Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

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

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

Closeted Character, Humor, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Scott Hunter is Going To End Up On The News, Kip Grady thinks Ilya Rozanov is cute, Post-Season/Series 01, POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Hockey Fights, Hockey Injuries, Fix-It, Found Family

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-19 Completed: 2026-04-22 Words: 32,878 Chapters: 9/9

What The Fuck Is An Elder Queer

Summary

Rozanov made a dismissive noise. “No, no, I will pick you up. Send me your address.”

“I’m not giving you my home address.”

“Why not!”

“Because you’ll probably post it on social media to psych me out before our next game.”

That made Rozanov laugh. “It is good idea,” he said. Stopped laughing. Started again. Blew out a breath like he had to get himself together. “I might do this to you,” he allowed, “but you have nice boyfriend living with you now. I would not do this to him. You are safe.”

 

In which Ilya Rozanov adopts himself into Scott and Kip's household and refuses to leave. Kip finds this very sweet. Scott is going to kill him.

Notes

Chapter 1: A Date

Chapter Notes

This is really just a funny little doodle of an idea right now, but I have a lot of ideas about where it's going.

From precariously close to the edge of the kitchen table, Scott’s phone began to rumble.

Kip peeked over his coffee mug. “Uh-oh,” he said.

The first two weeks after the cup were mayhem. The only time the phone stopped ringing was when Scott turned it off. Since then, things had settled somewhat, but he and Kip had observed a pattern: if it rang before 8AM, it kept up all day.

Usually this was down to some news article or think piece or social media post that had blown up overnight. Everyone and their mothers needed to talk to him, personally, about everything posted about him. Did he have a comment on this footage of Kip at a game three years ago? Did he know this guy who claimed to have hooked up with Scott in juniors? Did he think the MLH was exploiting his sexuality for publicity after fostering a repressive environment?

Scott sighed at his phone, closed his eyes, and bit the bullet.

“Hello?”

“Scott Hunter,” said an irritatingly familiar accented voice. “Is Ilya Rozanov.”

“Rozanov,” Scott said slowly. His first instinct was to just hang up. Whatever this asshole had to say, he didn’t need to hear it before he finished his coffee.

“I got your number from Andersson, he tells me not to tell you.”

Scott grimaced. “Okay. What’s this about?” He shot Kip a look he hoped conveyed, kill me now.

A thoughtful noise came from Rozanov’s end of the call. He spoke slowly, his tone its usual flat drawl that made it impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic. “I want to say thank you for what you did and it was very brave. It is important.”

It was basically the last thing Scott expected Rozanov to say. “Oh. Uh, thank you.”

“It changes the game for a lot of people,” Rozanov said, matter-of-fact.

Scott had heard much more effusive praise since coming out, but something about hearing it from the biggest douchebag in the MLH made him feel flustered. “I don’t know about that,” he protested.

“No, it's true,” Rozanov insisted. Then, just as plainly, he said, “It changes the game for me.”

If Rozanov had said he was outside the apartment with a wrecking ball, it would have shocked him less. Scott’s face must have done something interesting, because Kip set aside his coffee and leaned forward, looking concerned.

In a brighter tone, Rozanov said, “Okay, this is all I have to say! Thank you, Hunter, and congratulations on your love.”

Scott finally managed to get his tongue to move, saying, “Rozanov –” but the phone beeped the end of the call before he could get another word out.

He lowered the phone. Kip stared at him inquisitively.

“Holy shit,” he said. “I think Ilya Rozanov just came out to me.”

The craziest summer of Scott Hunter’s life passed in a haze of media events, PR meetings, and plenty of public dates with Kip to make up for all their time hiding. By the time the new season began to loom on the horizon, he’d almost forgotten about the call with Rozanov. He certainly didn’t recognize the number with the Boston area code on his phone screen.

Scott was just stepping out of his building’s gym when he answered. “Hello.”

