Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Kip Grady, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), New York Admirals Team Ensemble (Game Changers), New York Admirals WAGs Ensemble, Kyle Swift

Additional Tags:

Texting, Fluff, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Vignette, POV Kip Grady, Gaydar, also lack thereof, Post-Season/Series 01, Kip Grady & Ilya Rozanov Friendship, 2017 MLH Awards in Las Vegas (Game Changers), Banter, something something of all the queer hockey players only ilya is culturally queer, and can interface with other queer people in a queer way, Ilya Rozanov Has Good Gaydar, etc - Freeform, kip and scott's relationship follows the tv timeline, that is they initially date during the 2014 season, and then break up for over 2 years, getting back together in the 2017 season

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-17 Words: 6,017 Chapters: 1/1

Sonar Systems

Summary

Scott Hunter claims there are no other gay hockey players in the MLH, or at least none he's met.

Ilya Rozanov is a smart dresser, a catty bitch, and a flirt.

Kip Grady is starting to think maybe his boyfriend is a little gaydar-ically challenged, but he loves him anyway. He'll just have to show him the light, one $40 bet at a time.

Notes

otherwise known as:
Scotty Doesn't Know: Kip Grady's Guide to Dating a Man with No Gaydar
The Cure to Hetero Hockey Culture Shock (a Russian With a Drag Queen Personality)
Scott Hunter Fails to Get a Good Grade in Gay (Something That is Both Normal to Want And Possible to Achieve)

inspired by the fact that kip, being a queer person deeply involved in the queer community (and being suddenly thrust into HeteroLand, wherein ilya has only remained unclocked by virtue of the stupidity and hetero-blinders of everyone around him), would clock ilya immediately. but that scott, a person probably able to remain convinced of a man's straightness after being fucked by him, would deny this possibility with extreme prejudice. and that that would be really funny.

also inspired by and titled after the fact that i listened to Twin Fantasy by Car Seat Headrest and literally nothing else for a week after i finished heated rivalry for the first time, and that in particular this one verse from Beach Life-In-Death makes me think about kip and scott and plausible deniability and seeing signs across a crowded room unable to act on them:

Your ears perked up
I perked up when your ears perked up
You were all looking around
and I hoped it was for me
I hoped you were using your sonar systems for me

Everybody, at some point in their life, dreams of being famous. For Kip Grady, these fantasies didn't follow him very far into adulthood; by the time he chose his undergrad major, he'd decided pretty firmly that he'd only ever be, at most, well-known within whatever niche circle he made his career in.

Fate has a funny way of surprising you.

Kip's name appeared in a news headline for the first time in June of 2017, and over the course of the next month his community had done their best to close ranks around him. Their efforts definitely eased the transition into fame, keeping paparazzi out of his face most of the time and a good chunk of the details of his private life out of the tabloids, but it had still been… a lot.

The first thing Scott had done after they got home after his playoff win (and the ensuing celebration)—aside from taking a shower and sleeping for about 14 hours—was put together a list of possible publicists for Kip. Kip knows he was lucky to have someone experienced in this world to walk him through every step of the process. Even now that there's so much new to worry about in his day-to-day life, he's been able to retain a precious sense of normalcy he hadn't expected. He works shifts at the Kingfisher every now and again, and his friends of course knew about Scott before the rest of the world, so nothing about how they treat him changed. Every once in a while somebody will recognize him at work or on the subway, and sometimes that results in confrontation, but Kip has been visibly out for the better part of a decade before this. He knows how to keep himself safe.

Honestly, Kip is way more concerned about Scott. Everyone in Kip's immediate circle—his dad aside—is a queer twenty-something from New York. Everyone in Scott's is a 200-pound heterosexual man in one of the most conservative professions in the world. Scott keeps insisting that Kip doesn't have to attend any of his hockey events, that he shouldn't, really, as it'd be taken as an excuse to publish and dissect anything he did or said, and Kip has agreed with this so far, but he can only imagine how many invasive questions Scott is fielding and veiled insults he's ignoring every time. Kip wants to be there, to call them out or be sarcastic or at least to hold Scott's hand while they weather the storm together.

