, ah, charitable purposes."
"Fuck off."
"Would be unfair of me to deprive half the population of my talents and body, you know?"
"I don't need to hear about your talents."
Rozanov gave him a wolfish grin. "It would be wasted on you, yes? I don't remember ever hearing about you with anyone."
Scott bristles. "I'm focused on hockey. And unlike you, I like to keep some things private."
Rozanov's lips curl into a humorless sneer at that. "Ah, private?" He nods, as if confirming something to himself.
"What the fuck are you implying?" Scott asks, feeling his temper flare.
"Oh, nothing." Rozanov shrugs. "Just that I have heard that before. From him. Right before we had sex and then he ran away scared."
"If you talked to him like this I can understand why the fuck he ran," snaps Scott, not caring whether that's too low of a blow. "You're such an asshole."
"Touched a nerve, I think," murmurs Rozanov, almost to himself.
A car rounds the corner and slows to a stop, and a large man jumps out onto the sidewalk.
"Roz! What the hell, man? I thought you were hanging with Vic tonight!"
"Ah, Marly, if you want to make sure I am supervised, you should know better than to ask him."
Marlow curses under his breath and turns to Scott, slapping Scott's shoulder congenially. "Hey, man, thank you for looking out for him," he says sincerely.
Scott nods. "It's all good, I know you're a decent group of guys even if you're a pain in the ass on the ice," he says, feigning an air of nonchalance he isn't remotely close to feeling. Marlow chuckles and then turns to Rozanov, jerking his head in the direction of the car.
"Get in the car, dumbass." Marlow reaches back and opens one of the rear doors to the car.
"That's Captain Dumbass to you, Marly," Rozanov mutters as he steps forward, swaying slightly.
"Hey! Focus up," says Marlow, snapping his fingers in a way Scott suspects he'd never be able to get away with if Rozanov were sober. "This is Sanjeet. He drove me halfway across town in the snow to come pick your sorry ass up, and now he's going to take us back to the hotel. If you puke in his car, you're buying him a new one. Got it?"
"Fine, fine. I will not puke, Sanjeet, I promise. I already did and I feel much better now," Rozanov mumbles as he practically falls into the car. Scott is able to make out the dimly lit face of the driver, who very clearly doesn't believe a word out of Rozanov's mouth.
Marlow watches his captain climb ungracefully into the back seat, and turns back to Scott with a lowered voice.
"Thank you, seriously. I know he can be kind of difficult, but he's really a good guy going through a lot of shit right now," Marlow says apologetically.
Scott nods, wondering how much he should share. "He may have mentioned a recent break up."
Marlow winces sympathetically. "Yeah. His Montreal girl— Jane, I think. They had been texting and meeting up for, like, years— literally, I think it's been like five years or something crazy."
Montreal.
Jane.
There's no fucking way.
Scott may be drunker than he's been in months, but his head is clear enough that he knows he absolutely has to keep his best poker face right now. Marlow clearly doesn't understand the significance of anything he has just said, and Scott isn't going to be the one sharing any secrets. Not even the incredibly scandalous ones.
So, he says goodnight to Marlow and turns towards home. He does not ask Marlow whether Rozanov has shared any details about this Montreal Jane. He doesn't remark on the similarities between the names "Jane" and "Shane". He just walks back to his apartment in a vague haze that he's certain can only be partly blamed on the alcohol.
Ilya
He keeps walking in the direction of his hotel, without giving it much thought. His head spins as he tries to force air in and out of his lungs at a reasonable pace.
Well. He was a fucking idiot. A stupid, lonely, heartbroken, pathetic idiot, who had just fucked himself profoundly and irreversibly. Hunter played the part of the nice guy, but Ilya isn't naive. The best he can hope for is that Hunter will hold this over his head, promise to be quiet in exchange for… fuck, who knows? Hunter's salary is just as high as his, Ilya can't give him hush money. Maybe he'll want Ilya to throw games, but Ilya's already playing like shit, and Hunter doesn't really seem like he's that kind of guy.
Maybe he'll just get off on the thrill of knowing he could destroy Ilya's life at any moment. Maybe he's that sick, that just knowing Ilya will be in constant fear of him is enough.
"Rozanov!" he turns, and sees Hunter jogging after him. He is inexplicably holding both smoothies, making the entire situation so absurd that Ilya forgets to start moving again.
"Jesus, man, look— I'm sorry, I fucked that up," says Scott with a look of sincere regret on his face. He holds out Ilya's smoothie as some sort of bizarre olive branch. "Can I try again? I had something I really want to say."
Ilya numbly accepts the smoothie. He wonders if, in the moments before a predator's teeth fully close around the neck of their prey, a sense of calm acceptance washes over them to make the death less painful. That's what it feels like is happening to him now. The sudden exertion and panic, paired with the lingering hangover, have left him feeling defeated and resigned to his fate. He shrugs.
"Let me walk with you the rest of the way to your hotel," suggests Hunter. "Then you can tell me to fuck off forever and that'll be the end of it."
Ilya nods once, and turns robotically back in the direction of the hotel, now just a handful of blocks away. Hunter falls into step beside him and neither speaks for a few steps.
"Right, so," Hunter finally begins, "I didn't mean to spring that on you back there. I'm going to go ahead and assume you didn't mean to share that bit of information last night?"