“Scott Hunter!” The exact same chipper greeting as last time. “Is Ilya –”

“Rozanov,” he filled in. He mopped at his face with a towel and glanced down the hallway. It was the middle of the day, so he had the place more or less to himself. He headed for the elevator. Remembering their last talk, he tried to take a gentler tone. “What’s up, man?”

“Sorry, am I interrupting afternoon nap?”

Well, so much for that approach. “What do you want?”

“I am back in Boston for season, but I will not spend much time at training camp. And I am bored with Boston already. I think I will come to New York this week.”

Scott had a sinking feeling in his stomach that wasn’t just the elevator. “Okay…”

Rozanov seemed undaunted by his hesitation. “We should have dinner! You can get me senior discount.”

His head thunked back against the elevator wall. He really did not want to have dinner with Ilya Rozanov. He couldn’t think of a way to decline that wouldn’t make him feel like an asshole. “Hang on,” he said, and opened his calendar app. The doors opened, and he scanned his schedule on the way to his apartment. Scott put the phone to his ear again. “I’m free Thursday evening,” he offered.

“Excellent. Is seven okay? Is too late for you? You probably eat dinner at 4PM.”

Scott wasn’t going to regret this – he already did. Presently. As he was doing it. “Seven is fine,” he said, a little too loud. “Make a reservation and text me where to go.”

Rozanov made a dismissive noise. “No, no, I will pick you up. Send me your address.”

“I’m not giving you my home address.”

“Why not!”

“Because you’ll probably post it on social media to psych me out before our next game.”

That made Rozanov laugh. “It is good idea,” he said. Stopped laughing. Started again. Blew out a breath like he had to get himself together. “I might do this to you,” he allowed, “but you have nice boyfriend living with you now. I would not do this to him. You are safe.”

Scott deadpanned, “Thanks.”

“Text your address. I will see you Thursday.” And before Scott could keep arguing, he hung up.

“What an asshole,” Scott muttered.

Scott’s reflection stared back at him, gallows-grim in a blue button-up shirt. “I could tell him I’m sick.”

“He’s gonna be here in twenty minutes,” Kip reminded him from his spot on the bed. He didn’t look up from his phone. “Way too late to back out.”

“You could call me with a fake emergency right after we leave,” he suggested.

Kip snorted. “No way.” He set his phone aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He met Scott’s eyes in the mirror, that sort of stern-playful look he wielded like a weapon. “Come on, this is a nice thing you’re doing.”

Scott turned to face him. “You don’t understand. Rozanov’s a nightmare. I can’t sit through a whole meal with him. He’s gonna piss me off ‘til I end up on the news.”

“He’s a closeted hockey player!” Kip held his arms wide. “A Russian closeted hockey player. God, you of all people should understand him having to put up a tough front.”

“Rozanov doesn’t have a ‘tough front,’” he insisted. “He’s annoying. He’s the biggest pest in the league. All he does is tell me I’m old.”

“Maybe that’s his way of asking for your wisdom.”

Scott pulled out his phone. “The last thing he texted me was, Restaurant is on the roof. Can you still do stairs?”

At the first twitch of Kip’s mouth, Scott pointed a finger at him. “Don’t laugh at that.”

Kip bit his lip. He beckoned Scott closer and reeled him in by his belt loops until he could wrap his arms around his hips, chin propped on Scott’s stomach as he looked up at him. “Imagine what a difference it would have made for you to have another hockey player you could talk to about this. Do you remember how much you were struggling with it at his age?”

He did, of course. And Kip was right, of course, and the sweetest person on the planet. “I know,” he relented. “I know. I’ll try. Jesus, I don’t even know what to say to him.”

“Just be honest. Just be you. Be there. Remember, the closet can be a really dark place.”

Rozanov pulled up in front of Scott’s building in the most ridiculous car he’d ever seen. It was lime green, two door, blacked-out windows, nearly flush with the pavement. The passenger window rolled down, revealing Rozanov in a white silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. “Scott Hunter!” he called. “You look very nice. Your boyfriend help you? Is benefit of – what do they call it? Robbing cradle? He makes sure your pants don’t get too high.”

