Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Scott Hunter Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Minor Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Scott Hunter Loves Kip Grady, Kip Grady loves Scott Hunter, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is a Little Shit, Shane Hollander is a Little Shit, Coming Out, Hockey, Scott Hunter is Tired, Fluff, Comfort, Ilya Rozanov Has Good Gaydar, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Book 1: Game Changer (Game Changers), Pre-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Canon - Game Changers Series & Heated Rivalry (TV) Combination, Inspired by Heated Rivalry (TV), silly fun vibes, Scott Hunter Needs A Nap, and a vacation, Shane and Ilya break Scott's brain, POV Ilya Rozanov, Eric Bennet - Freeform, Carter Vaughn - Freeform, Light Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-02 Completed: 2026-04-20 Words: 14,146 Chapters: 3/3

one small step and one giant leap

Summary

Scott watched as Hollander leaned in, further, to hear Rozanov. This was the part that didn’t entirely make sense to him. The missing piece of something that felt like it was just beyond his reach. This was quiet ease and small moments of comfort and a look that makes the rest of the world fade away. This was how he felt with Kip.

Scott stilled.

It was as if someone had whispered it in his ear. It was as if the final piece of this insane, deranged puzzle finally clicked into place. His heart was pounding in his ears. He was probably wrong. In fact he was entirely wrong. This wasn’t like him and Kip. It couldn’t be Kip. Scott had been watching too many romantic comedies. His head was in the clouds.

But they weren’t touching.

Hollander and Rozanov were as close as they could be, without laying a single finger on one another. They were specifically, rigidly, separate. The warmth between them was bridled. Entirely. And this, Scott realized, his heart sinking into the floor, was also how he had felt with Kip.

Oh. Oh fuck.

---
OR: Scott Hunter figures out Shane and Ilya are together at the NHL award ceremony and tries (and fails) not to freak out about it

Chapter 1: the step

Chapter Notes

hello! i've had this idea rattling around in my brain for a while, it is ofc canon divergent, but i thought it could be fun to explore! my obligatory take on scott-finds-out!

this is set two years after Scott comes out, so it's 2019. Other important notes are that Ilya has just completed his first year on the Ottawa Centaurs and Shane is one year away from his third cup.

ALSO** I decided that the PWHL in this universe started much much earlier than 2024 because I needed a new york team and also because i said so and also because i love women's sports i wish we lived in a kinder and more inclusive world. also the women's teams are paid as much as the mens in this universe too i decided, it doesn't come up but know its true.

i hope you enjoy!

The NHL Awards were always a bit of a ridiculous affair. They were scheduled just shy of a month after the final game of the season, and so if you were in the playoffs at all the entire thing felt a little like a weird dream. Sometime between his fifth and tenth award show they started to all blur together into one hazy night of exhaustion and cue cards. For so long the only upside had been the moments between small talk where he could get a drink with his friends.

Now, there was another, far more exciting upside: taking Kip on vacation. They’d organized the trip so that they’d be going straight from their Las Vegas hotel to the airport, and from there on their wild and wonderful adventure. The last two years had been… a lot. The only reason Scott survived any of it was because Kip had been in his corner. And now, finally, he’d convinced his boyfriend to let him treat him to a proper vacation. It would be three uninterrupted weeks of museums and hiking and laying on the beach as they traipsed across Central and South America. And if Scott had something extra planned for a particular lookout involving a ring and asking the love of his life to spend the rest of it with him… that was neither here nor there.

First, they had to get through the awards. It was important that Scott go this year. The first year after he came out, going was a non-negotiable. They’d won the cup, he was walking home with MVP, and there were considerably more eyes on him and hockey in general than there had been in a while. The second year, inviting him had been a good show of begrudging faith from the League. But this year, returning as a presenter, felt just as important. It was his way of reminding everyone that he was here to stay. The gay player was not a one-off thing or someone who would fade into the background. Scott Hunter was apart of the NHL, and Scott Hunter was gay.

Scott Hunter was also pretty bored. He’d been waiting in the admittedly pretty stocked green room for about forty-five minutes for his cue. There were other players and staff in here with him, but none of them seemed all that keen to chat after pleasantries. Scott understood, they’d all spent way too much time together in the last few weeks. There were only so many times you could ask someone about their summer or their kids or their new home-reno. Taking another mechanical sip of a thoughtfully chilled sparkling water, his mind drifted, as it often did, to Kip. He was out in the crowd, seated tactfully between Bennet and Vaughn while they waited for Scott to return.

The show was playing on a small TV in the corner. A player Scott vaguely recognized was on screen, likely giving a painfully paced joke. The show was boring, even if you were up for an award. It was a lot of speeches about the love of the game and the gratitude to play and a lot of things that still felt pretty true. And there were speeches about a lot of things that didn’t anymore, like all of the NHL being one big family. Some of it was, a good chunk, but not everyone. There were a lot of people in the audience that would rather Scott have lived miserably for the rest of his days, and were only stopping short of letting him know because he was a captain and a Stanley Cup winner and the Admirals loved him fiercely and and and… These were all of the things that made Scott lucky and all of the other gay players he knew had to be out there far less so.

After another few minutes, a slightly harried stagehand burst through the doors and finally, mercifully, called his name. She guided him through the building, with a speed that was nearing a sprint. Scott was about to ask where he should wait for his cue, when someone yelled so loudly in the stagehand’s ear piece that he could hear it. She gave him a frantic, hastily whispered apology, and darted off. Perfect.

As this wasn’t Scott’s first rodeo, he straightened his tie and pushed through the doors and into the wings of the stage. Someone new was in the middle of their speech, something again about gratitude and family and community. But this person was a coach, he realized quickly, not a player. Scott could picture the setlist in his mind - it had been posted everywhere in the green room - and he was not presenting after a coaching award. He realized with a heavy sigh that they were predictably behind, and he was not on next. Scott shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to find a place to stand. He would not be going back into that deathly quiet green room ever again if he could help it. There were a few stagehands working around him, but they paid him no mind. If he wasn’t making trouble, it seemed like he could stay.

Scott walked out to where he could snag a peek at the stage. It was brightly lit, almost blindingly so. He couldn’t make out any faces in the crowd, but he knew that Kip was there somewhere, likely making a list of all of the things he found ridiculous or accidentally funny about the speeches that he’d want to bring up later. Scott couldn’t wait.

Now that he had more of a lay of the land, he realized that there were two more players back stage. Because of the curtain, Scott didn’t see them until he made it all the way to the other end of the wing.

It was a bit surprising he hadn’t seen them sooner, honestly, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander were not the kind of players who knew how to fade into the background of anything.

Rozanov and Hollander were sharing a mark, standing on either side of a neon yellow ‘x.’ They were presenting an award for leadership this year. Optics wise, it made sense, their rivalry-turned-friendship was as famous as you could get in hockey. Hollander and Montreal had gone far this year, and by all accounts, they were already setting their sights on the cup next year. And even though Rozanov had moved from his shining star of a team in Boston to a true Mighty Ducks situation in Ottawa, he was still the kind of player who would be invited to these things until the end of time.

They hadn’t noticed him, though. Their backs were turned. Scott leaned back against the wall, half-listening to the Seattle coach talk about community and family and gratitude. Hollander and Rozanov didn’t seem to be paying much attention, either. Scott didn’t mean to stare or observe, even, but they were right in his line of sight. Rozanov kept leaning over to whisper something in Hollander’s ear, which would earn a small shake of his shoulders before he leaned over to respond. They seemed so wrapped in conversation, so entirely encapsulated by whatever the other was saying.

Huh.

Rozanov and Hollander didn’t entirely make sense to Scott. The the rivalry part did, that had been so clearly orchestrated that anyone who was paying any ounce of attention could tell. At the time he’d hoped they would find some sort of friendship or common ground with one another, be each other’s support system. That was, of course, before he met the two of them, and realized how their polar-opposite playing style extended into their personality. But the charity made sense, too. That clicked, even though it didn’t for some. Rozanov had a big heart, one he kept well protected, and Hollander was a model player, on and of the ice. A charity was the kind of thing people with their ridiculous amount of money should do. No, it was something else. There was something that just didn’t add up with them. Scott didn’t normally dwell on it. He had his own life to lead. He didn’t give it much of anything at all really, but it was hard to ignore when they were right in front of him.

Scott watched as Hollander leaned in, closer, to hear Rozanov. Both of their shoulders were slumped, not tight and wound as everyone else around them. He couldn’t see their faces, but he could feel their solace. This was the part that didn’t entirely make sense to Scott. The missing piece of something that felt like it was just beyond his reach. They were so relaxed. He was friends with tons of guys on different teams, that wasn’t something that was all that crazy. This was something else. This was quiet ease and small moments of comfort and a look that makes the rest of the world fade away.

This was how he felt with Kip.