"Obviously not, Hunter," says Ilya, finally finding his voice steady enough to speak.
"I'm sorry," he says, sounding contrite, "Really, because it was kind of my fault. I was being nosy, kept asking questions."
"Feeding me shots too, I suppose?"
"You fed yourself, asshole. I kept trying to get you to drink water."
Ilya rolls his eyes. "Whatever."
"But… yeah. For the record, you didn't, like, come out and say it. You made a couple of comments and I put the pieces together."
"Good for you," snapped Ilya. "You want a prize? Scott Hunter award for outstanding hockey league detective skills?"
"Fuck, no man," he says, exasperated. "I just thought maybe you'd feel better knowing you didn't just, like, say it."
"What fucking difference does it make, Hunter?" asks Ilya with a surge of anger. He stops and turns to face Hunter. "Why does it matter? You know, now. Is not a secret anymore!"
"Roz—"
"Might as well tell whole league now, huh?"
"Come on, man, I would never—"
"Never? Never tell anyone? Oh, and I just take your word for it?"
"I mean it," says Hunter earnestly. "I swear, Rozanov. On my parents. I'll never breathe a word to anyone."
Ilya breathes rapidly for a moment as he glares at Hunter, looking for any sign of deceit or manipulation on his face. After a moment, he continues walking.
"I am Russian citizen," he says darkly. "If this comes out—"
"Yeah, man, I know. I know it would be fucking dangerous for you."
"And is not just my secret," says Ilya, faltering for the first time. "I am not the only one at risk." Please tell me you don't know who he is.
"Yeah," says Hunter, taking a beat too long.
Fuck.
Ilya slows; beside him, he is aware that Hunter has matched his pace. He stops, and bows his head, sighing heavily in defeat.
"You know." It's not a question.
"Pretty sure I do, yeah."
He lets out a groan at that, and braces against his thighs, willing his knees not to buckle. "How?"
Hunter sighs. "Marlow. When he picked you up, he, uh, referenced a girl named Jane. From Montreal."
It's a shame that he'll have to murder his favorite teammate, but at this point, Ilya's entire life is already completely fucked, so what's one more thing?
"I'm going to fucking kill him," he mutters.
"For what it's worth, it didn't seem like he had any clue what he was talking about," says Hunter.
"Of course not, Marlow is an idiot."
"Look— I know this is, like, the last conversation you'd ever want to have with anyone, especially me, but seriously— I'll take this to the grave." He looks around ensuring that no one is within earshot. "Your secret, and Jane's, are safe."
Ilya says nothing. He wants to believe Hunter, he wants to trust the earnest expression on his face, but it's so uncannily familiar to a look he knows too well from Hollander that it's like staring at the sun. He looks away, chewing his lip.
Hunter takes a deep breath, and looks down. "I know you have no reason to trust me. So… fuck," his voice is quiet, but Ilya hears the slightest shake, as if Hunter is afraid of what he is about to say. It's startling enough that he turns back to look at him, who now looks as though he is being led to the gallows.
"I— fuck, okay. It— it's not just you and Jane," he manages to force out around gritted teeth. Ilya straightens his posture as he realizes what Hunter is trying to say.
"Not just me and Jane," he repeats slowly. "But… maybe someone on your team?"
"Yeah," mumbles Scott, a flush creeping up from the collar of his jacket. "The, uh, the captain."
The confession settles over them.
"Why are you telling me this?" Ilya murmurs.
"Because— fuck, I wanted you to know I meant it when I said I won't tell. You can trust me to keep your secret, because I'm trusting you to keep mine. Okay?"
Ilya looks at Hunter, who finally meets his eye, looking frankly terrified.
"Okay," says Ilya slowly, "Okay."
They hold each other's gaze for a moment, not speaking. Eventually, Hunter exhales a ragged breath.
"I guess I should let you get back to the hotel… I'm sure you have stuff you need to do before your flight," he says awkwardly, looking around.
"Yes," says Ilya. "Well. Okay. This was fun, let's never, ever do it again."
Hunter laughs. "Yeah, sounds good, man." He holds out a hand for a handshake. Ilya smirks, and takes it.
"I think probably I don't need to worry anyway," he says. "You are so old, if you say something no one will believe you. They will think you are, eh, what is the word? So old your brain stops working."
"Senile? And fuck you too, Rozanov," grins Hunter.
"You're not my type, Hunter," Ilya says, winking, before he turns and walks away.
He should feel so fucking angry at himself, and he knows the anger will come in waves over the next few days and weeks, but right now, all he feels is an unexpected lightness, as if a weight he didn't even know he was carrying had been lifted from his shoulders. He tosses his mostly-untouched smoothie into a trash can outside of his hotel, and walks through the sliding doors with a cheerfulness he hasn't felt in weeks.
Later, as he waits to board the plane that will take his team to Carolina, he pulls out his phone.
Ilya: I will never admit to saying this, but thank you.
Ilya: it is good to know I am not so alone. And I can't talk to the other person who understands, so. Is nice to not be completely alone.
🦖 Hunter: I know what you mean. This life can be pretty damn lonely.
Ilya: yes. Probably even more so when the rest of your species has gone extinct, I think.