Scott almost turned around and went back inside. Instead, he gestured at the car and asked, “Aren’t you a little young for a midlife crisis?”

That got him a laugh, and Rozanov stretched across the seat to open the door for him.

The biggest shock so far was that instead of heading further into Manhattan, they crossed the bridge into Brooklyn, though still within a well-gentrified area, valet stands dotted along the street. Rozanov handed his keys over to one, then led Scott into a restaurant with high ceilings and light, modern décor. The hostess led them to the roof, where the tables were spaced well apart, vases of flowers and small lanterns on each table. It struck him suddenly that Rozanov was trying to impress him.

“This is nice,” he commented as the waitress left with their drink orders. He couldn’t keep the suspicion from his voice.

“This is how you are meant to eat when you have won the cup,” Ilya explained in faux patience. “You may not know – you are new to this. I will teach you.”

Scott shook his head. “This is not the side of Brooklyn I grew up in.”

Rozanov leaned back in his chair. “No, you are sad little orphan boy like” – he said something quick in Russian – “Oliver Twist.”

He was definitely gonna end up on the news. “What about you?” Scott asked, trying to get this conversation somewhere remotely civil. “Are you from Moscow or…?”

“Yes, Moscow. But I promise there are other cities in Russia. My family has some money there. More money after I start playing hockey. But now my father is dead, I am orphan like you, but not so sad. Not like Oliver Twist.”

Scott was saved from responding to that by the waitress’s reappearance with a bottle of wine. “Can I get you started with anything?” she offered.

He was about to apologize for not reading the menu when Rozanov cut in and rattled off what looked like most of the appetizer list.

“I was sorry to hear about your father,” Scott offered once she left again, eyes now fixed on the menu. He didn’t want to be here any longer than he needed to be. It was some sort of weird fusion cuisine, which Scott wasn’t against, but it seemed the more conventional the dish, the more expensive it was. The steak was $75 while something called branzino was only $41.

“Yes, yes, everyone is very sorry,” Rozanov dismissed. He leaned over the table, watching Scott look at the menu. “You can get steak,” he said. “You are boring and expensive date, but I already guess this.”

Scott’s eyes snapped up. “You don’t think this is a date, do you?”

“You and very young boyfriend are not swingers?” he asked. His accent made it hard to pick out the sarcasm, but his face didn’t. “Well, is for the best. I would probably break your hip if we fuck.”

His patience finally gave way. “Look, do you have to do this?” Scott demanded. “Be a dick when I’m trying to help you?”

“Help me?” Rozanov echoed. “Help me how? I am teaching you how to eat like respectable celebrity. I am help you.”

Lowering his voice, Scott said, “You came out to me, Rozanov.”

Rozanov leaned away from him with a weary expression that didn’t cover up his unease nearly as well as he seemed to think. “Is not big deal. Not like I made out with my boyfriend on TV.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Chewing on his thumbnail, Rozanov resolutely looked out at the skyline. He nodded.

The waitress reappeared with a tray full of appetizers, most unrecognizable to Scott, but it had been thirty whole seconds since Rozanov said something unpleasant, and he didn’t want to give him ammunition by asking. They put in their orders – Rozanov got lamb, the second most expensive and second most normal item on the menu. Bitch.

Scott reached for what looked like octopus on flatbread and asked, “So how long have you been together?”

Rozanov seemed more casual as he spoke now, focusing on the food. “It is serious only recently, but we have been something… basically since I came to US.”

He couldn’t remember exactly which year Rozanov got drafted – though he remembered the Rookie of the Year awards. Shane Hollander beat him out for it. He could only imagine how unpleasant Rozanov had been over that. “Does anyone else know?”

“His parents,” he answered breezily. “I have friend from Russia who knows I have someone, but I cannot say who.”

“He’s in the closet, too?” In a fucked up way, Scott thought, that made things easier. It had been brutal for Kip, having to go back to hiding.