Scott stilled. It struck him suddenly. It was as if someone had whispered it in his ear. As if the final piece of this insane, deranged puzzle finally clicked into place as he watched two of the best NHL players in a generation whisper to one another when they thought no one was paying attention. Scott ran a hand over his face. His heart started pounding in his ears. He wanted to look away. He wanted to leave, actually, but he couldn’t do that. Because at some point, someday, this Seattle coach would have to stop talking about family and gratitude and these two would go on stage and then he’d go on stage and the night would just keep happening.

Ilya Rozanov had not come out to him, but he hadn’t not come out to him, either. He went out with them two years ago after Scott came out, extending a show of support that, at the time, Scott hadn’t had the bandwidth to reflect on further. And he probably wouldn’t have, if Rozanov didn’t keep showing up, both metaphorically and physically. If a reporter asked him a leading question about Hunter and his sexuality, Roznaov shut it down. He made a point to talk to Scott at events, to slap a hand on his back and insult his age. At the first All-Stars game since Scott came out, Rozanov forced his rookie to shake his hand and gushed about how the poor American boy used to be his biggest fan. And yeah, that was probably mostly some sort of weird hazing, but it was also something else. It was Rozanov’s way of telling Scott, and everyone else in their little repressed community, that nothing had changed. And Scott appreciated it.

Also, it seemed like Rozanov was literally everywhere. The number of times Scott had walked into the Kingfisher to find Rozanov already seated at Scott’s table felt statistically impossible. How often were the Bears even in playing New York?

And so, yeah. Scott put the pieces together. And Rozanov knew that he knew, too. Rozanov wasn’t trying to be out, and he had enough of a reputation that most people wouldn’t even consider it as a possibility, but he wasn’t locking himself in the closet, either. At least not all of the time. Scott tried to give him the space for that, to be whatever he and their sport and his country would allow. Most of the time he had no idea if it was working, but Rozanov kept coming to the Kingfisher and Scott kept pulling up a chair. It felt like enough, and it also felt like all they had capacity for.

Shane Hollander had come out. At least, kind of. He’d sent an email, something very throughly edited and drafted, the summer after Scott and Kip kissed on the ice. It was brief and vague, but Scott got the idea. Like Rozanov, they never spoke about it directly, it never seemed like Hollander had any desire to. He didn’t come to the Kingfisher, but he also didn’t seem like the kind of guy that went to many bars, gay or otherwise. In the last year, Scott heard a rumor that he’d come out some of his teammates, but none of the claims felt strong enough to be credible.

At the time, Hollander’s probable queerness made his friendship with Rozanov make slightly more sense. That maybe they could become the support system for each other Scott had hoped. But that was a one-off thought. Something fleeting. And not one he dwelled on further.

Scott watched on, despite himself. Their conversation was innocent, a truly unimportant moment in an evening of many that would attract attention. They weren’t doing anything that should make Scott think what he thought. He was probably wrong. In fact he was entirely wrong. This wasn’t like him and Kip. It couldn’t be him and Kip. Scott had been watching too many romantic comedies. He’d been reading too many gay romance novels. His head was in the clouds. This was just a long day.

But they weren’t touching.

Hollander and Rozanov were as close as they could be, without laying a single finger on one another. They were specifically, rigidly, separate. The warmth between them was bridled. Entirely. And this, Scott realized, his heart sinking into the floor, was also, exactly how he had felt with Kip.

Oh. Oh.

Oh fuck.

Scott had never been so grateful for a script in his life. He spent the next hour in a complete fog. He barely registered what he was saying on stage, even less what the winner of the award said. Afterwards, he let himself be guided back through the winding hallways and somehow, miraculously, back into his seat beside Kip. The only thing his brain seemed to be able to focus on was the fact that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were… something? Maybe? Kind of?

For the rest of the show, he found himself sifting through moments where he’d seen them together. Every game, every All Stars weekend, every promotional shoot. He was looking for tiny moments that were actually big moments, for jokes or plays or photos that could be relit, given new life in hindsight. Though whether he was searching for proof of to dispute his claims, he wasn’t sure. And proof of what? What was he claiming?

Scott clapped, just a beat after everyone else, as the last presenter took the stage. Kip noticed and raised an eyebrow, and Scott merely shrugged in return. He’d tell him later, once he could decide what he was even accusing them of.

Accusing. Accusing wasn’t the right word. Accusing implied that there was wrong doing. That doing whatever it was that Scott suspected was something bad. That was what kept Scott’s foot tapping against the carpeted floor of this Las Vegas theatre. This was… this was a lot.

When Scott came out, he had hoped more would follow. That people in the NHL would see that a better world, a kinder world, was waiting for them. That didn’t happen. Two players did quietly come out, but they left so quickly to play in Europe that Scott didn’t even get the chance to speak with them in person, to sit and have a drink with them as the out players in the NHL. He was still, for all intents and purposes, alone.

Well, not entirely alone. The queer women of the PWHL had been incredibly accepting of him. Their fans, too. The cheers when they flashed him across the Jumbotron at the New York Sirens games felt pretty good. He got to relax with them. They gave him the energy to keep going, to picture a world where his side of the hockey world could feel the same.

Scott knew he wouldn’t be the only forever. Some day, there would be more out players. He talked a lot about the culture with the out players in the PWHL. He tried his best to be the kind of player that would make things feel safer for the next person. He believed he was.

The audience broke out into cheers again, and Scott did the same, mechanically. He took stock of the crowd and realized that one seat with the Centaurs and one seat with the Metros was still empty. How serendipitous.

A chill ran down Scott’s spine. It was as if he felt the weight of the entire theatre on his shoulders. This room was not ready for whatever Hollander and Rozanov were to each other. This was not something that would be received the way Scott had been. This would not be a mixed bag of support and ambivalence and bigotry to rise above. This had never happened before, again. And this was not, he realized, something he could protect them from.

Rozanov and Hollander knew that too. They knew. This couldn’t be what they were doing. They couldn’t possibly be this careless, not with all they had on the line.

Noticing his distress, Kip slid his hand into Scott’s squeezing it tightly as he brought them into his lap. He met his eyes with a look of slight concern. Scott melted in it. It was moments like this when he couldn’t remember a time without Kip. When he had ever been content, been breathing, without him by his side.

Scott looked back out at Rozanov and Hollander’s empty seats.

Or they could. Or they could decide that it was worth it. That whatever the fuck they were doing was worth it all.

Scott needed to talk to Kip.

Kip would be able to figure out if what he saw backstage and a handful of memories of half conversations were enough to be a case, to be real proof of what he suspected. But he couldn’t do that yet, no, he’d have to wade through several more hours of smiles and laughs and small talk before he could go full-crazy detective on his boyfriend.

When the crowd was finally, mercifully, ushered into the salon for drinks, Scott felt like he’d lived a thousand lives. Vaughn and Bennet were still by his side, the former shoving shot glasses into his and Kip’s hands. Scott barely winced as the tequila (why the fuck is it always tequila with Vaughny?) hit the back of his throat.

The night started to pass by a little quicker after that. Kip got them another round of drinks. And then they did another shot with the rookies. And by the time they were seated around a table, talking to a player from San José about something, Scott had nearly forgotten his whole scheme and was looking forward to doing a lot of other things with his boyfriend.

That was until his peace was broken by a painfully familiar slap on the shoulder.

“Hunter!”

Ilya Rozanov slid into the seat beside him and Kip, jostling everyone as he did. Scott’s stomach dropped. Like being hit by a rogue wave, all of his theories and panic from earlier came crashing back down at once.

“Nice speech tonight.” Rozanov started, taking a sip of his drink. “I am always impressed when they let the elderly present on their own. You know, after the whole La La Land-Moonlight debacle.”

On a normal night, Scott would tell him to fuck off, or try and match his chirp with something similarly biting, but right now he was drawing a blank. And he could blame the tequila, but in reality it was something far more earth shattering.

“You literally presented in a pair tonight.” Bennet said, before Scott could say something stupid.

Eric looked somewhere between irritated and slightly amused. Normally, he didn’t have much patience for Rozanov’s behavior, but he appreciated the Moonlight comment. In a show sweet if not misplaced solidarity, Bennet, Vaughn and Scott had watched it on their last road trip. It had been Vaughny’s idea.

“This is because Hollander and I bring in more views and money for the league, Benny.” Rozanov said, gesturing with his glass. “We’re a good investment.”

“That’s maybe the nicest thing I’ve heard you say about Hollander.” Kip pointed out.

Scott nearly choked on his drink, but Roznaov looked unshaken, slouching back in his seat with a smug look on his face.

“What’s this about Rozanov being nice to me?”

Scott blanched.

Of course. Of course they would find each other here, in this crowded room full of their teammates and friends and coaches. A memory flashed through Scotts brain of the gala he and Kip had attended separately. He could count the number of times they’d been in-public-in-secret together on one hand. Each time had been entirely agonizing. The thrill of the secret wore off almost instantly.

Scott watched as Shane Hollander sat down at another empty seat beside Kip. He too looked how he always looked: put together, if not verging on slightly stiff. There was a drink in his hand, which Scott could attribute the slight tousle of his hair, but he had a sneaking suspicion there was another culprit.