The MLH awards mark Kip's third official public appearance, the first and second being the famous on-ice kiss followed shortly by Scott Hunter Night at the Kingfisher. He's been here for over two hours, most of that spent listening to inane speeches, and is almost regretting asking to come. Not that anything terrible has happened—Scott's speech was wonderful and moved Kip (as well as a portion of the audience) to tears, and the New York WAGs were quick to enfold him in their gossip circle once everyone migrated to the bar—it's just stressful and tiring in the way hockey events will probably always be. 

Kip keeps glancing around the room to make sure he knows exactly where Scott is and who he's with, a knot of vague anxiety stuck in his chest. He keeps forgetting to take sips of his drink, which is still nearly full but getting a bit lukewarm. He forces himself to take another drink and leans against the bar, trying to be subtle as he looks for Scott again.

Leaning to peek between the gaggle of young WAGs encircling him, he spots Scott, Vaughan, and Brisebois in conversation with two other players he vaguely recognizes as defensemen for the Raiders. Vaughan's tie is remarkably crooked—it's possible it wasn't tied correctly to begin with—and he's obviously mid-humorous-anecdote, his wild gesturing comfortably invading Scott's personal space. Vaughan delivers the punchline and nudges Scott with his elbow, and the defensemen laugh uproariously as Scott smiles and rolls his eyes. 

It's… fine. It's normal. It's way better than it could've been, than it would probably be if it were any player but Scott, any team but the Admirals, any time but now. Laura Huff presses in on Kip's right, Carter's new girl Fiona and a woman he doesn't recognize giggle together on his left. If the extra bit of space people leave between themselves and the uncomfortable is present around Scott or around Kip tonight, it's too subtle for him to be sure.

The sound of his own name startles Kip out of his thoughts and he looks over at Martine Brisebois—a rather high-strung brunette, visibly tipsy at the moment—who's looking back at him with a questioning smile. "Hm?" Kip manages. 

"We were wondering," Laura cuts in, "how long you guys have been, you know…" She motions between Kip and the group of players he'd probably been very obviously staring at. "A thing?"

"You do not have to answer!" Martine assures him sheepishly, her accent stronger than usual. "Is just, Scott is really, uh, I mean, he is very—"

"He's really hot," Laura finishes, taking pity on a now very red Martine. "I love Greg, but Scott's my number two choice, you know?" The rest of the group nod and make noises of agreement. "Fiona doesn't know this either because she's new, but 'why is Scott Hunter single?' has been the number one mystery of the WAGs chat since forever."

"Mystery solved," Fiona says, gesturing to Kip's general presence. Kip puts on his best smug grin.

Laura shrugs. "I mean, yeah, it explains why he didn't publicly have anyone. But depending on the timeline, he might've still spent a freaking decade single."

"Single and looking like that?" another girl cuts in—Kip thinks her name is Sally, or Sammy, and that she's dating Kay or maybe Andersson. 

"Exactly," says Laura. "So, Kip? Do you know? Was it you the whole time, or…"

"You do not have to say," Martine repeats anxiously.

"No, it's fine," Kip says. He and Scott had a pretty clear conversation about what was okay to tell who. Plus, Kip understands the appeal of gossip. Who's he to deny them, as Maria would call it, the tea? "Yes and no is the answer," he confesses. "Scott and I met in 2013."

"Whoa," says Martine. She counts on her fingers. Mental math can't be easy after the amount of champagne she's consumed. "So it has been, like, four years? And it was secret the whole time?"

"Not exactly," Kip hedges. This is edging in on territory they wanted to keep private. "We were together for the whole 2014 season, and then again starting a few months ago. But," Kip adds, "I know for a fact there was no one before me. So, yes, Scott spent almost the first ten years he was in the league as a… free agent."

"Ha!" says Laura, catching his attempt at a hockey joke. "Wait, are you serious?" Martine just gapes at him.

Kip shrugs like, 'what can I say?' "If you want details you'll have to ask him yourself."

"No way that's true," Sally/Sammy decides. "He has abs and manners."

"He looks like Captain America!" Fiona's friend chimes in. 