Rozanov nodded again, eyes on a flatbread of baba ganoush, and dropped the next bomb like it was nothing. “He is hockey player.”

Scott’s mind immediately started flipping through the Boston roster, but before it could get very far, he shut that down, reminded himself that it wasn’t his business. Rozanov could tell him about himself, but the rest wasn’t for him to share. Besides, he didn’t even know if the guy was in the MLH – he could be in the minors or even Europe.

He offered: “I think it was hard for Kip to understand, at least at first. You know, coming from outside the hockey world.”

“Probably it helped that you are sugar daddy.”

“Watch it.” Scott leveled him with a glare.

Rozanov held up his hands in mock surrender, and they let the conversation drop for a while. Talked about the food.

“I thought you’d take me for borscht or something,” Scott teased.

That got him a scoff. “This is all Americans know about Russia.” He counted on his fingers: “Moscow, borscht, and we stole your election.”

Scott smirked. “Oh, is that confirmation?”

Rozanov shrugged. “Probably we did. Stealing our own elections is too easy now. We need to try new things for excitement.”

He thought about the Sochi Olympics, about Vaughan’s comment about how dangerous Russia was for gay people. Back then, it had made Scott quietly panicked and paranoid for himself. He looked at Rozanov now and remembered Kip’s words from earlier. Not just a gay hockey player – a gay Russian hockey player. The stakes were a lot higher for him. He remembered spotting Hollander trying to talk to him after Russia lost, and it had looked, from a distance, like Rozanov was yelling at him.

At the time, he’d figured it was just Rozanov being a dick as usual. But no wonder.

Their entrees came. Scott eyed the skyline as they ate, thinking about Rozanov’s mystery boyfriend. Fuck, how many gay players were there in the league? Was Rozanov just the first that would come to him? Was he going to end up some sort of keeper of MLH closet cases? Or maybe others would follow his lead. It mattered that he’d done it after winning the cup, Scott thought.

He laughed quietly.

“What?” Rozanov asked.

Scott shook his head. “I was just thinking – two of the last four cups were won by teams with gay captains. Imagine if Hollander came out.”

Rozanov’s face did something strange then. Quick, nearly imperceptible if Scott hadn’t been looking right at him in the lamplight. A widening of the eyes, then a careful schooling, the looseness that had fallen into his expression through dinner tightening back up.

“Mr. Perfect?” he scoffed. “I don’t think so.”

Several puzzle pieces slotted into place at once.

“Holy shit,” Scott said.

Rozanov shifted aggressively in his seat, jaw going tight. “Holy shit what, Hunter? Holy shit you are fantasizing about Montreal captain now? Probably because you are cradle-robber and he has baby face. Won’t your boyfriend be jealous?”

Scott let out a breath. “I’m not gonna tell anyone,” he promised.

“Good! There is nothing to tell,” Rozanov snapped, but there was a brittleness in his voice now.

They finished eating. Rozanov grabbed the check before Scott could even look at it. “This is lesson two about being big celebrity,” he drawled. “Even though you have more money than ever, people keep buying things for you.”

“Thank you for dinner,” Scott deadpanned.

“Shit. I forgot to ask for senior discount.”

“You already made that joke.”

Rozanov made a dismissive noise and waved a hand at him as he stood. It was strange, watching his mannerisms now. Scott had probably written a lot of it off as European, but Rozanov was actually sort of flamboyant when you paid attention. He wondered how much the accent covered up, how he sounded to other Russians. If that had been hard for him, growing up.

God damn it, did he actually give a shit about Ilya Rozanov now? Kip was never going to let him hear the end of this.

When they finally pulled up in front of Scott’s building, he turned and said, “Look, I know how tough it can be, hiding yourself like this and not having anyone to talk to about it. And I hope you and – and whoever you’re dating, you can support each other, but I imagine a long-distance relationship isn’t great when that’s your only person.”

Rozanov was looking straight ahead, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel like he was impatient.