🦖 Hunter: 🖕🏼
Ilya: obviously we will never speak about this again.
🦖 Hunter: obviously.
🦖 Hunter: so… you and Hollander, huh?
Ilya: fuck off
🦖 Hunter: how the fuck did you manage to pull him?
Ilya: looking for tips, old man?
🦖 Hunter: no, I just never would have guessed his standards are so low.
Ilya: yes well clearly he has raised them, thank you for the reminder.
🦖 Hunter: too soon?
Ilya: go fuck yourself.
🦖 Hunter: hey, you think I could get his number?
Ilya: my plane has not left yet, Hunter. I will leave this airport and kill you right now.
🦖 Hunter: 😂
🦖 Hunter: in all seriousness, man, I'm sorry. How long were you guys together or whatever?
Ilya: you don't want to know
🦖 Hunter: ?? What does that even mean
Ilya: you won't believe me
🦖 Hunter: come on
Ilya: ok
Ilya: we have always been together. Since before rookie season
🦖 Hunter: what the fuck???
🦖 Hunter: you're fucking with me
Ilya: 🤷🏼♀️ I told you
🦖 Hunter: before rookie season damn
🦖 Hunter: when would you have even had the chance??
🦖 Hunter: wait
🦖 Hunter: at fucking JUNIORS???
Ilya: no. we did commercial together summer before rookie season for ccm
Ilya: hooked up then 😏
Ilya: but. Is over now.
Ilya: fuck you hunter now I am sad again
🦖 Hunter: you really like him? Like, it's not just sex?
Ilya: not just sex. Sex was fucking great though.
🦖 Hunter: don't need details thanks 👍🏼
🦖 Hunter: but like. I can't believe I'm saying this, but if you ever want to talk to someone you can text me. Not about the sex though.
Ilya: i would rather come out personally to Roger Crowell and my father at the same time
Ilya: but thank you
Ilya: and hunter
Ilya: that guy at the smoothie shop
Ilya: you should ask him out
🦖 Hunter: oh, I don't know.
Ilya: you don't like him? I couldn't tell if you were flirting or having a medical emergency, but when you didn't die I figured it was the first thing.
🦖 Hunter: fuck you. Maybe I'm a little out of practice, ok? Not all of us are sluts on a national level.
Ilya: international 😏 I just told you I spent 5 years fucking a Canadian.
🦖 Hunter: whatever.
Ilya: so? hunter? what, you want to die alone?
Ilya: you don't have much time left you know
🦖 Hunter: I'm THIRTY ONE
Ilya: centuries, yes?
🦖 Hunter: oh my God, I hate you.
Ilya: ask out smoothie boy. Date and marry him so he can quit his job and live off your money after your death in three or four weeks
Ilya: his smoothies are fucking disgusting
🦖 Hunter: stay out of my love life
Ilya: then stay out of mine 🖕🏼
January 13, 2017 - 7:19 am
🦖 Hunter: Guess what?
Ilya: your retirement community now has water zumba at 8:00 on weekdays
Ilya: your favorite restaurant just introduced a new senior discount menu
Ilya: you went to the primitive art exhibit at the museum and saw a cave painting of your childhood friends
Ilya: life alert came out with fancy new model of necklace
Ilya: ….
🦖 Hunter: you get that all out of your system?
Ilya: Please. I have one million of these
🦖 Hunter: oh, well then please continue
Ilya: someone is making documentary about American Revolution and they want to interview you
Ilya: store was having a sale on bran cereal
Ilya: the nursing home is serving meatloaf for lunch today
🦖 Hunter: …..
🦖 Hunter: ok that one was just sad.
Ilya: shut up it's barely 7:00
Ilya: I am not even awake
Ilya: why are you texting me
🦖 Hunter: remember smoothie shop guy?
Ilya: how could i forget worst attempt at mating ritual i have ever seen
🦖 Hunter: he stayed over last night.
Ilya: HUNTER
Ilya: wait I have more now
Ilya: the team doctor began prescribing Viagra
🦖 Hunter: you are such an idiot
🦖 Hunter: only like two of those were even funny
Ilya: they were all funny you just have bad sense of humor
Ilya: so you didn't scare him away with your weird intense old man energy?
🦖 Hunter: Nope. well, not yet, anyway.
Ilya: good for you
Ilya: scott hunter is getting laid more than me
Ilya: i found my new rock bottom
🦖 Hunter: didn't I literally just see a photo of you leaving a club with a girl this weekend?
Ilya: maybe
🦖 Hunter: a cute Asian girl with freckles, wasn't she?
Ilya: hm sorry my english is not so good i don't know what you are saying
🦖 Hunter: have you considered that you should try talking to him?
Ilya: no. he does not want to talk.
Ilya: he is with Rose Landry now.
January 18, 2017 - 4:46 pm
🦖 Hunter: how you feeling about all stars next week?
Ilya: fine
🦖 Hunter: they're talking about you and Hollander on a line together
Ilya: oh are they
Ilya: i didn't know
Ilya: i live in a cave in the middle of the forest
Ilya: no internet, no phone service
🦖 Hunter: alright
Ilya: i am writing to you with carrier pigeon
Ilya: look out for bird shit on the messages
🦖 Hunter: whatever man forget I asked
Ilya: don't worry about all stars. it will be fine
🦖 Hunter: just saying. I can run interference if you want.