"This is… tragic," Martine mumbles, awed.

Kip agrees with that assessment, but doesn't say it out loud. Scott probably wouldn't think so. "I know I'm biased, but I think it worked out for the best," he says instead. 

He hears himself speak, and he knows he isn't embarrassing himself. He seems perfectly normal, but in no world is this the way he'd word this stuff to his friends. Every couple sentences he finds himself editing out some joke or comment he knows would at best warrant several minutes of explanation. It's like speaking a different language, or at least putting on a new accent. It's a little fun, but also tiring, and he knows he isn't being himself.

Kip tugs at his cuffs and glances back towards Scott and his crowd. Scott is looking back and their eyes catch. Scott smiles encouragingly and Kip tries to match his expression. Fuck, Kip wants to be home alone with him now. 

An elbow brushes his arm and Kip realizes he's missed a question again. "Sorry," he says. 

"It's ok," Laura says, looking a little concerned.

"We're talking about celebrity hall passes!" Fiona says with much enthusiasm. "Mine's Daniel Craig."

"Hugh Dancy!" Sally/Sammy adds.

"I like the guy from BTS," Martine chimes in. "Jimin?"

The group nods in agreement. Kip vaguely remembers Maria showing him a BTS music video during a lunch break at Straw+Berry but doesn't remember noticing any member in particular. 

"Um, Robert Pattinson is cute," Kip says when their eyes turn his way. 

"Like from Twilight?" Fiona asks. "Yeah, good choice."

"Jacob?" asks her friend.

"No, Edward."

"Oh. Well, I'm Team Jacob, so, boo."

Laura and Fiona titter while Martine looks confused and Fiona leans over to show her a photo on her phone. Kip pats himself on the back for not making that weird and takes another grounding sip of his drink, considering running away to the bathroom, just for a minute, as high school as that feels. He doesn't want to relive high school if he can help it. If only he were a smoker—he's always envied the built-in excuse to go get a bit of air. 

He glances down at his phone and sees a message from Elena asking for photos of himself and Scott in their tuxes, plus a "good luck" message from his dad. He opens the conversation with Scott and stares at the last text, sent by Scott and read by Kip when they separated so Scott could go backstage before his speech. Remember they're nice, and if they aren't I'll punch them for you, it says. Let me know if you need a break or want to leave early. I have a whole list of excuses.

"Um," he says again. Martine and Fiona are debating something about vampire movies now, but Laura looks up at him. "I'm gonna go get some air for a minute."

"Okay," she says, sounding only slightly worried. Kip tries to give her a confident grin and makes his leave as casually as he can, depositing his glass on the bar and smoothing his hands down the front of his jacket. 

Out on the balcony there's no fresh air to be had, just muggy heat and the swell of cicadas, but the view is pretty sweet. An elegant older woman takes one last drag on her cigarette and then stubs it out under the toe her black pump before leaving in a plume of smoke and perfume, leaving Kip alone in the quiet. 

He pulls out his phone again and uses the camera to check his eyeliner before snapping a quick photo of himself in front of the neon skyline for Elena. Before he can turn the phone back off she's responded with a " 🥵". Kip snorts and leans out against the railing, running a hand through his hair and then rubbing the back of his neck.

Somehow with all his worrying Kip hadn't expected it to be this hard. Well, no, hard isn't the right word. Practically speaking, this is way easier than working any of the customer service jobs he's slogged through since he was 16. He wears the clothes, makes the faces, says the words, and it's easy. But it's—to allow himself a single art-school-ism—it's existentially hard. Because he doesn't want to do it and doesn't think he should have to. Because he expected it to be easy, which was stupid of him. 

He swallows down a lump of guilt trying to crawl up his throat. He had asked for this. And, for the record, it's way better than the whole Scott pretends he's straight, Kip pretends he's single angle they had been playing. Kip gets to hold Scott's hand. He gets to say "that's my boyfriend" when they watch Scott score on the TVs at the Kingfisher. They get to go out for burritos together and sit on the same side of the little wooden table while they eat, pressed against each other's sides from shoulder to toe. It's worth it. And, probably, Kip tells himself, it'll only get better. He'll acclimate to the "normal and polite partner-of-hockey-star who just happens to be a man" persona and he won't have to think about it any more. He'll earn enough trust with this crowd to start sneaking his snark back in with the safety of the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he'll even find one of the elusive other gay hockey players that are surely out there somewhere. There have to be a few, statistically, even though Scott insists he hasn't met a single one.