“You can call me if you need to talk,” he offered. “And New York is an easy train ride from Boston – you don’t have to slog through traffic in a race car.”

“It’s a nice car!” he protested.

Scott stared at him a moment, waiting for him to acknowledge anything else he’d said. When that didn’t happen, he clapped a hand on Rozanov’s shoulder and squeezed it. “I’ll see you around.”

He was about to close the door behind him when he heard that sharp, “Scott Hunter!”

Scott ducked to look at him.

Rozanov rubbed his thumb against the side of his nose and shrugged. “Maybe next time I meet your boyfriend. Might be nice to talk to someone my own age.”

He slammed the door.

Chapter End Notes

In trying to come up with a title for this, the following ideas were generated with my lovely friends mockspeed and lowkey_existential_despair. Please feel free to vote for a change or suggest your own.

Scott Hunter: Elder Queer; Elder Queer vs. The Worst Babygay You Ever Met; Gay on Gay Violence; The Intersection of Elder Abuse and Queer on Queer Violence; Elder Abuse; In Which Ilya Refuses to Get the Fuck Off Scott's Couch; How a Threesome Can Ruin Your Life; Why Is Rozanov on my Couch Again?: Scott Hunter's Struggles with Elder Abuse; Get Off My Couch; Why Is It Here Again; My Boyfriend's Worst Project; Is It Illegal To Return The Baby After Adoption; Can I Surrender A Grown Man At The Fire Station; What The Fuck Is An Elder Queer; Scotty Is Not Your Queer Elder; Scott Hunter: Pro Deportation; How Scott Hunter Learned to Hate Immigrants; Why McCarthy Was Right; The Red Scare on My Couch

Edit: by popular demand, the title was changed from "How Scott Hunter Lost His Couch and His Sanity and Gained Absolutely Nothing" to "What The Fuck Is An Elder Queer"

Chapter 2: An Invitation

Chapter Summary

Ilya decides to befriend Kip.

Chapter Notes

This was the winner of the alternate titles, thank you for your input!

From Rozanov 1:22PM: Send me Kip’s phone number

To Rozanov 1:31PM: Absolutely not.

From Rozanov 1:31PM: Why not? You worried I will steal him? Maybe he should know he has options
From Rozanov 1:32PM: Please

To Rozanov 1:34PM: Why?

From Rozanov 1:34PM: I am buying you a present and need advice.

To Rozanov 1:35PM: Really?

From Rozanov 1:35PM: Yes

To Rozanov 1:35PM: No you’re not.

From Rozanov: 1:36PM: Make a group chat if you are worried

To Rozanov: 1:36PM: Why do you want to talk to my boyfriend!

Incoming call from: Rozanov

Scott almost declined the call. With a frustrated sound, he accepted it. “What, Rozanov?”

Across the room, Kip looked up and frowned at him, brow furrowing. He was at the kitchen table, laptop open, checking his email.

“You are at home?” Rozanov asked.

“Yes,” he said, forcing himself not to growl the word under Kip’s watchful eye.

“Is Kip home?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Put him on phone, I just want to talk for a second. I promise.”

Scott gazed heavenward and sighed. He pressed the phone to his chest. “Ilya Rozanov wants to talk to you,” he reported, voice flat.

Kip’s brow furrowed deeper. “What? Why?”

“He won’t tell me. You can say no.”

But Kip stood up and crossed the room, holding his hand out. He took the phone. “Hello?” His lips spread slowly into a smile, the furrow disappearing. “So I hear,” he said, sounding amused. He turned himself to the side so Scott could only see his profile, but he was visibly holding back laughter. Finally, he said, “Oh, that’s actually very nice. Thank you. I think that should work, but let me check my schedule and get back to you. Can I give you my number?”

Scott’s jaw dropped open. He waved his hands, trying to get Kip’s attention, mouthing, No! No!