Ilya: run interference?
Ilya: what the fuck does that mean
🦖 Hunter: like, I don't mind chatting with Hollander if you want to avoid him
Ilya: hunter the last time i saw him he was sprinting out of my living room
Ilya: wearing my fucking joggers
Ilya: he didn't even stop to wipe my cum off his fingers
🦖 Hunter: jesus, lol
Ilya: he does not want to talk to me
Ilya: he has moved on
🦖 Hunter: sure, yeah you're probably right.
🦖 Hunter: he doesn't care about you SO MUCH that he ran screaming in terror from you into the arms of America's favorite actress.
🦖 Hunter: Have you considered that maybe you're a huge fucking idiot?
Ilya: oh, look at me i'm scott hunter, i had sex one time and now i am relationship expert
🦖 Hunter: well?
Ilya: obviously yes
Ilya: every day of my life
Ilya: no need to remind me
🦖 Hunter: for what it's worth, it sounds like he's a huge fucking idiot, too.
🦖 Hunter: a match made in hell
Ilya: Saskatchewan, actually. is where we first met.
🦖 Hunter: same thing
All Star's Game - January 27, 2017 - Tampa, FL
Scott
He spots Rozanov almost immediately. He's seated at the bar wearing a ridiculous red Hawaiian shirt, looking bored. He's nursing a beer, and Scott notices that despite his clear attempt at projecting an air of nonchalance, he's rubbing one thumb idly back and forth across the bar. Hollander is nowhere to be seen; Scott figures there's a half decent chance he won't even make an appearance this afternoon. He typically avoids purely social functions, or makes only a cursory appearance.
Scott approaches Rozanov. "Hey, man." He flags down the bartender and orders himself a beer.
Rozanov smirks next to him. "Hunter, we need to stop meeting like this. People will begin to talk."
"You wish, man. I'm out of your league."
"Senior league, yes? Need to be at least 65?" Rozanov takes a sip of his beer, his shoulders relaxing minutely.
Scott chuckles and shakes his head. The bartender passes a bottle over to him, and he raises it in Rozanov's direction. "Here's to a great All Star's Weekend then, yeah?
Sure," says Rozanov sardonically. He clinks his bottle against Scott's and drinks before his eyes drift to a spot somewhere behind Scott. His face betrays no emotion, but his shoulders stiffen again.
Hunter turns and sees Hollander near the bar entrance, shaking hands with the goalie from Pittsburgh, his eyes scanning the room as he makes distracted small talk. Rose Landry, Scott notes, is nowhere to be found.
Behind him, Rozanov mutters something. Scott turns back to him, mentally preparing himself for whatever is about to happen.
"Interference?" he murmurs, taking a sip of his beer.
"No. Take a walk, Hunter." Ilya looks, for the briefest second, as though he's a soldier being sent up to the front lines, before he tilts his bottle up and finishes the last of his drink.
"Ok. Good luck, man." Scott spies Carter Vaughn at a table near the entrance to the pool, and heads in his direction, reluctantly leaving Rozanov to endure whatever conversation he's about to have.
Vaughn sees Scott and lets out a boisterous greeting that signals to Scott he's probably at least three or four drinks deep already. He claps Scott on the back and chatters on excitedly about… well, Scott tunes him out almost immediately. There are two other enthusiastic listeners standing around their table, and Scott is free to observe as Hollander approaches Rozanov, and sits down next to him.
Roz is stiff; he doesn't look at Hollander, he shrugs and participates in the conversation one word at a time. Hollander, for his part, doesn't take his eyes off Rozanov; he continues to lean in and attempt to talk to Rozanov despite his icy demeanor.
There's a lull in the conversation, and Scott realizes Vaughn is looking at him. Shit. "Sorry, man, what was that?"
Vaughn laughs. "Man, what the hell? I was telling the guys about the game last week, that fucking sick goal you scored right at the end of the second?"
"Oh, yeah," laughs Scott. "That was a nice one."
"What the hell were you looking at anyway?" asks Vaughn, his face transforming into one of surprise and amusement as he registers the scene in front of him. "Oh shit! Wait, is that Rozanov and Hollander?? Actually talking to each other?"
One of the other guys at their table, a wing from Carolina, says "What are the chances one of them punches the other this weekend?"
Vaughn moves before Scott can stop him. "I'm gonna go find out," he says almost gleefully. Scott can do nothing but watch as he walks up between them, wrapping his arms around their shoulders in an overly-friendly way. Privately, he suspects that if Rozanov is going to punch anyone this weekend, Vaughn just shot his way up to the top of the list.
Scott excuses himself from conversation with the other guys and slowly moves closer to the bar in case anyone decides to be an idiot. Vaughn thankfully gets quickly distracted by the arrival of another group of players and leaves to pester them instead. Scott stands at what feels like a respectful distance away and orders another drink. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rozanov's face split into the widest smile he's ever seen from him. It sends something warm through Scott; settles something he didn't know was unsettled. He retrieves his new drink and settles back into the crowd, chatting with other players, keeping an eye on the two at the bar who were now turned towards each other in a way that feels way too obvious.