Chatter and music swells for a second as the door to the balcony opens. Kip spins around and tries not to look broody. Through the door strides a large young man in a tuxedo, definitely a hockey player, who either doesn't see Kip or chooses to ignore him as he finds a section of railing to lean against. Before Kip can blink he's pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from who-knows-where and has one between his lips and lit a moment later.

The man is obviously a hockey player, but also clearly different in a few ways. For one, hockey players aren't supposed to smoke. Kip probably shouldn't be too surprised to see that rule broken, but his brain still stutters slightly over professional athlete and cancer sticks. For another, every formal hockey event Kip has witnessed so far has been populated with ill-fitting off-the-rack suits and incorrectly-tied windsor knots. Even when the suits are professionally sourced and tailored, Kip's never seen a hockey player look natural wearing one (Scott included, as much as he loves seeing him dressed up). But this guy's black-on-black suit fits like a dream from the perfect silk tie down to the fashionably wide-cut slacks, and he stands with a hip jutted and a hand in his pocket like he's expecting to be put on the cover of a magazine right then. 

He's also very beautiful. There are plenty of good-looking hockey players—Shane Hollander regularly tops polls in People, and Kip may be biased but anyone can see how handsome Scott is—but this man looks… high-fashion. His tawny hair is gelled back except for a single curl escaping towards his forehead, and next to his pouted mouth on his hollow cheek is a dark mole Kip wants to call a "beauty mark".  He has an intense, mulish expression on his face, his hard stare directed out into the open air. 

In between puffs he mumbles something indistinguishable to himself, and Kip leans in, trying to catch the words without looking nosy. The man repeats the same words and Kip still can't make them out. Maybe he has an accent or—oh, that's not English. Russian, it sounds like.

All of a sudden Kip recognizes the player. Rozanov, the Boston captain Scott has complained about to him more times than Kip can count. His eyes widen and he steps back. Given everything Scott's told him—that Rozanov is an asshole, that he likes to fight, that he's the straightest man ever—this could go badly. 

Rozanov must hear Kip's feet move. He looks over at him and says, "Ah." 

Kip curses in his head and shuffles his feet, trying to look unbothered. "Hi," he says. "I was just…"

There's a pause and Rozanov stares at Kip's face, eyes flicking back and forth slightly like those of a prey animal. "You were just…?"

"Um, getting some air," Kip finishes lamely. He coughs and sticks out a hand. "I'm Kip Grady."

"Kip Grady," Rozanov sounds out, and his eyes stop flicking around, his gaze going sharp and hard and knowing again. He puts his cigarette between his teeth and offers Kip a handshake. His hand is big and calloused and his grip is very firm. "You are Hunter's boy."

Dread coils in Kip's stomach as he flicks through his mental catalogue of everything he knows about Ilya Rozanov. He's Russian, which might be a concern given what Kip knows about their current political leaning. He's a notorious womanizer who's supposedly slept with half the female population of Boston, which is believable given his… everything, but also not necessarily of comfort where attitudes about gay people are concerned. He's supposedly a huge dick on the ice (and Scott would insist off it, too), likes to start fights and usually finishes them. 

Okay. Deep breaths. Kip resists the urge to look for the exit, like it's moved since he came through it five minutes ago. He knows he really shouldn't assume anything. For all he knows, Rozanov is the league's most fervent ally. But he also knows protecting himself means making educated guesses, and playing the room. The door is right there; he can make this public if he needs to. But maybe he won't need to. He remembers spotting him at Scott Hunter Night at the Kingfisher, which is a good sign, but not definitive. 

He smiles winningly. "Yep, that's me. You're Rozanov, right?"

"Yes." He blows out a lungful of smoke. "I like your, uh…" He waves his hand—cigarette and all—in a circle in front of his eyes.