Kip waved him off while he recited his number. “Great, send me a text, and I’ll let you know. Thank you again. Do you want to talk to Scott?” Then he turned to face Scott, reining in his smile and biting his lip. “Uh, his face is a little red. Okay. Okay, goodbye Ilya.” He hung up.

“Ilya?” Scott nearly shouted.

“Don’t be a baby,” Kip chastised.

“What the hell did he want?”

“He was offering me his seats for your game in Boston next week. He seems very nice.”

Scott frowned.

Kip rolled his eyes. “He’s funny, okay? He clearly has a very specific sense of humor.”

“What did he say.”

“He said he’s going to beat you very badly, so I should be there to support you emotionally.”

Scott shook his head and collapsed back against the couch. “I can’t believe you gave him your number. Now you’re gonna see what I’m talking about. He’s relentless.”

Kip didn’t look convinced. His phone buzzed on the kitchen table. He retrieved it and read, “Kip, it was very nice to talk to you for the first time. I hope I can meet you in person in Boston next week. The seats are excellent. Please let me know if you can come. Thank you, Ilya.”

Scott’s phone buzzed against his thigh.

From Rozanov 1:43PM: Kip is very nice very polite
From Rozanov 1:43PM: I think you forget manners in your old age
From Rozanov 1:43PM: ❤

“Scott Hunter!”

He was going to start hearing that in his nightmares. Scott looked up from his stretches and saw Rozanov at the red line, beckoning him impatiently.

“What the fuck does he want?” said Bennett from beside him.

“Guess I’ll find out.” Scott skated over, stopping short at the red line. “Rozanov.”

Rozanov made a gesture at his chest, hard to read with gloves on. “I am wearing mic,” he advised, making it sound like a brag instead of the warning it probably was. “You should tell everyone what good friends we are. Everyone think I am homophobic because I am Russian.”

Scott shook his head. “What lunatic decided to mic you again? Aren’t you still canceled from the last time?”

“Yes, probably, so you should help me out.” His smile looked more menacing than friendly.

“I’m gonna get back to warm-ups,” Scott decided.

Rozanov made a quick grabbing gesture, though even he knew better than to actually do it. “Wait, wait! I take you and cradle-rob boyfriend out for drinks after we beat you, yes? If you don’t die of old age on the ice, of course. You can drown your sorrows.”

“I would rather eat dirt,” Scott told him.

“It’s fine, I’ll text Kip. We can go without you.”

Scott lowered his voice and hissed, “Stop texting my boyfriend, Rozanov.”

“I see you after game! I tell the boys not to break your hip if we can help it.”

If Scott were challenged to describe what hell might be like for him, it would look a lot like this: a noisy club that stank of fruity vapes, sitting across a booth from Ilya Rozanov, who would not stop talking to his boyfriend, right after Boston beat New York. He tried to console himself with the thought that, if Rozanov had lost, he would probably be even worse. Somehow.

“You look so sad!” Rozanov declared. “I will get you another drink.” He waved his hand for table service. Once the waitress had spotted him, he turned to Kip and cooed, “Is good you are here for him. I knew he would need you after I destroy him on ice.”

“It's preseason,” Scott snapped. “You won in overtime. You didn’t destroy shit.”

Their waitress sidled up with what Kip would call ‘a big ol’ customer service smile.’ “What can I get for you boys?”

Rozanov leaned out of the booth toward her, grinning flirtatiously. “My friend here is getting very old. I think if he gets a hangover, he will die. What do you recommend?”

Scott reached over the table to yank Rozanov back into his seat. “Another gin and tonic, please.”

“Oh, that’s a good choice!” she said, chipper. It occurred to him that she was terribly young. Younger than Rozanov, even. “I read that it’s actually the sugar that gets you with hangovers.”

The others ordered, too. Whiskey sour for Kip; straight vodka for Rozanov, who had made the waitress recite the whole list of brands the first time around and ordered the most expensive one, a Russian brand, because he was a walking stereotype.

Once she left, Scott asked, “Would your boyfriend like you flirting with girls like this?”

“Who is flirting? I’m just being nice,” Rozanov insisted.