It's too much. Scott glances around the room, looking for any signs that anyone else is registering the intensity of the encounter, but by some miracle, no one seems to be staring or murmuring in confusion. Still, Scott considers that they are being too reckless. He should go over there, lighten it up, make sure none of these other players realize what they're looking at. He's about to step forward when Hollander stands and exuses himself from the conversation. Rozanov watches him go for a brief moment before turning back to the bar in thought. Scott pulls out his phone.
January 27, 2017 - 3:52 pm
🦖 Hunter: why don't you just throw him onto the bar and shove your tongue down his throat while you're at it
Ilya: new phone who is this
🦖 Hunter: that conversation was THE GAYEST THING I've ever seen in my life
🦖 Hunter: you're lucky that everyone here has like 5 concussions under their belts and it's an open bar
🦖 Hunter: because holy shit you guys are not subtle
Ilya: you are so dramatic
Ilya: it was nothing
Ilya: we just talked
🦖 Hunter: yeah i saw you undress him with your eyes
🦖 Hunter: i feel dirty, like i need a shower now
Ilya: go call your boyfriend and stop jerking off to me
🦖 Hunter: fuck off.
🦖 Hunter: well??
Ilya: well what?
🦖 Hunter: "oh he won't want to talk to me hunter, he hates me hunter"
🦖 Hunter: "he's with his sexy actress girlfriend now"
🦖 Hunter: SO??
Ilya: ah, yes
Ilya: rose landry
Ilya: apparently they are not compatible
Ilya: 😏
🦖 Hunter: wow what a huge fucking surprise
🦖 Hunter: who could have predicted this? oh wait
Ilya: ok well this has been fun but i think it's time to block your number grandpa
🦖 Hunter: don't you fucking dare
January 27, 2017 - 9:41 pm
Ilya: hey hunter
🦖 Hunter: what
Ilya: remember all stars 2011
🦖 Hunter: uh, i guess? what about it?
Ilya: remember how i broke your shot accuracy record
🦖 Hunter: and then hollander broke yours like 2 minutes later.
🦖 Hunter: what about it?
Ilya: remember how our rooms were next door to each other
🦖 Hunter: …
Ilya: you cock blocked me that night
Ilya: Hollander was too shy to let me fuck him with you next door
🦖 Hunter: Rozanov.
Ilya: so i have to ask
Ilya: what is your room number this year
Ilya: i do not want repeat situation
Ilya: although i think maybe Hollander will not care so much this time
Ilya: now that he knows how fucking good I can make him feel
🦖 Hunter: I hate you.
🦖 Hunter: I hate you so much.
Ilya: still want me to keep your number?
February 15, 2017 - 1:11 pm
🦖 Hunter: i think i fucked up
Ilya: did you forget to put enough lifeboats on the titanic
🦖 Hunter: shut up
🦖 Hunter: I was trying to do something nice for Kip
🦖 Hunter: but I think I offended him.
Ilya: what did you do
🦖 Hunter: he's got student loans, like 50k in debt
🦖 Hunter: and like, he's working at the smoothie shop, he picks up shifts at this bar, he takes catering jobs whenever he can
🦖 Hunter: he works so fucking hard but money is tight for him
Ilya: hunter did you fucking try to pay his student loans
🦖 Hunter: I mean, 50k is like nothing for you or me!
Ilya: please tell me you didn't say it to him like that
🦖 Hunter: obviously not, dickhead
🦖 Hunter: I hate that he has to worry, it's not fair
🦖 Hunter: He wants to go back to grad school but he's worried he can't afford it
Ilya: you have been dating him for like 3 weeks
Ilya: what is wrong with you
🦖 Hunter: fuck, is it that bad?
Ilya: it is fucking crazy
Ilya: what is the saying
Ilya: red flags?
Ilya: 🚩🚩🚩
🦖 Hunter: fuck you, man. your fuck buddy of half a decade freaked out for like 3 months because you made him a sandwich
🦖Hunter: you don't know shit either
Ilya: and yet here you are asking for advice
Ilya: you are like a sugar daddy
Ilya: but even older
Ilya: sugar grandpa
🦖 Hunter: why did I think I could talk to you about this
🦖 Hunter: I'm going to die alone
Ilya: probably
🦖 Hunter: this sucks. I don't know how to do this shit.
🦖 Hunter: I like him a lot, you know. I just want things to be a little easier for him. I'm not trying to be weird about it.
Ilya: maybe it will be ok
Ilya: what did he say about it
🦖 Hunter: he couldn't accept the money, it was too much
Ilya: and then he said he hated you and to leave him alone forever?
🦖 Hunter: what? no, asshole, he didn't say that
Ilya: oh, he didn't?
🦖 Hunter: no, I mean it was kind of awkward but he still stayed over
🦖 Hunter: But I had to leave early this morning for our roadie though
🦖 Hunter: so we didn't really get to talk about it
Ilya: christ
Ilya: relax hunter
Ilya: he's fine
🦖 Hunter: don't bullshit me
Ilya: im not
🦖Hunter: you think so?
Ilya: he didn't run away? he stayed over at your apartment?
Ilya: if he was going to leave he would have left
Ilya: trust me
Ilya: just stop trying to give him gifts he has no way of repaying
Ilya: he does not want a sugar grandpa
Ilya: he wants an equal partner
Ilya: it is good that he didn't take the money. means he likes you for you
Ilya: for some reason, no idea why
🦖 Hunter: fuck you, man.