"Eyeliner?"

"Eyeliner," he repeats. "Is good."

"Oh," says Kip. "Thanks." Rozanov doesn't sound like he's making fun of him. Kip squints at him.

There's another long pause as Rozanov smokes and plays with his lighter. Kip watches him, watches his big hand twisting back and forth, the lid of the lighter flipping on and off the body with rhythmic metallic shushing sounds.

"I was surprised," Rozanov says suddenly, breaking the silence. "Hunter, he is boring, yes? And very old, and bad at hockey, needed half the league injured to make Cup run. Then he wins, fine, and he does this thing that is not so boring." His eyes cut to Kip's face. "Is… what is phrase… out of his character."

Kip huffs. Nothing too bad yet, 'bad at hockey' aside. "Yeah, I was a little surprised too," he admits. "But I think it was on its way for a long time."

"I would not know," Rozanov says with a shrug that uses his whole body. "I only see him when I beat him at hockey."

"I get it." Kip rolls his eyes. "He's a terrible player. Tell that to his Cup and his MVP award."

Rozanov flaps a hand. "Is just final burst of energy, like old dog. He is all happy and fast like puppy for one more day before they put him down. Is to be expected."

Kip stares at him, mouth open. "What?"

"There is word for this. I learn from girl who is, uh… hospice nurse, but I forget word."

"You slept with a hospice nurse?"

"And surgeon. And hospice patient."

"Oh my god," says Kip. Rozanov shrugs again. "Scott is not being put down. He isn't even retiring, he's barely thirty."

"Ancient," Rozanov says proudly. "Have been working on my vocabulary. Hospice, surgeon, ancient. Stupid English phrases, too. Hold your horses. Slice of cake. Cradle robber; this one I like."

"I'm four years younger than him," Kip says, mock-indignantly.

Rozanov raises an eyebrow. "I did not say I was talking about Hunter. You know anyway, because is true. He robbed you from cradle."

Scott told Kip that Rozanov was an asshole. Kip is starting to think maybe Scott just can't read the guy at all. Kip has yet to find himself genuinely offended by anything Rozanov has said. "If you insist he's so decrepit," Kip says, deciding to play along (Rozanov mouths 'decrepit' thoughtfully), "it's probably more accurate to say I robbed him from the nursing home. I dropped about a million hints."

Rozanov nods. "This sounds right. He cannot flirt and he does not know when he is being flirted with. I know this type. Is good thing he is cute, yes?"

"So cute."

"Eh." He makes a 'so-so' gesture. "Not that cute. I would not deal with his terrible hockey and terrible flirting and creaky old man knees."

"Creaky old man knees," Kip repeats, grinning.

"Yes. So what is it? You have bad taste?" He looks Kip up and down. "Does not seem like it, but Hunter is not point in your favor. He is more interesting off the ice? Seems unlikely. Oh," Rozanov says, and nods like he's figured it out. "I know, he has big one down the pants?" He winks. It's a very practiced motion. Kip knows he's a womanizer, but he's coming to realize he's definitely a very successful one. 

Kip's grin widens further. "A lady doesn't kiss and tell," he says, and winks back.

Rozanov grins. He looks delighted, teeth out and eyes scrunched up. It makes him look younger, finally seeming the age Kip knows he is. "You are funny," he announces with authority.

"Thanks," Kip says.

"Is not fair."

"Oh?"

"You have pretty blue suit and eyeliner," he says, gesturing with his cigarette at Kip, "and you are funny, and you laugh when I call your boyfriend old man, but you choose this boring old man boyfriend who cannot bend down to tie his skates anymore and who tries to punch me when I make jokes but falls over instead."

"He's a great boyfriend, for the record," Kip counters.

"Yes, yes, I know, it is big. Is, what, twelve inches? Is this it?"

Kip raises an eyebrow. "Are you jealous?"

Rozanov scoffs. "No." Kip raises his eyebrow further. "Unless you are bored and want better hockey boyfriend. One who does not need hip replacement."

"Are you offering?" Kip makes a show of scanning him up and down with an appraising look. Rozanov spreads his arms presentationally, then waves a hand through the air as though dispelling the idea.