“What happened? Did Hell freeze over, Roz?” Hollander chirped.

“And people say that I’m the asshole.” Rozanov said, clutching his chest in mock-distress. “If you want to switch, Hollander just tell me. I’m going to be Canadian soon,  I can be the Golden Boy.”

“In your dreams.” Hollander laughed.

“Oh, I know.” Rozanov said. And then he winked.

Scott made a face he couldn’t hide.

Because of the alcohol and the music and the fact that everyone at the table had just played the toughest set of games of the year, no one else seemed to notice the wink, but Scott did. He always noticed how sweet Roznaov’s voice got as soon as Hollander slid into his seat. How every facet of his face seemed to relax into something else. He looked like a puppy that had just heard the word walk. And Hollander was no better. Despite Rozanov allegedly coming for the title, Hollander was Canada’s Golden Boy. He was on the straight and narrow. Perfect as can be, on and off the ice. Suffice to say, he didn’t do things like slouch in his seat or give a full-bodied laugh, even at events like this among his peers. That was, apparently, unless Rozanov brought it out of him.

Because of the alcohol and the music and the fact that everyone at the table had just played the toughest set of games of the year, no one else seemed to notice Scott was staring, but they did. Scott realized too late that both Hollander and Rozanov were staring right back, giving him a looks that ranged from panicked to irritated, respectively.

Oh god.

Scott didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to do whatever it was that this was. He didn’t want to know whatever this was. Not beyond his brief musing. Not outside of his exhausted, idle mind. And maybe that made him a bad role model or trailblazer or whatever, but he and his team had not discussed this in their last meeting about how best to make space for more queer players.

Scott forced his attention back to the conversation, but by then it was too late. They already seemed to be locked in a small silent conversation with their eyes. Like the kind my parents used to have, Scott mused, before he could stop himself. The thought, again, hit him like a ton of bricks. Well. He was officially past buzzed.

“Vaughny, congrats on your award tonight.” Hollander said. “It’s well deserved.”

Scott nodded. This, he could do.

“Thanks, Hollander.” Vaughny smiled, ear to ear. “I’ve been telling these guys for years that I’m a leader. They don’t seem to believe me.”

“Generally, you shouldn’t have to tell people about your leadership qualities.” Bennet joked.

“I mean, I’m the one with the award, so I probably know what I’m doing.”

“Exactly.” Rozanov echoed. “This is why Vaughn is coaching our camps this year,” he added, pointedly.

Scott felt Rozanov’s gaze fall on him once again.

“Wait. Is this why you came over here?” Scott asked. “The camps?”

Hollander and Rozanov had been asking him to coach their summer hockey camps since they’d created their foundation last year. Last summer, Scott had been busy for both summers. This summer, he was preparing to decline again. It wasn’t that he didn’t support their cause, he would post about it and donate, but the summer was his and Kip’s time. Between his grad program and Scott’s schedule, the summer was truly their only uninterrupted time. He liked what they were up to, but not as much as he liked waking up in his own home with his boyfriend.

“I know this is not the night to talk shop, but we wanted to see if we could change your mind.” Hollander said, dropping into a very captain-esk voice. “This will be our first year where we’re incorporating more scholarship students. The Americans are through St Thomas.”

Scott’s heart tugged at the mention of his old scholarship program. Kip’s hand, generously, found its way back into his.

“Yes, we need hockey’s famous orphan.” Rozanov added. Kip’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

“Um-” Hollander sputtered.

“What? It’s true.” Rozanov doubled down. “I’m hockey’s more famous orphan, so.”

“You still can’t say that.” Hollander said, shooting daggers across the table. He turned back to Scott, already bright red. “That’s not why- we don’t think that.”

“We kind of do.” Rozanov shrugged.

“Roz.” Hollander warned.

There was a bark in his voice and in the moment it seemed like he could have the bite to back it up. Rozanov seemed pleased, taking an exaggerated sip of his cocktail through its straw. Scott cursed the fact that he and Kip ended up seated between them, creating maybe the worst game of verbal ping pong.

“I’m sorry about him.” Hollander said, still looking flushed. “Just think about it. Don’t tell us either way right now.”

“Or do. It would be easier.” Rozanov said. Hollander said nothing, but he looked like he was weighing the pros and cons of reaching across the table to physically restrain him from talking.

“We are trying to hire him to work for free.” Hollander huffed. “Be nice.”

“Jesus,” Vaughn laughed, “you guys argue like an old married couple.”

That, apparently, was Scott’s last straw. He had to get out of here. Standing a little too quickly, he managed to bump the table and spill some of his drink and Rozanov’s before mumbling something about napkins and making his way to the bar. He didn’t give himself enough time to get any kind of look at the old married couple’s reaction to the comment, and he didn’t want to. He’d just had too much to drink. He was tired. It was hot in here. Scott would get a water, go back to the table and ask if Kip would go upstairs with him. They’d watch a movie and he’d forget the names Rozanov and Hollander until preseason.

He was one step into his plan before it failed, miserably.

“I like vodka.”

Hunter nearly jumped at his voice. He’d had probably forty-five seconds of peace.

“I know.” He said, bewildered. They were at the far end of the bar where Scott was already filling his second cup of water from the stainless-steal pitcher that had been left out.

“I just thought you should know, since your getting me a drink.” Rozanov said, resting one elbow on the bar, facing him.

“What?”

“I assumed that’s why you’re up here.” Rozanov shrugged. “Since you spilled my drink.”

“I-”

“Top shelf.” Rozanov added. He was already flagging down the bartender.

“I’m not- It’s an open bar.” Hunter said, somewhat exasperated. “You can get it yourself.”

Thankfully, Rozanov conceded, in part because the bartender arrived quickly and already seemed to have his order ready. Before Scott could make some sort of excuse to leave, Rozanov was slipping a chilled glass into his hand.

“Oh, I don’t want-”

“You know it’s a little stuffy in here.” Rozanov said, sipping his own glass and ignoring Scott’s protest. Let’s get some air.”

For a moment, Scott only stared at him. For one of the more talkative and overall loud players in the league, Ilya Rozanov could be frustratingly hard to read. He could keep his cards close to his chest when he wanted to. This was proving to be just as annoying tonight as it was on the ice.

“Oh, we don’t-” Scott said, starting very thin excuse.

“Let’s get some air, Hunter.” Rozanov said again, already starting for the door to the terrance.

Scott, begrudgingly, against his better judgement, began to follow. Kip was glancing over at the bar with some concern, which Scott tried to placate with a wave and a pinched smile. 

Well. Fuck.

It was colder than it should’ve been for Vegas. It was windy, too, which was why the terrace, though stunningly lit and otherwise gorgeous, was empty. Well, it was empty. Now there were two slightly buzzed hockey players standing by the railing, about to have a conversation that Scott couldn’t see going well.

Rozanov, for his part, was still feigning nonchalance. He leaned against the railing, letting his glass dangle above the Las Vegas streets.

“How’s your night going?” He asked, turning with an antagonizing grin.

Scott felt like he had whiplash. He had no fucking idea what was happening, only that he wanted it to be over.

“Good. Good.” Scott said, clearing his throat. He was technically also leaning on the railing, but he was stiff as a board. “And yours?”

“Great.” Rozanov said, taking a sip of his drink. “Except that you’re freaking out. It’s very irritating.”

“I’m not freaking out.” Scott lied.

Rozanov laughed, lightly.

“You can’t make eye contact with me.”

“Yes I can.” Scott said, forcing himself to meet his eyes.

Ilya Rozanov was a good captain. Scott could tell from the first time that they faced off with the ‘C’ on his chest. For all of his bravado, he was an incredibly community-oriented player. He yelled the loudest when his rookies scored a goal, meeting them with a crushing hug each time. He seemed to have a good rapport with his coaches. He spent most of his time during All Stars Weekends getting to know his teammates spouses and playing with their children. And, as far as he could tell, he’d left Boston with little bad blood despite it blindsiding most of their world. That was no small feat.

It was also how Scott knew that Roz knew how to meet a moment. He could read a situation well, painfully so. He was perceptive. Which meant that he was about to choose his next words incredibly carefully.

Ilya took a deep, grounding breath.

“You think that you know something.” He said, studying Scott’s face with a new intensity.

“I… I don’t think anything.” Scott said.

Ilya looked unconvinced. He straightened and glanced, briefly, at the door. They were still alone.

“Tell me what you think you know.”

“We really don’t have to-”

Ilya put a hand on his shoulder. He squeezed, firmly.

“Hunter.”

Scott thought for a moment. This could go a few ways. He could say what he thought he knew, or he could not. He could laugh and shrug it off and chirp and let this all go. He could go back inside and leave them to whatever it was that they were or weren’t up to. He could push it down. He could ignore it. He could let them ignore it, too.

Scott took a sip of his drink, which he belatedly remembered was Ilya’s ridiculously strong vodka. 

“I got a vibe that-”

“Vibe?” Ilya let out a laugh. “Who taught you vibe?”