Kip asked, “Are you two exclusive? That must be tough, long-distance.”

Rozanov all but batted his eyes. “Now who is flirting? And in front of your boyfriend, Kip! But, yes, sorry, if you two are trying for threesome, we are exclusive.”

Scott no longer regretted losing his game. He now regretted not beating Rozanov into the hospital during the game, win or lose. Kip was laughing. Scott was two seconds from breaking a glass over Rozanov’s head, and Kip was laughing.

Their drinks arrived. Scott resisted the urge to chug his. The last time he got a hangover he actually had felt like he was dying, not that he would ever admit it to Rozanov.

Rozanov confessed, “We are talking about maybe some changes so we can live closer. I am free agent next season. It might be little crazy to leave Boston, but maybe…”

“You should do whatever will make you happy,” Kip advised. “Hockey is important – believe me, I know how important hockey is for you guys – but it’s just one part of your life. You deserve to be with the person you love, even if you can’t come out just yet.”

Scott was still processing the idea that he might switch teams. To Montreal? They didn’t need a center. Denver or Tampa might make sense for a trade, but not for being closer to Hollander, and neither would New York, if he was thinking Scott might retire soon. Ottawa was the only reasonably close team, and that was crazy.

Kip elbowed him. “Right, Scott?”

He cleared his throat. Sipped his drink and nodded. “Yeah. I mean, depends on what your options are. Or what about him moving?” There were more options close enough to Boston. Jersey and Brooklyn weren’t great options, but the Admirals might make space for Hollander, and even Philly wasn’t that far away from Boston.

The question seemed to trip him up. Rozanov’s brow furrowed. He took a long sip of vodka. “It would make less sense, him moving,” he said, but didn’t explain.

Scott didn’t see how, but it wasn’t his business.

Rozanov shifted so he was facing Kip entirely, his shoulder to Scott. “Kip, I hear you are… waiter? Bartender? Something like this, yes?”

“Mostly I bartend these days,” he replied, “but I pick up catering gigs sometimes. I’m a grad student in the NYU history department.”

“What will you do with history degree? Teach?”

Kip shrugged. “Yeah, probably stay in higher ed.” He only let Rozanov frown for half a second before jumping in to clarify, “Teaching at universities, doing research – that sort of thing.”

“Ah,” Rozanov said, his expression smoothing out. “You must be very smart. Too smart to hang out with dumb hockey players. We never went to university at all.”

Falling for the pity play without even trying to defend Scott, Kip placed his hand flat on the table so it nearly touched Rozanov’s. “You’re literally speaking to me in your second language right now. You’re not dumb, Ilya.”

Rozanov smiled sweetly, and then his eyes snapped over to Scott like a predator’s. “Hunter, why you make this beautiful man work shitty waiter job? You can’t afford to take care of him?”

Kip intervened: “I like to pay my own way.”

“Pay your own way? You are student, should focus on studies. Hunter is disgusting wealthy. You know how much they pay us? You know how many sports car I have? Hunter, what is your last contract?”

“I offered to pay for him,” Scott insisted, because he had. It was an awkward, tense conversation that neither of them left feeling good about.

“How much?” Rozanov pushed.

“Seven point five hit cap,” Scott sighed.

Rozanov turned back to Kip. “They pay him seven point five million dollars a year to lose to me at hockey. You should take his money.”

Because clearly he was trying to start shit, Scott interjected, “Rozanov, you and I agree on this, okay? I’ve tried to tell him, he doesn’t want to.”

Kip’s head whipped around so fast, Scott swore he heard his neck crack. “What do you mean you agree? We talked about this, Scott.”

Scott froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a little smirk settle into the corner of Rozanov’s mouth. Motherfucker. “I just – I mean that you could, not that you should.”

“No, no, that’s not what you said,” Kip insisted. “You don’t think I should be working?”