🦖 Hunter: thanks.
Ilya: 🖕 😘
March 11, 2017 - 9:20 am
🦖 Hunter: You good, man? ESPN says you're out for a few games.
March 12, 2017 - 7:21 pm
🦖 Hunter: checking in…
March 13, 2017 - 10:03 am
Ilya: my father is dead.
🦖 Hunter: oh, shit…
🦖 Hunter: I'm really fucking sorry, Roz.
Ilya: thank you. Is shit. But is fine.
🦖 Hunter: it's okay if it's not fine.
Ilya: ok. It's not fine.
Ilya: I do not want to talk about it.
🦖 Hunter: okay. if that changes you can talk to me.
Ilya: thank you.
March 28, 2017 - 8:02 pm
🦖 Hunter: holy shit
🦖 Hunter: is he ok??
🦖 Hunter: was he saying anything on the ice?
8:37 pm
Ilya: i don't know
Ilya: no one will tell me anything
Ilya: he was fucking unconscious hunter
🦖 Hunter: fuck
🦖 Hunter: are you ok?
Ilya: I am supposed to go play again
Ilya: what if it's bad
Ilya: hunter no one knows about us
Ilya: no one will tell me anything
🦖 Hunter: breathe, roz
🦖 Hunter: let me see if I can find anything out
🦖 Hunter: one of their 4th line wings used to play in ny, I'm texting him now
Ilya: fuck
Ilya: ok
Ilya: thank you
🦖 Hunter: hang in there man
🦖 Hunter: let me know if you hear anything before I do
Ilya: I think
Ilya: never mind
🦖 Hunter: ?
Ilya: nothing
Ilya: sorry. Just freaking out
Ilya: i care about him
🦖 Hunter: I know, man. I'm sure he's ok
10:40 pm
🦖 Hunter: the took him to montreal general
🦖 Hunter: my guy didn't know anything else, i'm sorry
🦖 Hunter: Hollander is a beast he'll be ok
March 29, 2017 - 11:31 am
Ilya: i visited him at the hospital
🦖 Hunter: how is he??
Ilya: he is ok
Ilya: fucking adorable
Ilya: he was so high on pain medicine
Ilya: i wanted to bite his freckles
🦖 Hunter: oh my god
🦖 Hunter: 😂 you're ridiculous
🦖 Hunter: it's nothing too serious, though?
Ilya: concussion and fractured collarbone
Ilya: no fucking montreal in the playoffs this year
🦖 Hunter: hah. that's for damn certain
🦖 Hunter: what even are the metros without hollander?
Ilya: 19 idiots on skates
🦖 Hunter: 😂
🦖 Hunter: sucks for Hollander, but I'm glad to hear it's nothing more serious
Ilya: me too
🦖 Hunter: good for us though.
🦖 Hunter: bet I'll be seeing you in April
Ilya: yes. you will be seeing me on the TV from the comfort of your own living room
Ilya: I will put on a good show for you and Kip
🦖 Hunter: once I knock you out of the playoffs, you and your super-casual-not-boyfriend can watch me win the cup.
Ilya: are we supposed to be impressed by this? You know Shane and I have three between us, yes?
Ilya: I know how memory can go with old age
🦖 Hunter: oh, so it's Shane now?
🦖 Hunter: and yeah, I remember about your cups, but maybe you can remind me how many Olympic medals you have, again?🥇
Ilya: it depends. Do you mean before or after I strangle you to death with yours and keep it as a trophy?
🦖 Hunter: sore loser 😂
May 2017 - MLH Playoffs
🦖 Hunter: Hey. Want to grab a drink sometime next week?
Ilya: oh I will be too busy celebrating moving to the next round of playoffs to have pity drink with saddest oldest man in America
🦖 Hunter: would it kill you to be serious for a second
Ilya: yes probably i think so
🦖 Hunter: cmon dude
Ilya: fine. Where you want to meet
🦖 Hunter: why break tradition?
Ilya: I'm not going to that fucking smoothie place again
🦖 Hunter: fuck, no, dumbass
🦖 Hunter: the bar
Ilya: I don't remember where it is but ok
🦖 Hunter: I'll send you the address.
Ilya: you're not trying to ask me to be a third for you and Kip are you
🦖 Hunter: not funny.
🦖Hunter: things with Kip are kind of fucked right now.
Ilya: oh.
Ilya: I am sorry to hear it.
Ilya: do you want to talk
🦖 Hunter: thanks. Let's talk next week.
Ilya
Ilya pushes open the door to a bar he only vaguely remembers ever visiting before. He winces slightly at the action; over the last week, his chest has taken on the mottled appearance of an angry bit of abstract modern art, all splotches of purple, yellow, brown. He's grateful Shane is safely tucked away in Canada, unable to see the ugly marks for himself. He knows he wouldn't hear the end of it.
Hunter sits in a far booth, a glass of something clear and carbonated sitting in front of him. Ilya takes in as deep of a breath as he can without sending stabs of pain through his chest (so, not particularly deep), and crosses the dimly lit room. Hunter notices his approach and gives a minute nod of acknowledgement.
"Good game," Hunter says by way of opening.