“Fuck off.” Scott shook his head. “I just… I noticed something. About you and Hollander, tonight, is all.”

“What did you notice?” Rozanov pressed.

“We really don’t have to do this.” Scott said, trying to give him another out.

“We’re already doing it, Hunter.” Rozanov sighed. He muttered something under his breath in Russian Scott could guess was not abundantly kind. “What did you notice?”

Scott chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Something had changed in the last two years. The part of him that was capable of that, of shoving it all down and letting it all fester, that wasn’t the loudest piece anymore. It hadn’t died on the ice that day the way Scott had hoped it would, it still reared its ugly head every so often, but it wasn’t governing his life anymore.

Ilya didn’t look scared. He didn’t look addled with shame or ready to sweep it all back under the rug. He looked a little nervous, maybe, but mostly curious. And a little lonely. That’s what he noticed in him each time he came to the Kingfisher. Ilya was lonely.

Scott wanted to ignore it. But he couldn’t. And maybe this wasn’t the way he’d planned on opening the door for new queer players, but maybe that’s not what they needed him to do. They needed more. And apparently, at least now, it was coming in the form of conceding to a small interrogation in a Las Vegas balcony.

“I just…” Scott glanced around, one more time, to ensure they were still alone. He took a deep breath and met Ilya’s eyes.

“I spent a long time hiding.” Scott said, carefully. “I know what it looks like.”

“What do you think we’re hiding?” Ilya asked carefully. He was still reclining against the railing, but his shoulders had lost some of their slump. He was tense.

“I think you know.”

“Say it.” Ilya pressed.

“Okay, okay.” Scott took another sip of his drink. “Are you and Hollander… involved?”

“Involved how?” Ilya asked.

Oh Jesus Christ. This was like pulling teeth.

“You know what I mean.” Scott said. Ilya raised an eyebrow.

“Do I?” He said, incredulously. Scott pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Have you two been together?” Scott spelled out.

Ilya tilted his head.

“You think I’m fucking Hollander?” He asked, his voice just above a whisper.

Scott searched Ilya’s face for some sort of crack or smirk or something that would indicate that this was a joke. This was all one big, weird joke they’d decided to play on him. But he found nothing. All he saw was a man who’d been entirely carefree hours ago, wind himself back up all while trying desperately to appear entirely uncaring. It was a powerful act, most of the time. Apparently, however, Scott had found the thing that could break it all down.

“I- yeah.” Scott straightened. “That’s what I think.”

“Really?” Ilya asked, again. He scanned Scott’s face, looking for some sort of crack or smirk or something that would indicate that this was a joke. This was all one big, weird joke they’d decided to play on him. But he found nothing.

“Really.” Scott nodded.

For a moment, Ilya did nothing. He stood, straight as a board, taking in the information. And then, like the balloon that had sucked the air out of the room, he deflated all at once.

“Fuck, I was really hoping he was just being paranoid.” Ilya muttered, wiping his hand across his face.

Scott blinked.

“Holy shit.” Scott said, before he could stop himself. Because suspecting was one thing but total confirmation, he was learning, was an entirely different feeling. “Holy shit- Rozanov what the-”

“Enough.” Ilya said, putting a hand up. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” Scott said, bewildered.

Ilya knocked back the rest of his glass.

“Okay.” He huffed. “We should go back in.”

“Wait. Hang on-” Scott sputtered.

“We will talk more later.” Ilya said. Already, he looked annoyed. “But not here.” He gestured to the party with an exaggerated, irritated hand.

That, Scott could understand. That was fair. He had gotten a little ahead of himself. 

“Okay.” Scott nodded. He started for the door, but Ilya moved in front of it.

“Can you go back in?” Ilya asked.

“What?”

“Will you be normal, I mean.” Ilya explained, glancing back at the party. “I told him I’d handle it.”

Scott let out a small laugh.

“This was you handling it?” He asked, brushing past I told him. He’d told Hollander he’d handle it. Because they were something. They were enough of something to talk about Scott and his terrible poker face.

“That was me being nice.” Ilya said, flashing a smug grin.

“Really?”

“Can you go back in there?” Ilya asked again.

For the first and only time tonight, Ilya Rozanov looked nervous. It was only later, Scott realized, because it was not on his own behalf. He was afraid that Scott would somehow ruin things for Hollander. That was why it had been Rozanov who scoped it out for the both of them. Because he was trying to protect him. From Scott. Because, as Scott had realized himself tonight,  it wasn’t enough that Scott was out. He could not save them from this. He was still not automatically a safe person. Maybe for the two of them separately, but not together. Ilya Rozanov was out here trying to protect someone else. And he was afraid.

Scott swallowed back any lingering panic or shock. And then he swallowed the remaining top shelf vodka Ilya Rozanov had forced in his hands just long ten minutes ago. He nodded, assuredly.

“I can go back in.”

Chapter End Notes

Scotty knows!

pls lmk your thoughts!!

Chapter 2: the leap

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane's version of the night

Chapter Notes

A Few Hours Earlier 

“He knows.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“He fucking knows, Ilya.”

“How could he know?”

They’d been at this, off an on, for about ten minutes. It was fun for three, now it was getting tiring and Ilya was worried that their window for a quick blowjob or at least a make-out session in the locked bathroom backstage was growing smaller by the second.

Scott Hunter had been weird back stage. Well, not weird, but not not weird. They noticed him staring, is what happened. He was staring at them, hand over his mouth, eyes bugged out like he… well, like he saw something. The weirdest part was that nothing had happened. They were just talking. This was why Ilya was certain nothing was wrong. Well, probably at least. It was weird that he hadn’t at least waved, or shook their hand or made any kind of small talk. He was just staring. So maybe something was wrong. But probably not.

Shane was still pacing, his back as rigid as a board. Ilya was sitting between the sinks, growing more and more bored.

“I don’t know!” Shane snapped. “But he was so weird he was just gawking and-”

“He doesn’t know.” Ilya echoed, leaning on his knees. “And even if he did, which he doesn’t, he wouldn’t care.”

“He’d care.” Shane said, making a sound that was somewhere between hyperventilating and a laugh.

“We didn’t do anything.” Ilya said, for the umpteenth time. “There would be nothing for him to even look at or find.”

“I just…” Shane stopped pacing. He pinched the bridge of his nose in the cute way he would. “I have a feeling.”

“It’s called paranoia.”

“Shut up.” Shane said. “With this and with the chrip about you-”

“That was years ago.” Ilya groaned.

“But now its a pattern!” Shane said, running a hand through his once-gelled hair. “A pattern of weirdness!”

“Hollander, you need to calm down.” Ilya said, a gently.

That, got his attention. Shane cocked his head.

“Hollander?” He echoed. 

“When you need to listen, yes.” Ilya said, smugly. He pushed himself off the bathroom counter and found his way to Shane, clasping his shoulders tight. “If this is really scaring you, I’ll talk to him.”

“I’m not scared.” Shane said, earning an unconvinced look from Ilya, which he shrugged off. “When would you talk to him?”

“Tonight, I don’t know.” Ilya said, leaning back against the sinks. “I’ll see if he saw something. I’ll be careful.”

Shane looked tired. His hair was messed up, his shirt wrinkled. His face and eyes were pink, threatening to spill into something bigger and harder in the way that Shane hated. It all tugged at Ilya’s heart strings. How easily he could break himself apart like this. How quickly he could pick at something and break the scab all the way open.
“I’ll fix it, Shane.” Ilya said again, softer.

Shane didn’t hesitate to close the gap between them, pulling him into a strong embrace. He kissed him quickly.

“Are you sure?” He asked, honestly. “You don’t have to.”

“It’ll be easy.” Ilya shrugged.

“Okay. Okay.” Shane took a deep, settling breath. “Thank you.”

Ilya broke into a dangerous smile.

“I have a few ways I think you could repay me.”

Scott Hunter is a curious figure in Ilya’s life. He is an archetype of something. The Scott Hunters of hockey are All-American. He has a good smile and a sad story. He plays a good game and doesn’t get too angry or too drunk. He’s, as a journalist once called it, the boy next door. The Ilya Rozanovs fill a different role. He’s cocky and pretty and plays damn good hockey. He’s their fan’s favorite player, obviously. And god, does everybody else love to hate him. He’s good for both things.

The Shane Hollanders are something else. In a way, they are filling whatever seat the Scott Hunters had. It’s slow, but it’s there. Shane has a pretty smile too, with a story that’s clean and simple. Shane is nice. Shane is on the billboard in your city. Shane is nice. Shane gives a good, practiced interview. Shane is nice. Shane’s image is both reinforced and hindered by how he plays the game. His calculated, impatient play reveals something that is almost, almost incongruent with everything else they’ve built around him. He cares more about hockey than anything else. If he had his way, he’d never pose for another picture ever again. But this isn’t very nice. This isn’t not what a Shane Hollander can do. Shane Hollander has to be easy to love. Shane has to be nice. So he does the other things, too.