"No, no. I am sure I could find you someone. For me, is dangerous." Kip's brain stutters for a moment, broken from the familiar patterns of banter. That's not a crude joke. That's… a little too real. "Besides, I have someone. Not as funny as you, but better taste in men. Maybe years ago if you had asked…"

"Who says I would have asked?"

"Would be stupid not to," Rozanov says confidently. "You have eyes. I can see them, with your pretty eyeliner."

"You really like the eyeliner, huh?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I know someone it would look good on. Maybe you show me how and I pass along."

That's the second time Rozanov has referred to a partner. His reputation suggests she's more likely to be a long-term fuck buddy than anything, but something about the way Rozanov talks around her makes Kip second guess that assessment. 

"Anyway, is good we did not meet back then. I would have charmed you with roguish good looks and winning personality"—Kip chokes back a laugh and Rozanov glares at him—"and every time I win cup, every year of course, I score winning goal and I say, this is for you, Kip Grady, and every time I win MVP—"

"Every year?"

"Yes, every year," Rozanov says, like it's obvious. "Every time I win MVP you wear pretty blue suit and eyeliner to MLH awards and Hunter watches jealous, and then he goes home lonely and crying. He is so heartbroken he never scores another goal, he is kicked off team, retires in disgrace."

"Dude," Kip says incredulously, but through a laugh.

"What? You are saying this would not happen?"

"What wouldn't happen?" says another voice, and Kip spins around to see Scott coming through the door, a glass in his hand. "You aren't bugging him, are you, Roz?"

"Me?" Rozanov says, putting on an innocent expression. "Never. When do I bug anyone?"

Kip giggles, and Scott shoots him a confused look. He hands Kip the glass he walked in with, and Kip takes a sip—water. Scott comes out fully onto the balcony and puts an arm around Kip's waist, and Kip smiles around the glass, enjoying the thrill of being so close in front of someone else.

"Well, since he's obviously in one piece, I'll let it go this time," Scott says to Rozanov.

"Oh, I am not allowed to say hi to your sexy boyfriend? Was just getting to know him, this is illegal now?"

Scott rolls his eyes and leans down to press his mouth to Kip's temple, staring at Rozanov as if daring him to be uncomfortable. "Do you want to go?" he asks Kip quietly.

Kip shrugs and smiles at him. "Up to you."

"Ok." Scott looks back at Rozanov, who is watching them with his arms crossed over his chest, expression considering. "I'm serious, Kip. If he said anything, y'know, bad, I want you to tell me."

Kip pulls back to look Scott in the face. "I'm serious, too. He's fine. We were just talking, like normal people." He tugs Scott down by his tie and gives him a real kiss on the lips. "See?" he says, gesturing to Rozanov a few feet away, who gives a cheerful little wave and stubs out his cigarette on the railing. "No freaking out here."

"You are hot couple," Rozanov chimes in.

Scott narrows his eyes at Rozanov like he thinks he's being made fun of but can't figure out how. "Okay," he says finally. "I think I'm pretty much done for the night. I'll call a car and go say my goodbyes, meet downstairs in 20 minutes?"

"Sounds great, babe," Kip says. "See you downstairs."

Scott moves towards the door, hands lingering at Kip's waist. His gaze cuts to Rozanov again like he wants to say something.

Rozanov raises his hands in surrender. "Yes, you got me, I am planning to murder your sexy boyfriend. Soon as you leave, I throw him over the railing." He lets his arms fall back down. "Go. I am not going to do anything."

"Whatever," Scott says, straightening his tie. "See you soon, Kip. Night, Rozanov."

Scott leaves the balcony and is enfolded in a crowd of Admirals immediately, and after a minute Rozanov follows him out into a gaggle of his own teammates. Kip leans on the railing and watches the migrating packs of strangers through the glass door, pacing himself through his glass of water. When it's empty, he wanders back inside and weaves his way to the WAGs circle.

Sometime while he was outside, the Admirals WAGs managed to converge with, by Kip's estimation, at least two other teams worth of WAGs. He taps Laura Huff on the shoulder and she spins around, smiling and welcoming him back into the circle.

