Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), 2017 MLH Awards in Las Vegas (Game Changers), Scott Hunter Knows About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Coming Out, (Slight) Canon Divergence, Missing Scene, Affectionate Chirping, FUCK AI you can pry my beloved em dashes from my cold dead hands

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-11 Words: 1,245 Chapters: 1/1

Did he just…?

Summary

Ilya Rozanov, even at eighteen in an unfamiliar country and speaking a second language, had never seemed small. But now, at… what, twenty-five? He’s standing in front of Scott with his hands clasped in front of him, shoulders hunched, looking… shy. Nervous, maybe.

Rozanov flinches when a loud laugh breaks the white noise from the party inside, and Scott realises that Rozanov’s been doing the same thing he has all these years: cataloguing who is or isn’t safe, watching, noticing, waiting.

---

Or: Ilya talks to Scott at the MLH Awards

Notes

I wasn’t sure if I was even going to post this one since everyone and their mother has put their version of this scene out there and I have more of my own ideas I like better than this one, but if I enjoy reading a hundred variations of the same scene, maybe some of y’all do too, so.

Ilya Rozanov, even at eighteen in an unfamiliar country and speaking a second language, had never seemed small. He was cocky and brash, taking up space like he knew he fucking deserved it—and he did deserve it. And while Scott caught him sometimes, over the years, looking off into the middle-distance like his mind was somewhere else, he was still an unforgettable presence regardless.

But now, at… what, twenty-five? He’s standing in front of Scott with his hands clasped in front of him, shoulders hunched, looking… shy. Nervous, maybe. Even Vaughn, who’s out of earshot but standing watch across the balcony to keep a protective eye on Scott like he has all night, seems to understand that this is not the same Rozanov they’re used to and leaves them be.

“I wanted to say, um…” Rozanov sniffs, looks away. He shakes his head. “Your team, they are not kind who use slurs on ice,” he says, “They have been good about you?”

Rozanov flinches when a loud laugh breaks the white noise from the party inside, and Scott realises that Rozanov’s been doing the same thing he has all these years: cataloguing who is or isn’t safe, watching, noticing, waiting.

It’s only thanks to something he’s not supposed to know that Scott has known since the kid’s rookie year that Rozanov was a safe person, but he hadn’t really thought too hard about Rozanov having to operate under that same hypervigilance.

But Rozanov is one of few who would drop his gloves to fight any kind of bigot before he would over a personal slight. Once, in his first season as captain, an opposing player had mocked the careful English of one of Boston’s Czech players five minutes in, and Rozanov had spoken nothing but Russian for the rest of the game. Boston had played beautifully regardless, like a well-oiled machine, and they’d wiped the floor with the other team.

Boston under Rozanov’s leadership have been good, in more ways than just hockey.

“Hunter. They have been good?” Rozanov repeats insistently.

“Yeah, yes. They’ve been good.”

Rozanov’s shoulders relax a little. “Good. Good.”

Scott nods slowly. “Look—”

“You know about me and Hollander,” Rozanov says, quick and quiet. “You have kept our secret for…” He looks at Scott expectantly, lips pressed together.

“Since your rookie All-Stars.”

Rozanov’s eyes widen. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “I didn’t realise it was that long that you knew.”

“Shoulda been more careful,” Scott says, both teasing and a warning, and Rozanov nods seriously. “Was that the beginning? Of you and him?”

Rozanov shakes his head. “Once before then. Summer before rookie season.”

“Shit, man.”

“It was just sex for long time. But now…”

Scott’s not really sure what to say to that, and Rozanov doesn’t seem to want to talk about feelings any more than he already is, so Scott just waits.

“Nobody knows about us. But Marleau, Connors, a few others… they know about me. Shane thinks Pike has guessed about him. They are safe people too.”

“Good. That’s good to know.” Scott doesn’t know what he’d do without Vaughn and his team, so he’s glad that Rozanov and Hollander will have at least a few people in their corner.

“Shane is… terrified to come out. I am… less so. Once I have citizenship somewhere that’s not Russia, I would be happy to upstage you and tell the world. Until then…” He shrugs. “I want friends and family to know. But…”

Oh. “Shane doesn’t?”

“He wants to,” Rozanov says, “or he wants to want to, but he has spent so long keeping this secret, hurting himself with it, that…”

“It’s hard to let that go.”

Rozanov nods once. “I have no family to tell. I am not good at making friends. But we thought it might be easier to start with somebody who already knows about us, even if you never said anything.” He cocks his head and smirks, and he adds, “Except for Shane’s angry kitten moment on ice.”

Scott snorts, and Rozanov looks like he’s not sure whether to laugh with him or glare in defence of his boy, somehow doing both at the same time.

“And,” Rozanov says, “with people who might need as much as we do to know we’re not alone. Thank you. For what you did.” He grimaces and adds, “I hate that you had to be, but you are brave. Slow and old, but brave.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “Save it for next season, Roz.”

His tiny, earnest smile—one that Scott’s never seen before and likely never will again—slants into a smirk. “I do not need to when there’s so much to chirp you about! Will never run out even after you retire next season, yes?”

“All right,” Scott says, grinning despite himself. This is so fucking weird. “We done here?”

“No,” Rozanov says quickly, face falling serious again. “I, uh. We want to invite you and your man for… coffee, dinner, something.”

“Oh.”

“We are spending summer in cottage outside Ottawa. You are welcome to visit for a few days, maybe late-summer? Labour Day? Or next time me and Shane can both be in New York, or next season when you are in Montreal or Boston…” He seems to realise that this is the most words he’s ever spoken to Scott and he cringes but perseveres. “It will be hard, maybe, with schedules of three hockey teams and…?”

“Kip works two jobs and studies.”

“Ah. Yes. Will be hard to find good time, but…” He looks away and sniffs, shrugging like it doesn’t matter.

“We’d love that,” Scott says. “I’ll talk to Kip and we’ll figure something out, yeah?”

“I give you my number,” Rozanov says, holding a hand out expectantly.

Scott pats his pockets. “Oh, uh, Vaughnny has my phone.”

Rozanov heaves a great sigh and reluctantly hands over his own phone, open to a new contact page. Just as Scott finishes putting his number in, the phone buzzes in his hands and Rozanov tenses all over.

“Jane… sent you a photo,” Scott tells him, laughing at their lack of subtlety—they couldn’t have done better than a rhyme?—as Rozanov snatches his phone back.

He opens the text right then and there, which is kind of reckless for a closeted player in the MLH, at an MLH event, who thinks he’s opening a dick pic. But, Scott supposes, they have made it seven years, either without anyone finding out or else simply getting lucky with nobody spreading it around if they did.

God. And they have been so lucky either way, but it could all still go so badly for them.

Rozanov scowls at his phone, and then at Scott, because the message from ‘Jane’ had just been, Did you talk to him yet? Did you cry?

“You must not have too much privacy at the moment,” Rozanov says, closing off again, “Think about coming to Ottawa cottage, yes? Shane says it’s… peaceful. Safe. I will even try to be nice to you.”

“All right, man, thanks,” Scott says, because he can tell Rozanov’s nearing the end of his capacity for emotional conversation. Honestly, Scott is too. “Tell Shane thanks too, yeah?” He pats Rozanov’s shoulder and then opens his arms. “Can I…?”

And Scott’s just barely taller and not that much older than him, but Ilya Rozanov folds himself into Scott’s arms, every bit the eighteen-year-old kid he never really got to be.