And by chance, they all love men. Scott Hunter and Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. Archetypes and branding and whatever the fuck else be damned. Unfortunately for hockey, they are human.

Or really, unfortunately for Shane and Ilya, Scott is human. Seated with his teammates and his boyfriend, he is having a very, painfully human reaction to Shane and Ilya. Apparently, coming out can make it impossible to remember how to be discrete. Ilya wouldn’t know, obviously, but based on the way Scott is staring, despondent, into his glass, he could take a guess.

Ilya is standing half a second after Scott Hunter spills half his drink on the table and practically runs to the bar. He and Shane had already exchanged rather pointed looks of I told you so and Okay fine, whatever, in confirmation that Ilya has to go fix whatever the fuck this is.

It was only later, as Ilya sat back at the bar half-listening to one of his former Boston teammates regale a story from the other night, that he realized he didn’t ask Scott how he found out. Which moment, peppered across their shared past, had given them away. Had it been something early? Something from the days when Ilya was practically a walking knot of pain and lust and fear, so marred that it felt like his heart was simultaneously bleeding across the floor and always beyond his reach? Had it been the Kingfisher? Had he been less careful than he thought, reaching for moments of something that wasn’t his? Had it been recent? Something from the last year, as the waiting and the secrets had started to ache? Something from when his brain felt so fuzzy it felt harder to pretend that watching the love of his life from across the room wasn’t a form of agony Ilya didn’t know existed outside of poetry and plays? What had he done?

He had been so caught up in the answer, in the yes, the thought to ask hadn’t even crossed his mind. He was somewhat desperate now, to know. But he’d had to wait.

First, he would listen to his old teammate from Boston. And he’d get another drink. And at some point he’d slink off alone and wait for Shane to find an excuse. And Kip and Scott would leave together. And they’d come up here. And Ilya would ask how he knew. He would fix it, and then he would ask exactly how he’d broken it. How precisely he’d come undone.

Ilya wasn’t sure how to tell Shane. He hadn’t really gotten to this part, largely because he’d really believed that Shane was being fucking crazy. Unfortunately, he didn’t give him all that much time to come up with something, as a knock rang through his hotel room just six minutes after Ilya left the party.

Shane marched in, his shoulders hiked up to his ears.

“So?” His boyfriend asked, his arms crossed tight against his chest.

Ilya dropped onto his bed and opened his arms. When they arrived earlier this afternoon, they’d met up in Shane’s room, so this bed was still crisp and clean and straight lines. Ilya wanted to ruin it entirely, but first they had to have a series of fairly unsexy conversations.

“Have I told you how hot you look in your suit.”

Shane, who frustratingly had not joined him on the bed, huffed in response. His tie was already undone, hanging around his neck.

Not for the first time, Ilya was overtaken by the urge to ask Shane if they could go dancing. He felt that way almost every time they got dressed up. Ilya is a good dancer. This isn’t news. He’s been a good dancer since he was a kid, swaying with his mother in the kitchen after dinner. That’s where learned, first. He got comfortable on a dance floor in his teens. He and Svetlana did it together, both too full of pride to tell the other they were nervous or didn’t know where to put their hands. They waltzed onto the floor of whatever club they’d managed to weasel their way into that weekend and tried to feel the music, pressing their lanky bodies together like the other people were. He and Sasha didn’t dance. They didn’t do much of anything except give each other permission to explore whatever it was they were feeling that everyone around them had said they weren’t supposed to. Sasha dances now, though.

“Ilya.”

“Okay.” Ilya cleared his throat. “He might know.”

Scott Hunter is not a very good dancer. Ilya could’ve guessed as much, but it was only confirmed two summers ago, when they all went out to that gay club. It wasn’t like he wasn’t hot. Frustratingly, he was a nice looking man. He just couldn’t entirely relax. It was like a piece of him was still guarded, even in a dimly lit room with music so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think. 

Ilya wasn’t irrational. He knew that coming out wouldn’t magically fix everything for Scott overnight. That’s not how anything worked. It wasn’t like finally cutting off his brother magically solved all of his problems. Confessing his love to Shane didn’t do that either. No, coming out wasn’t going to fix anything. But he’d hoped… he was hoping to see something different from him. To see someone who’d been so wound tight finally entirely unburdened. Maybe for Shane. Maybe for him. But he didn’t. He saw someone who was trying, though.

“Fuck.” Shane groaned.

Ilya swung his legs over the edge and extended his hands, beckoning Shane in. Finally, he obliged, letting Ilya tug his body closer and closer. Ilya pressed a kiss against his knuckle. He filled him in on the conversation, relaying every detail as calmly as he could. Shane listened, not straying from his place, half in his embrace as he rested a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. He only broke away at the end, to pace out some of the nervous energy that had built up. Ilya watched and waited.

“But I think he only thinks we’re fucking. Not more than that.” Ilya offered, after a beat of silence. Shane froze in place.

“Is that better?” He asked, somewhat incredulous.

“I don’t know.” Ilya shrugged.

Scott’s boyfriend, Kip, was a good dancer, though. At the time, Ilya made a lot of jokes about that. He told Kip that he should leave him for one of the nice, younger guys who could dance at this club. At one point he nearly made a joke about offering himself as a partner, if only to get a rise out of Hunter, but he bit his tongue. That kind of thing wasn’t as funny anymore. Kip laughed all of it off, insisting that Hunter was more than enough, and that is lack of rhythm was cute. Ilya, despite himself, found some understanding in that. He had his own terrible dancer.

Ilya waited for more, for the panic to overtake his boyfriend and reduce him to one word answers and a shallow breath, but it didn’t come. Instead, Shane took a careful seat beside Ilya on the bed, collecting his hands in his lap in a way that felt so normal, so obvious now it was almost impossible to picture a time when this hadn’t been their lives.

“We should’ve made a bet.” Shane mumbled, curling his body closer into Ilya’s. He was twirling one of Ilya’s curls, absentmindedly.

“What?” Ilya said. Shane twisted to meet his eyes.

“You said I was crazy!”

“It was crazy.” Ilya countered. “There’s no reason he should know.”

“Well, I regret not trusting myself more.” Shane said, with ridiculous determination.

Ilya burst out laughing.

“You made me corner Hunter on a rooftop and your response is that I should also be paying you?”

“Yeah.” Shane nodded. A small smile was betraying him, escaping his lips. “I could’ve made good money, too. You bet too high.”

“I don’t bet too high.” Ilya argued. “You’ve never seen me bet on anything.”

“Yes I have. Poker at the last All Stars game.” Shane countered. “You’re terrible.”

“That was one time.” Ilya said, somewhat stymied at the way this was all going. He’d prepared himself for all of it, for frustration or panic or sadness, but not this.

“All I needed to see, Rozanov.” Shane said, smugly.

Scott Hunter did not get better at dancing after he came out. He did get in a lot more fights, though. It seemed like the fear of outing himself had been maybe the only thing between him and dropping gloves over derogatory words on the ice. People speculated about that. They wrote long, boring articles about his image and how it was changing and why it was happening now. Ilya felt it was obvious. He didn’t have to pretend anymore, why on earth would he keep doing it?

Ilya and Shane had found themselves woven into an embrace, still in their dress clothes above the covers of Ilya’s bed. It was the kind of thing that Shane was going to take issue with in about five minutes, but until then, Ilya was going to pull him in closer and take in the expensive cologne on his boyfriend’s collar.

Ilya could’ve stayed there, in that moment, forever. But they had bigger fish this evening.

“He’s coming in fifteen?” Shane muttered sleepily, as if reading Ilya’s mind.

“Yeah.”

Shane tensed in his arms.

“Okay.” He said, cautiously.

“You’re okay?” Ilya said, moving to see his face better.

“No.” Shane laughed, dryly. “But… its better it’s him, I guess.”

“It is.” Ilya affirmed. It was better, tragically. Scott fucking Hunter.

“Are you okay?” Shane asked, tightening his grip on Ilya’s hand.

Ilya thought about it for a moment.

“I think so.” He answered, honestly.

Ilya wonders, on occasion, if Shane would fight more too. Ilya knows himself, and knows that he probably wouldn’t. He picks his battles now, and he’d do the same if he came out. But his image is different. They let him pick stupid fights and do advertisements for nice watches and go to the All Stars Game. Shane doesn’t believe they’d let him do the same. But if they did and he came out, he wonders if he’d fight more. If coming out would open some pocket of anger or break his shield of perfect on-ice composure and bring out a side of him that he’d decided a long time ago that Canada wouldn’t love as much. Ilya doesn’t wish for this. He hopes it would make him a better dancer instead. It seems like the kinder of the two paths. And then he could dance with Shane.

Chapter End Notes

aaa so curious to hear your thoughts!!

i love these guysss

Chapter 3: man, kind

Chapter Summary

the big talk!

Chapter Notes

apologies for the delay! i hope you enjoy!

Shane

“Scott wants to know if Kip can come.”