"Kip! Our favorite boy-WAG. HAB? We never decided."

"WAG is fine," Kip says. "I'm just here to say goodbye; Scott and I are heading out."

Sally/Sammy waggles her eyebrows at him. "Early night?"

"Shut up," Kip says, laughing.

He makes sure to give a farewell to every Admirals WAG he can find before making his way to the elevators. As the doors slowly close on the bar, he scans the crowd once more and spots Rozanov propped on his elbow at a high table, drink in hand, relaxed as anything, encircled by his teammates like worshippers at a temple. He adds to the conversation and as soon as his mouth opens their heads all swing his way, hanging on his every word. As the group laughs and chatters, Kip watches Rozanov smile and look away distractedly, and Kip wonders.

When Kip ducks into the sleek black car waiting at the curb, Scott is already inside, looking up at him with a searching look on his face. 

"What?" Kip asks. 

"Uh," Scott replies, and shakes his head. "Nothing. Just. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Should I not be?"

"No, I mean, of course not." Scott picks at the seam of the car seat. "Rozanov is an ass, right?"

Kip shrugs. "I don't know. I think he's kind of funny."

"Kip," Scott says, and he has the weird look on his face again. "Roz isn't… he's just, you know… he says rude things and tries to get under everyone's skin. He doesn't have an off switch and he likes seeing people squirm. You don't have to deal with that."

"Scott," Kip says in kind, and reaches over to take one of Scott's hands. "I can take care of myself." Scott gives him a look and Kip raises an eyebrow. "Yes, I'm aware I'm short. Which one of us has been out since high school? I know when someone is capable of actually hurting me, and when they're just a little catty."

"He's not catty, he's—"

"Scott. Shawn called you a 'brain-damaged himbo' to your face last month."

"That was different."

"How is it different?"

"He's your friend! He didn't just say it without—"

"It was ten minutes after you met for the first time."

"It was different! He's… different. Roz isn't…"

Kip raises an eyebrow. "Isn't gay?"

Scott's mouth snaps shut. A moment passes. "That isn't what I was going to say. But also, yeah, he isn't gay. He's so not gay."

"He's— Scott, what?"

Scott flaps a hand. "Ilya Rozanov is the straightest guy in the league. Everyone knows this."

Kip pauses, closes his mouth, opens it again. "Okay. Just out of curiosity, what makes you think that? I'm not saying he's not, just. Break it down for me."

"The whole 'girl in every port' thing was probably invented for him. I've never seen him without a girl on his arm outside of a game, and it's a different girl every time."

"He could be bisexual," Kip pointed out. 

"No, no way. He's so annoying and gross with the girls whenever he's out with them, touching them and making all these jokes. You don't think we'd have heard about it if he was sleeping with guys too?"

"No, I don't think we would have," Kip said pointedly. "He's Russian, right?"

Scott groans. "Yeah, he's— yes."

"So it would be dangerous, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, probably. But… I mean, you talked to him. He's never been too shy about joking about it. I can't imagine that'd be the case if he was also secretly tortured by his repressed urges, or, like had a secret boyfriend or something."

"I don't think he'd let that stop him."

"Maybe." Scott frowns. "I should be able to tell, right?"

"What, if he's gay?"

"Yeah, like… gaydar or whatever."

Kip can't help the giggle that bubbles up, and Scott looks offended. "No, it's— Scott, you've been out for like a month. Before that, did you have any gay friends?"

"Well, no, but—"

"You don't just automatically know because you're gay."

"I knew you were gay."

"I was flirting with you. Really obviously. Anyway, I know because I know gay people like Rozanov, not because I have some magical homing beacon. Here," he says, and digs his phone out of his pocket. "I have a lot of practice, but if anyone has more it's definitely Kyle."

He thumbs to Kyle's contact and types out a message, leaning across the empty seat between himself and Scott to make sure he can see the screen.

Kip: Which MLH player is the least likely to be secretly gay?

The typing dots pop up immediately.

Kyle: Kent

Kyle: Dallas Kent, from Toronto, I mean

Kyle: Why? You sick of Hunter already?