"Tell Vaughn I said fuck you very much for the hit," mutters Ilya, sliding gingerly into the open seat across from Hunter. He glances around; the bar is almost empty, save for a couple that appears to be breaking up in one of the other booths. Hunter signals to the bartender, who begrudgingly leaves the bar to come take Ilya's order.
After the bartender retreats, Ilya surveys Hunter properly. He's playing well this series, Ilya has to admit, leading his team to a current lead of 3-2, but up close, here in the painfully honest lighting of the bar, Hunter looks defeated.
Ilya receives his drink, takes a sip, and sits back slowly. If Hunter won't break the silence, he supposes he will have to.
"So, you ruined everything?" he says. If nothing else, he'll provoke Hunter into a response.
It works. He glares across the table at Ilya. "Why are you so sure it's my fault?"
"Isn't it?" Ilya shrugs.
Hunter's face falls again. "Yes," he mutters.
Ilya nods and shrugs again. "Ok, so? Tell me what we are doing here, Hunter."
"He wants me to come out." Before Ilya can process this and formulate a response, Hunter amends his statement. "Well, I mean, not publicly. He knows it's complicated. He just doesn't like being kept a secret."
Ilya considers this as he takes another drink. "Does he need to be a secret?"
Scott gives him an incredulous look, and Ilya presses forward. "Publicly, yes, okay, would be hard. But what, you can't even tell his family? His close friends? Maybe even one or two of your friends?"
"Would you?" Asks Hunter. "Seriously, if it was you and Hollander, and he told you you needed to tell his parents or else—"
"We aren't talking about me," Ilya says, deflecting. "We're talking about you. So? What is the problem? You don't trust Kip to know who is safe? Or things are not serious enough to be worth the risk?"
"Fuck you," snaps Hunter, and Ilya knows he's hit on something. He hands his head in defeat. Neither man speaks for a moment.
"I'm scared," Hunter finally admits, rubbing one finger along a mark gouged into the tabletop long ago.
"It is scary," agrees Ilya. "But is it scarier than losing him?"
Hunter doesn't answer.
"Christ, Hunter," scoffs Ilya, but not unkindly. "What is it you said to me? This life we live is lonely? You have a chance to be less alone, with a partner you care about, and you are choosing to keep being alone?"
"You know it's not that easy," says Hunter.
"Yes, I do! Because as hard as it is for you, it is twice as complicated for me!" Ilya snaps.
Hunter's eyes snap up to meet Ilya's. Silence passes between them for a minute as they glare at each other, something unspoken passing between them.
Scott
"Okay," says Scott, setting his jaw. "Your turn."
Rozanov sniffs. "My turn what?"
"Don't bullshit me. Your turn to tell the class what's got you taking such a personal interest in my relationship."
"You called me, Hunter. I am here as a friend." Rozanov's voice is flat, almost bored, but he's avoiding Scott's eyes.
"Oh, we're friends, now?"
"Of course not."
Scott nods. "So, everything is great with Hollander, then?"
Rozanov shrugs. "Yes, everything is great. Sorry to disappoint you."
"Hmm," says Scott. "You seeing him soon? With summer coming up I'm sure you'd be trying to get some time together." He isn't surprised to see a shadow pass over Rozanov's face, clearing almost as quickly as it appeared.
"Maybe," he says evasively. "I spend my summers in Russia, and Shane will be busy with sponsorships and things."
"Sponsorships. Russia. Okay." Scott lets his words fall with a flat thud, demonstrating how little he believes them. "Sounds like a bunch of bullshit excuses to me, but sure."
Rozanov practically squirms across the table. He looks as though he's fighting an internal battle, and knows he's going to lose regardless of the outcome.
"Okay, fine," he says eventually through a clenched jaw. "Fine. He asked me to come to his cottage this summer. For two weeks."
Scott blinks. "Okay? That's… I mean, that sounds awesome, Roz. What's the problem?"
Rozanov looks at him with an expression that borders on despairing. "Two weeks? Two weeks, Hunter! He invites me to his home— his very private home, to play boyfriends with him for two weeks. We will be alone, together, no need to hide," Rozanov throws his hands up and falls back against the seat.
"Sounds… awful?" tries Scott with a raised eyebrow. "Because you hate… domesticity?"
The anguished expression on Rozanov's face sours. "The cottage isn't the problem. The two weeks isn't the problem, Hunter. The problem is when it is over, what happens then?"
Scott opens his mouth to respond, but Rozanov is already continuing, leaning forward with an agitated earnestness to his voice. "I tell you. I will go home, and somehow I will have to go back to only seeing him for a few hours at a time, a handful of times a year. I will have two weeks of him all to myself, as much of him as I want, and it will make me so greedy, I will not survive it."
Scott sighs, as Rozanov looks at him expectantly. "Man, I don't know," he begins weakly. "It's really fucking hard."
Rozanov glares at him. "This is your response? You make me tell you my troubles, and that is all you have for me? Thanks for nothing, Hunter."
"Well?" Scott throws his hands up in exasperation. "What do you want me to say? Of course I think you should go— I mean, what's the alternative?"
"I think maybe I should end things," murmurs Rozanov, low enough that Scott is sure he must have misheard.
"I'm sorry, what?" he leans in incredulously. "I know you didn't just say you were thinking of ending things."