Ilya’s draped across his bed, his dress shirt untucked and unbuttoned, revealing a white tank top underneath. Shane’s in the bathroom with the door open, fussing with his hair in the mirror. It looks fine, the same as it always does, but it’s giving him something to do. He wants to take his shirt off, to finally free himself from the collar that’s been tight around his neck all night, but he’ll wait until after this whole affair is over. He already feels stripped bare, no need to externalize it.

Shane pops his head out of the bathroom.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Ilya shrugs. He’s thumbing through his phone, half interested in whatever’s popping up on the screen. Shane could take a guess at his feed. Cars. Hockey. More cars. His team’s posts that are slightly perplexing but seem to get a lot of engagement.

“I mean, sure.” Shane mused. “I don’t really know him. What do you think?”

“I don’t know him.”

“You hang out with him.” Shane argued. Ilya made a face.

“Not really.”

“Didn’t you meet his dad?” Shane said, pointed.

“One time.” Ilya explained. “And not on purpose, he was just visiting the bar.”

Forcing himself away from the mirror, Shane made his way back to the bed. Ilya was lying across it diagonally, taking up as much space as he could. With a practiced hand, Shane lifted his boyfriend’s legs and moved them swiftly to his side of the bed. Ilya watched on, amused, as Shane flopped beside him.

Ilya rolled onto his side, facing Shane with a pensive stare.

“What do you want to do?” He asked, gently.

Ilya was good under pressure. Almost terrifyingly so. If Shane thought about it, if he parsed through all of his memories with Ilya and placed them beside everything he knew about his childhood, he could trace easy lines between the adult who would become the rock, unflinching in any storm, to the child who had to get his own ice after games if he lost. He saw pieces of that boy he’d never met in his boyfriend now, just at the edges of his frame. In the crease in his brows. In the tightness in his shoulders. In the nervous, repetitive itching of his forearm. That child hadn’t been allowed to be scared or angry or sad. He had to handle it.

It was in these moments, when his voice grew softer and his gaze all the more tender, when everything about him seemed to scream I can fix it I can fix it I can fix it, that would snap Shane out of it. Because Ilya could. And sometimes, that was good. He was the better option to talk to Scott, at first. But beyond that, Shane had to step in. Because Ilya could do it. He would will the solution into being if he had to. He would make it better, for Shane. But he didn’t have to. Not alone.

And that wasn’t Ilya’s job. It wasn’t Ilya’s job to stop, it was Shane’s job to make sure they were doing it together. It was better when they were together. That had always been the case.

“He can come.” Shane decided. “I mean it’s not like he could make this less awkward.”

“True.” Ilya mused.

Shane stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t know what he’d done. He’d been so painfully careful. And yet, Scott had found them out.

It had to be something he did. Ever since Scott’s chirp about Ilya that cascaded into one of the most embarrassing on-ice moments of his career, Shane had been slightly paranoid around him. Ilya had brushed it off then and every other time Shane had brought it up. And yet…

Shane kept thinking, selfishly, that he could’ve cost himself hockey.  And then, with an identical horror, costing Ilya hockey. And then, exponentially, spectacularly worse, costing him more. His mind took him through all of the worst things that could happen. All of the things that could happen if he’s not more careful next time. It all washed over him. And then it just… it didn’t peak. It didn’t crest, even. Shane was expecting the panic, but whatever cocktail of exhaustion and a light buzz and losing the cup last month was enough to mute his reaction. That, and this wasn’t a stranger. This was, somehow, Scott Hunter.

Shane grew up watching Hunter. He didn’t have pictures of him on his bedroom wall or anything, he’s an Admiral, but he was a player to watch. When he was drafted, that only expanded tenfold. In his early meetings with his management team his name popped up  again and a gain as a possible trajectory for his brand. Shane knew what they meant. Off-ice, he was supposed to be more like the Scott Hunters of the world than, well, the man lying next to him.

Ilya’s free hand found its way to Shane’s head. He twisted a finger around a lock of his hair, absentmindedly. Whenever Shane thought about cutting his hair, it was these moments that stopped him. It was this feeling, the kind that made almost everything else float away. Almost.

“Don’t text something annoying about a foursome.” Shane said, his eyes snapping open.

“Wow.” Ilya scoffed. “Your mind is in the gutter.”

“Then show me your phone.” Shane said, extending his hand. Ilya froze.

“No.”

Ilya gets the door alone. It makes sense, its his room. Shane idles by the bed, unable to sit down. He hears them come in, silently, as the door closes. They make awkward pleasantries and Kip offers to take his shoes off. Shane feels every second that passes as they make it from the door down the small, three-step hallway, into the rest of the room.

There is no big moment of shock when they see him. Shane wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Between his parents and Hayden, he’d grown somewhat accustomed to a gaping mouth at the concept of him and the love of his life. But Scott and Kip only give him a quick smile and nod. Before more can happen, Shane gestures to the seats they’d arranged for the conversation.  Shane had dragged the desk chair over to the armchair, positioning them to face the bed so that it would all be ready. This, Shane planned. They would sit.

“Anyone want a nightcap?” Ilya says, already pouring himself a glass of something from the mini fridge.

This, Shane did not plan.

“Kip?” Ilya continues, despite no one answering. He gestures to the small bottle of… whiskey? When the fuck did he get- whatever.

“I’m all set.” Kip says, taking a seat in his chair. “Thank you, though.”

“Water?” Ilya continues. It seems he’s physically unable to stop. He shakes a chilled bottle in their general direction. “Hunter?”

“All set.” Scott mutters.

“There’s some juice, I think-”

Shane puts a hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Ilya.”  Shane says, gently.  “We're all fine. Let’s sit down.”

Ilya relaxes under his grip, only slightly. He’s more nervous than he’ll admit, but Shane is too.

“Okay.” Ilya sighed. “Fine.”

Ilya takes a careful, tactful seat beside Shane. He’s closer than Shane would’ve picked, but he supposes its too late for that. They’re all fairly stiff.  Scott and Kip in a desk chair and an armchair respectively, Ilya and Shane on the bed. It’s only as they sit that Shane feels that this is too personal. That they’ve arranged themselves into some sort of weird domestic scene. Or maybe that’s all in his head. Maybe Shane just feels like he’s in trouble, waiting to be reprimanded.

Kip and Scott don’t look like that, though. They look nervous, one far more than the other. They keep exchanging these worried glances, like they’re having a silent conversation. Scott is struggling to meet Shane’s eyes, while Kip hasn’t been able to stop darting between them both.

“So this is…” Scott starts, finally meeting their gaze with his piercing blue eyes. “Wow.”

Shane met Scott Hunter at their first game against the Admirals. The first thing Shane confirmed upon their meeting, was that was better than him. Ilya Rozanov was still the only other player giving him any real trouble. The second thing was that Scott Hunter was distractingly hot. This was a much less helpful thought, one that only  lessened in intensity when he watched him loose the game. Of course, all thoughts about Scott Hunter vanished entirely by the time he got back to his hotel room and watched the game the Boston Bears were playing against San Jose that night.

“Yeah.” Shane mutters. The pinch in his voice triggers something in Ilya, and his knee brushes against Shane’s. It’s small, but it’s all he needs.

“I’m…” Scott stammers. He’s gripping his knees so firmly he’s wrinkling his slacks.  “I’m still kind of wrapping my head around it.”

“Scott.” Kip warns. He looks between them, more than slightly concerned.

Shane’s never seen them like this. Granted, he hasn’t really hung out with Kip before, but this tone is new nonetheless. Shane wonders, briefly, what they must look like to them. On one side of the room are two people who are building their lives together and on the other are, well, two people also building their lives together. A familiar twinge of shame begins pooling in Shane’s stomach. This must be so archaic to Kip. For a moment he regrets saying he could come at all. He should’ve spared him from whatever mangled mess this is.

And then Kip takes Scott’s hand and gives it a squeeze. And Shane remembers that he did not have final say in what Kip did and didn’t have to do tonight.

“Well,” Kip pipes up, meeting them with a far more gentle gaze, “I wanted to say, before anything else, that I am happy for you both. And that this is a good thing. Even if its like, really casual. You’re both okay. Nothing is wrong.”

Oh.

Shane stills. He doesn’t really know what to do with that. It’s only then that he remembers that he and Ilya aren’t the only mangled, repressed mess. Scott’s right in there with them, in their sport that they all love so dearly and does not love this piece of them back. And Kip loves Scott, so he knows. And now, he’s assumed that no one else has said that to them before. It’s so delicate that for a moment Shane feels almost nauseous from the emotional whiplash. He was bracing for impact, and he’d been offered a pillow.

Ilya meets his gaze for a fraction of a second, and takes a long sip of his drink.

“Thanks.” Shane says, clearing his throat, answering for them both. “Thank you. That’s um… thanks.”

Shane knows that Ilya has a dozen jokes bubbling just under the surface about Kip thinking he’s some sort of gay messiah or sarcastically thanking them for their blessing. And just beyond those quips, is a genuine gratitude and very real pain that Ilya has no desire to contend with tonight. So Shane will say thank you, and they will move on.