Scott huffs in offense and reaches for the phone. Kip pulls it away and types 'never' in response.

Kip: What about MOST likely to be secretly gay?

Kyle: Shane Hollander, Montreal

Kip's mouth drops open and he looks over at Scott, but Scott looks unsurprised. Mostly thoughtful.

"Hollander is the cute, shy one, right?" Kip asks him.

Scott nods. "I have suspicions about him." 

Before Kip can squeeze the gossip out of him—because Hollander must have done something to tip Scott off if he's this close to convinced—his phone vibrates again and they both glance down.

Kyle: Or maybe the other Toronto center, Barrett?

Kyle: He seems 

Kyle: like

Kyle: idk, repressed or something

Kip: I can see it.

Kip: Ok, stay with me here…

Kip: What about Rozanov?

Kyle: 60% chance of latent bisexuality

Kip: That's what I said!

Kip: Met him today at the MLH awards.

Kyle: SPILL

Kip: Even hotter in person.

Kyle: impossible

Scott shoves Kip lightly and Kip laughs up at him.

Kip: Anyway, he called me sexy and said he liked my eyeliner.

"He did?" Scott asks, and Kip can't help cackling at his jealous tone. 

"Mmhm," he confirms proudly, but he slides all the way across the car seat to tuck himself in along Scott's side reassuringly. Scott's arms enfold him immediately, the muscle memory of holding each other kicking in without any higher brain functioning.

Kip: And I think his suit was custom. Black silk shirt, wide-cut pants.

Kyle: Updated probability: 96% chance of bisexuality

Kyle: Also, introduce me

Kip: No can do. He definitely implied he had someone.

The phone vibrates about six times in quick succession as Kyle fills the stream with cries of anguish and sobbing emojis. Kip tucks the phone away without sending a reply and tilts his head up to catch Scott's eyes.

"Case closed?"

Scott does his best to cross his arms grumpily while still holding Kip to his side, which results in Kip trapped within a tangle of arms. "I still think he's fucking with us."

Kip groans and slumps down into Scott's lap. "You're hopeless."

"Whatever you say, gay Jedi master."

"Alright, young padawan," Kip says, pulling back to resume an upright sitting position. "One final test: does he manscape?"

"Does he— what?" Scott splutters.

Kip crosses his arms, more successfully than Scott had done. "You've shared a locker room, don't tell me you've never taken a peek. Does. He. Manscape?"

"I haven't! Why would I—"

Kip looks at him.

Scott pouts. "Fine. Yes, he does, 100%."

Kip spreads his arms presentationally. "Et voila."

"I manscape too," Scott protests.

"Scott, you're gay, remember?"

"Whatever." A flush appears on his cheekbones and his shoulders start rising towards his ears.

"If you're so sure, you won't mind putting forty bucks on it."

"Oh, so I can't pay your student debt, but I can bet on my coworker's sexuality?"

"It's an easy profit. He's the straightest guy in the league, right?"

Scott grumbles into his collar, refusing to answer. A bet would've been fun, but it's more fun to know he's started to convince Scott, and even better than that to watch his ears turn pink.

Kip smiles at Scott's antics and knows he probably looks lovestruck and stupid himself. The city lights play across Scott's face and hair, green, red, gold, and Kip plants his hands between them on the middle seat and leans forward to peck him on the nose. Scott stops grumbling and blinks at him, eyes warm and somehow shocked at Kip's audacity even though he does this—not this, but this type of thing—all the time. Scott keeps staring, wide-eyed, and Kip wonders idly what Scott is seeing, if the view is as magical as his own.

Scott's hands find Kip's on the seat and he tugs them up and presses them to his mouth. They look at each other, unhurried and awed, until they feel the car slow in front of Scott's hotel, and Scott pulls Kip out by the hand. They hurry through the lobby like teenagers sneaking out together: one after another, almost running, hands clasped between them, up the stairs since the elevator seems too slow, hands on each other's faces before Scott's door closes fully behind them. 

They fall on top of each other onto the bed, laughing at their own clumsiness. Scott finally kisses him, and Kip doesn't remember that there's anyone else to wonder about.