Rozanov doesn't answer, just stares into his glass.
Anger begins to grow in Scott's gut. He shakes his head. "No, man. Fuck that. Don't be a fucking idiot right now."
"Nothing has changed from six months ago, Hunter."
"Plenty has changed!" says Scott, his voice strained with the effort of controlling his volume. "You talked. You made up. You were fucking there for each other through death and injuries and he fucking invited you into his home for the summer—"
"And the world is still the world, Hunter! Hockey is still hockey, Russia is still Russia." Rozanov brushes an agitated hand through his hair, making it stand up in a way that looks almost wild.
"I'm not saying it's easy, or quick. It's not without risk. There's going to be struggles and sacrifices and it's really fucking unfair, man, but isn't it worth it? Isn't he worth it?"
"You should be asking yourself those questions, Hunter," Rozanov practically snarls. "You are lucky. You could have dinner with your boyfriend's family, could have his friends over to your apartment. I can't even talk to Shane off the ice without it becoming a story. The world is so convinced that we must hate each other."
"You could have those things, too." says Scott quietly. "I'm sure if you both wanted it badly enough, you could, I don't know, have dinner with his parents. Have a few close friends who know. People who you can trust."
"And we will live our lives almost entirely in the closet, until what, we retire?"
"Fuck, man, I don't know. You have to talk to him about that."
"A few nights a year, for the next decade or so, at minimum," says Rozanov flatly.
"It's a start. You have to start somewhere, right?"
Rozanov sighs, and picks up his glass. He drains what is left, and stands. "Maybe when you follow your own advice, I will, too. Good night, Hunter."
Cup Finals, June 2017
In the end, New York beat Boston 4-2. The loss stung, his ribs acting as a physical manifestation of the defeat, but more than the loss itself he missed having something to occupy his mind.
Ilya thinks about Shane all the time. They text every day; phone calls have been difficult while Shane has been staying at his parents' house, but they've managed as much as they can. Shane hasn't asked again about the cottage, and Ilya hasn't answered.
Hunter's words echo through his head on a loop. Isn't he worth it? You have to start somewhere. He aches with how badly he wants it; he tastes the words as they appear on his lips every time he talks to Shane, and he swallows them down unspoken each time.
It's not just him who will be destroyed; that he could maybe live with. He can't ruin Shane, too.
He can practically hear Hunter laughing at him. Whatever— he's laughing right back. What a pair they make, tragic lovesick idiots, doomed by their own cowardice and circumstances.
He texts Shane idly as he watches the clock run down on what will likely be the last game of the playoffs. New York is up 3-1, and Hunter is playing like a man possessed. Ilya hasn't reached out since their conversation in the bar; he's unsure of what to say, unsure of how he even feels. He's at a stalemate, unable to see a way forward, unwilling to retreat.
The horn blares, the game ends. New York has won the cup. He really should text Hunter a congratulations. He's the oldest human to have ever won the cup, after all. Tomorrow, though— he doesn't want to seem too sincere.
He watches the celebration, tracking Hunter as he skates around the ice on a victory lap, as he joins his teammates in excited huddles. He watches as the families take to the ice, sees how Hunter waits alone as his teammates are enveloped into the excited arms of their loved ones.
He feels the pang of loneliness as keenly as he felt it when it had been him a few years earlier. He wonders whether Kip is watching the game, and whether Hunter will be returning home to an empty apartment.
Hunter beckons to someone up in the stands. Ilya's stomach flips.
What is he doing?
The camera pans up and Ilya inhales sharply. It's Kip, recognizable without his smoothie shop uniform. He walks towards the bench as Hunter waves him forward.
He's not about to do this. This isn't really happening.
His phone buzzes; he glances at it and registers a confused message from Shane. He looks back at the screen and—
Scott Hunter is kissing his boyfriend on live television.
Ilya opens Shane's texts and hits the call button.
June 12, 2017 - 12:41 am
🦖 Hunter: I followed my own advice.
🦖 Hunter: Your turn.
Ilya: already done, asshole
🦖 Hunter: Good.
Ilya: congratulations
🦖 Hunter: Thank you.
🦖 Hunter: You'll be at the awards, yeah?
🦖 Hunter: Grab a drink with me and Kip
Ilya: I already told you I don't want a threesome
🦖 Hunter: its weird how you keep bringing that up
🦖 Hunter: kind of seems like maybe you do
Ilya: I don't have dinosaur fetish
Ilya: also have you seen my Shane?
Ilya: he is perfect
🦖 Hunter: you are so in love its disgusting
Ilya: i never said this
Ilya: never said the love word
🦖 Hunter: uh huh.
🦖 Hunter: sure.
🦖 Hunter: but you are though
Ilya: … yes. very much.
Ilya: now fuck off
Ilya: i have a trip to pack for
Ilya: and you have a boyfriend to celebrate with
🦖 Hunter: yes i do
🦖 Hunter: see you around, Roz.
🦖 Hunter: and thanks again.
Ilya: thank you too.
Ilya: 🖕 😘
Chapter End Notes
Thank you so much to everyone who read, left kudos, and commented on this story! It really sprang up out of nowhere and I just had to write it, and I'm so so glad other people enjoy the Scott & Ilya dynamic as much as I do.
<3
Afterword
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