“It’s true.” Kip shrugs. He’s leaning against the arm of his chair, with Scott’s hand wrapped firmly around his.

“So,” Shane continues, “I’m sure you have some-”

“How did you know about us?” Ilya asks, cutting him off. Shane can’t bring himself to be anything other than curious. Ilya’s stiff as a board, cradling his empty glass in his lap.

“What?” Scott asks.

“How did you figure it out?” Ilya says, gesturing between him and Shane.

“Oh.” Scott muses. “Well…”

By the time he finishes the story, Shane feels like a bit like he’s sinking into the duvet. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears. And possibly the rest of his circulatory system. And Ilya’s. His mouth feels so dry. He’s dying, probably.

For a long time, no one talks. Its so long that Ilya’s somehow made it back to the mini bar, where he’s poured another drink. Shane intercepts it as Ilya sits down, barely tasting the whiskey as he drinks half the glass.

“That was it?” Shane asks, passing the drink back to his boyfriend.

“That was it.” Scott says, leaning back in his chair.

“You saw us… talking?” Ilya confirms. His hair is stuck up in a few different directions from where he’d wrung a nervous hand through it.

“Yeah.” Scott says, softly.

“And you thought…” Ilya says, drifting off as he catches Shane’s gaze.

They stare at each other, wide eyed with a sort of terrifying bewilderment.

And he thought they looked like they were in love.

Scott Hunter saw Shane and Ilya talking and drew the conclusion that they had to be more to each other. They had to be in the kind of love you can notice in the throws of a long and winding night. Amidst all the distractions and cacophony of a production. He saw the two of them and they looked like they were in love.

A piece of Shane was in shock. This was something that could be a problem. This could be bad. So bad. Shane and Ilya weren’t supposed to look like anything. They were supposed to have a mutual respect and a budding friendship. Nothing more. They weren’t supposed to look like anything.

Another piece of Shane, one much bigger than he expected, really, really loved his answer. Scott saw the two of them, and all he could see was their love. That didn’t happen outside of their homes. That was for him and his parents, on occasion, and hopefully, one day, Hayden would come around, but that was it. He didn’t get to show that he was in love with Ilya. And yet. It had found a way, even through all of his fear and fretting and silence. Their love had peeked through the cracks in their restraint in the way that could only be seen with someone who’d had the same walls.

Ilya seemed similarly shaken. He was watching Shane with a cautious gaze, like he was trying to gauge how emotional or fearful they were supposed to be about this.

“I thought that you two seemed to be something. In some capacity.” Scott explained, trying to walk back some of his explanation. “I mean I don’t know what you guys- or if if it’s casual like Kip said or-”

“It’s not.” Ilya said, his voice thick with emotion.

“It’s not?” Scott confirmed. “Okay.”

“We…” Ilya cleared his throat. “We have been together for a while.”

“What’s a while?” Kip asked. “Um.” Shane started, a small, frazzled laugh escaping his lips.

Something had shifted in the room. The air was heavy with an odd sort of anticipation. Shane’s eyes were starting to get teary in the way he still didn’t have enough control over. The only solace, was that Ilya seemed to look the same. His cheeks were flushed with a tinge of pink as he tried and failed to compose himself with slow sips.

Shane took a shuddered breath.

“Since the summer before our rookie season.”

“What?” Scott gasped.

Well, there was the gaped mouth Shane was looking for earlier.

“Your rookie season? Like when you were what, twenty?” Kip added, stymied.

“Nineteen.” Ilya and Shane said, at the same time.

“Only the last two years have been exclusive.” Shane clarified. “But yeah, eight in total.”

Scott all but deflated in his chair. Shane could practically hear the gears turning in his head. This part, at least, was far more practiced.

“Holy shit.” Scott ran a hand through his hair. “Holy- The whole time?”

Shane and Ilya looked at each other with a mirrored fondness. A sickly sweet smile crept across his boyfriend’s face.

“The whole time.” Shane confirmed, his voice tender.

Ilya reached across to slap a hand on Scott’s knee.

“Now do you want the nightcap?” He asked, smirking.

Ilya poured four glasses of the whiskey that was still a bit of a mystery to Shane. They’d been together all night and he’d never once- this was not the point.

There was a new lightness to Ilya after their confession. He was already beginning to goad Hunter, who by all accounts, was rattled. Shane felt slightly less bridled now too. He understood Hunter’s panic, the emotions that had been crashing across Shane all evening had only sloughed onto the older hockey player now. He was likely indexing every interaction they’d ever had in the last decade, repainting them in a new light. It was a lot. Shane knew that.

Kip, too, was watching them carefully, his eyes flitting between them as Ilya passed him a glass and settled as close to Shane as he could get without being in his lap. He flopped back, resting casually on his arm.

“This is why you’re in Ottawa.” Hunter said, taking a slow sip.

“Yes.” Ilya nodded.

“God, that was so fucking confusing.” Hunter cursed. “Do you live there?”

“No. I mean, Montreal is two hours away.” Shane explained.

"Right. Obviously." Scott nodded. "Sorry."

“It's fine." Shane said. "We split our time, but it’s not my house.”

Yet, he wanted to add, but that was probably not the kind of thing to spring on your boyfriend in front of other people. Shane squeezed Ilya’s arm, which had found its way back into his lap. One day, the answer would probably be yes. It’s what would make the most sense when they retired. Ilya had already moved for him, there was no need to do it again. It’s where his parents lived. It had good schools. Nice parks. But all of that was another decade away.

“That’s your big question?” Ilya asked, eyebrows raised. He’d tucked one leg up, and rested an arm on it, lazily. “Real estate?”

“No, I-” Hunter stammered. He took a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay... who knows?”

“Shane’s parents and my best friend.” Ilya listed. “And Hayden Pike, for some reason.” 

“Because he’s my best friend.” Shane said, reflexively. And because he figured it out, but there was no need to get into that. “And Hayden’s wife, Jackie.”

“That’s it?” Scott asked. He seemed surprised. Awesome.

Suddenly, the hotel room started to feel a little small. His knees were just inches from Kip’s, and Ilya’s the same from Scott’s. They were squished into a weird amount of space, facing one another. Cornered.  Shane wondered, not for the first time, if they could’ve arranged the room better. It wasn’t really built for slightly stilted conversations. If Shane had known they’d be having more company, he would’ve made at least one of them spring for a bigger room.

Ilya tensed beside him, similarly prickled.

“Who knew about you two?” He asked, deflecting.

“That was different.” Hunter muttered.

“We know.” Shane snapped. It came out harsher than he’d wanted. But they did. They knew. 

They knew. He could not express how deeply and completely they knew that. How many nights Shane has lied awake trying and failing to find the version of their story that could end the way Kip and Scott’s did.

“Was it?” Kip pipped up. His eyes flickered between them, cautious. “What would happen, hypothetically, if you both came out?”

“Ilya can’t.” Shane said, quickly. He couldn’t do much, but he could save his boyfriend from explaining, again, all of the ways that his country continued to disappoint him. “Not for the next year, at least. He’s needs citizenship here before he can come out.”

“Right.” Kip nodded. “So… let’s say, after that, what would happen?”

Shane cleared his throat.

“Best case, we would be ruining our legacies.” He started.

“Changing our legacies.” Ilya corrected, firm.

“Fine, changing.” Shane raised a hand, brushing it off. His shoulders had hiked up to his ears. “At worst, they fire us and we never play hockey again.”

“Seriously?” Kip asked.

Shane took a sip of his drink. Ilya did the same. This wasn’t a very fun game, but one he knew well. He played it all the time. Ilya leaned back to rest a hand on the small of Shane’s back, rubbing his thumb in a small circle. He didn’t like this part either.

“They would be doing something that the league has never had before.” Scott said, gently. Though Shane wasn’t sure if his tone was for Kip or for them.

“Women date in the PWHL.” Kip argued.

“They do.” Scott nodded. He was back to picking at his slacks. “But our league is not…”

“It’s run by bigoted assholes.” Ilya surmised. “And the culture perpetuates bigoted assholes.”

“But they could kick you out?” Kip asked again.

“There’s no precedent,” Shane explained, his voice tight. “Which is the part that’s dangerous for us.”

Kip met his eyes with a new pain. Shane all but winced under his gaze. How archaic this must be.

“How…” Kip started, shifting the glass between his hands, “how are you doing this?”

Shane almost, almost laughed.

“We just are.” He said, plainly. He leaned closer into Ilya’s side, wrapping a hand around his waist.

“We know it’s not…” Ilya mused, finding the words, “we know it’s not ideal, but it’s all worth it.”

“All worth it.” Shane nodded.

In a swift, practiced motion, he brought his lips to Ilya’s, giving a quick kiss. PDA made him uncomfortable, but things like this made him a little braver. Besides, somehow, it was just Scott fucking Hunter and his boyfriend.

There was a lot about this that was hard. There was a lot that was unfair. There was a lot that should’ve felt scarier. That should’ve been true since the beginning. But from the first time he kissed Ilya Rozanov all of that doubt and complexity fell out the window. This was better. This was more. This was the kind of thing that makes risking the rest of it a simple decision. It was maybe, actually, the only simple thing in his life. He loved Ilya Rozanov, and the rest of this life would have to revolve around that.

Kip

This was not how Kip Grady thought the MHL Awards were going to go. Even in his furthest reaching fantasies of the night, which he’d mulled over as he watched perhaps one of the most boring shows on the planet, this was not apart of it.

“Holy shit.” Kip said, as soon as the door to their hotel room closed.

“Holy shit.” Scott nodded. He was already unbuttoning his suit, and hanging his jacket up in their closet He hesitated for a moment, holding the hanger. “It… it makes sense, right?”

“It does.” Kip said. “I mean, not at first. But if you think about it, of course they are.”

“Of course they are.” Scott echoed. “Only those two would be able to handle each other.”

Kip had only met Ilya Rozanov a handful of times, and Shane Hollander only in passing, but he’d heard about both at length. They were both players who, in their own polar opposite way, got under his boyfriend’s skin like no one else.

Kip folded his clothes and placed them in the closet. All he wanted to do was leap into their expensive hotel bed and finally, mercifully, fall asleep, but his skin would kill him if he didn’t run through his routine. He and Scott both made their way to the bathroom. It was a small thrill to do their night routine together. Most of the time, this part of the day was spent in different places or at different times. But when they traveled together, they rarely parted for more than a few minutes. Kip wondered if Shane and Ilya were the same, if they were running through a similar routine right now.

“They’re both like, ridiculously hot.” Kip added, padding his face with a washcloth.

“No. Stop.” Scott groaned, spitting his toothpaste in the sink.

“What?” Kip laughed. “They are. You know that they are.”

“I’m not having this conversation.” Scott said, blushing slightly. Kip took that as a win. 

Kip finished his routine and left the bathroom. He watched his boyfriend in the doorway a moment. Scott was repacking his bag, putting everything in its place. They wouldn’t be leaving until midmorning, but he liked to be prepared. His bag always impossibly neat.

“Which scenario do you think would happen?” Kip asked. “Changed legacy or kicked out of the league?”

Scott hesitated. Kip wasn’t naive, he knew, rather intimately, what the world of hockey could do when its players were breaking against their mold. He knew what the world was. But even so, there was something entirely perplexing about this. About how absolute they had agreed it was. How unmoving and accepting they all seemed to be. It hurt, more than anything else.

“I think… I think that when I came out it changed things.” Scott said, quietly. He repacked one of his shirts. “And I think one of the things that changed is that we all know now how much the league doesn’t want this. And it’s changing, I believe it can change, but… it’s not there yet.”

“So you think they’d get kicked out?” Kip said, filling in the blanks.

“I think that they have a realistic understanding of what it could mean.” Scott said, closing his bag for now. “And I think that they both want to keep playing hockey.”

By the time they settled into bed, Kip felt like he’d lived a thousand lives. His feet hurt from the shoes he’d bought for the event, the ones both Elena and his dad had told him to break in which he’d run out of time to do. Scott was similarly uncomfortable beside him, adjusting the pillows to support his lower back, which had been bugging him since before the playoffs. It would be a conversation for the summer.

“We should have them over for dinner.” Kip said, breaking away from his book. “One or both of them. The next time they’re in New York.”

“I don’t know if they’re looking for couple friends.” Scott said.

It was a joke, but it tugged at Kip’s heart strings.

He couldn’t help but think that he hadn’t handled the conversation right. As soon as Scott told him, in the elevator just minutes before they knocked on their door, Kip knew he had an important job. He wanted them to remember that their was a big, beautiful life beyond their little repressed corner of the world. That they were not broken or wrong or bad. Instantly, it was clear they needed something else. Shane and Ilya seemed to be two sides of a coin, so tightly wound that the deepest emotions only seemed to leak out from behind lock and key, spilling across their laps until they found a way to cram it all back in. They weren’t as alarmed or panicked as he’d expected. They were just… tired.

And they were something else. Something he should’ve, admittedly, seen coming. Something he would’ve, if he’d been given more than five seconds to prepare. This part he hadn’t known how to explain. How to articulate without losing any capital he had with all three of the people in the room. He wanted to tell them that he knew them. Of course he knew them. All Kip could see when he looked at Shane and Ilya were two distorted versions of his boyfriend.

Scott didn’t see it, it was too close or too painful or too much. And he was right, they were right, it was different. They were in a different situation and had led different closeted lives. But those small differences stop holding a lot of meaning when you’ve loved a version of them. When you’ve watched them in a type of pain they can’t articulate. When you almost lose someone because of it.

“They need them.” Kip says, firmly.

They need couple friends. They need to be a couple, and have friends. They need to be somewhere where Shane doesn’t need a drink to wear down whatever part of himself was still hesitating to touch his boyfriend, even in safe company. They need to eat dinner around a table where Ilya can say boyfriend without hesitation. If they can’t come out, they need more. They need what Scott couldn’t have. What Kip couldn’t have. Eight fucking years. Kip couldn’t believe it.

“Okay.” Scott concedes.

“And you’re coaching camp this summer.” Kip adds.

“What?” Scott says, putting his book down.

“We’ll just cut our trip short by a few weeks.” Kip shrugs. He’d decided this about halfway back to their room.

“But we’ve been planning-”

Kip gathers Scotts hands in his, squeezing them tight.

“Scott, you have spent the last two years wishing you had more community in your community.” He explains. “They want you at their camps. We’re going.”

Scott scans his face, searching somewhat dramatically, for any cracks in his resolve. He doesn’t find any.

“But we’ll miss the Galapagos.” He complains, weakly.

“The Galapagos will be there next year.” Kip shrugs.

“But there was that sunset walk we were going to do.” Scott says, running a hand through his hair. “On the beach.”

“There will be other times.” Kip says again. “And Montreal is fun. We’ll have fun.”

“Not the kind of fun I was hoping for.” Scott grumbles.

Kip raises an eyebrow. He’s really stuck on this piece. It had been Kip’s idea to even go, he’d been thinking about proposing there, actually, but he could move that up a week. Forever could start earlier, easily.

Huh.

“What were you planning?” Kip dares.

“Nothing.” Scot said, a little too quickly. “Not a thing.”

“Okay.” Kip said, unconvinced. He’d get to the bottom of this over the next week. “Well, you can text them tomorrow.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe, yes.” Kip presses. He’s ready to push back, but Scott doesn’t say anything. Instead, he’s making that face. The one that sort of muted adoration, like if he says how much he wants something or loves something it’ll vanish. “What?”

Scott runs his hand up Kip’s arm, settling at the base of his neck. He pulls him into a kiss, far deeper than the small pecks he’d allowed himself all evening.

“Thank you for supporting me.” He says, softly. His voice is sickly sweet. “For making all of this feel possible.”

“Of course. Always.” Kip says, earnestly. “You know that.”

“I know.” Scott sighs, deeply. “I just… eight years is a long time. And they’re planning for ten more.” His voice is tired, strung out with an old ache. “I can’t imagine…”

Kip thinks for a moment. There is a piece of him that thinks it sounds impossible. Ten more years of this. But then, he remembers how they looked at each other. How quickly, once the dam broke, that they started acting like one person, one fluid thing moving through the space. They were entirely in love. That wasn’t going away. And he’d already seen a version of them make it. He’d lived it. He’d seen a version of them in a type of pain you can’t articulate. He’s almost lost what they have because of it. And he got a kinder version of the story. They could too. Maybe he was a little naive.

“They have each other.” Kip said. “They seem clear about that, at least.”

“That’s true.” Scott mused.

They turned out the light not long after, both exhausted. Kip had nearly fallen asleep, just barely clinging to consciousness, when his boyfriend nearly shot out of bed.

“Oh my god!” Scott gasped, sitting up.

“What?” Kip said, mirroring his panic. He scanned the dark room for any sign of danger.

“They had sex in the hotel room next to me in 2012.” Scott said, wiping a hand across his face.

Kip blinked. 

“Okay?”

Chapter End Notes

here we are!

i hope you liked it!

the chapters are based on neil armstrong's famous quote, "one small step, one giant leap for mankind" bc i was writing this while watching the artemis ii livestream. go space!

i wanted to write a version of the "scott finds out" through the lens of it happening not bc he hears something or walks in on them, but because he is maybe the only person who would see the way they show their love and see it for what it is. he sees it because theyre in love, and its undeniable if you know where to look. also bc the line from game changers where ilya says theyre bad a showing their in love is brilliant and also feels like an aching wound.

i think that scott doesn't get it completely right, but i also don't think he gets it wrong. i think that theyre all having a hard time and trying their best.

kip and scott end up accidentally proposing to each other on a walk at Mount Royal Park in Montreal after the first week of hockey camp.

that's all for now xoxo

please be kind to yourself and others,

stay gold,

aza