“You would still be working!” Scott held his hands up, trying to surrender even as he kept arguing. “Like he said, you’re a student. And you have TA gigs – you could take on more of that kind of thing, you know? Stuff that’s actually relevant to what you want to be doing.”

Kip leaned away from him. “What I want to be doing, huh? Sure, because this is about what I want and not you thinking a bartending job is below me now that you’re making headlines.”

Rozanov gave a scandalized gasp, admonishing, “Hunter!”

Scott shot him a look that he hoped conveyed his murderous intent, then turned back to Kip, placating. “Babe, do we really need to do this right now? With him sitting here?” He thrust a thumb at Rozanov.

For a moment, it looked like he’d keep arguing, then Kip let out a slow breath. He turned to Rozanov. “Sorry, it’s rude to argue in front of you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Rozanov practically cooed – what was he doing? “It sound like you have some things to work out, you know? But clearly you love each other very much, so this is healthy.”

Scott stood up. “Can I talk to you for a second?” he said, glaring at Rozanov, who smiled placidly back.

“Scott,” Kip sighed.

“No, no,” Rozanov said, getting up. “Is fine. He’s upset from losing – I let him fight me in the alley, he’ll feel better.”

“Don’t you dare,” Kip said.

“We’re just going to talk,” Scott said, maybe trying to convince himself more than Kip.

The back door didn’t actually let out to the alley – at least not the door they found – but instead to cement basement stairs fenced in so tightly with the dumpster at street level, a couple of girls smoking up there, that they had to stay at the bottom, less than a foot from one another.

“What the hell are you doing?” Scott demanded.

Rozanov held his arms out, playing innocent. “What? We are having night out.”

“I’d say you’re trying to hook up with my boyfriend, but if you actually were, you wouldn’t do it in front of me, so clearly you’re just trying to piss me off,” he reasoned.

“I’m being nice. Not my fault I’m better at hockey and at being nice.”

Scott ran a hand through his hair, trying to find some meager scrap of patience in his own soul. He thought about how Rozanov had acted at their dinner: the obnoxious deflections, the sad silence. Taking half a step closer, Scott lowered his voice. “I offered to help if you were struggling with this thing. I didn’t say you could come fuck with my relationship.”

“What struggle?” Rozanov said, blowing it off just like he had in New York. “What help?”

“Don’t bullshit me – I invented that shit,” Scott snapped. “Doing what you’re doing, it’s painful. I know that. It made me miserable, and obviously it makes you a bastard. So cut the bullshit and ask for support or get out of my life.”

Rozanov stared at him, his stony bravado caving in microcosms. His jaw clenched. His lips twitched toward a frown, then back. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Very quietly, he said, “I just like that you know.”

Scott nodded. “Okay.”

“Can we go back inside?” For a second, he looked godawful young. What was he, twenty-six?

“Yeah,” Scott agreed. “Stop pissing me off.” He held open the door and gestured Rozanov inside.

To his credit, he quit picking at his and Kip’s relationship for the rest of the night. They talked about the upcoming season, about what rookies showed potential and which ones were going to burn out. Kip was only just getting used to this kind of shop talk, and Rozanov was actually decent at stopping to explain things to him.

At the end of the night, he shook Scott’s hand and gave Kip a hug with a promise to visit soon. He couldn’t decide if he hated the thought or not.

“He seems sad,” Kip said when they got back to the hotel – separate from the block his team had booked for the night.

“He’s Russian – they all seem sad,” Scott joked. He relented when he saw Kip starting to frown. “He’s a little messed up, clearly. I told him to quit being an asshole about it.”

Kip sat on the end of the bed to take his shoes off. “We should have him over for dinner the next time he’s in New York. It’s probably harder to have a real conversation out in public.”

Scott stepped up to the end of the bed, tipping Kip’s chin up until their eyes met. “You know I support you no matter what, right? If bartending makes you happy, keep doing it. If it’s making things harder for you, I want to help.”

Soft hands settled over his own, squeezing. “I know.” He kissed Scott’s palm. “I love you.”

He bent and kissed Kip chastely, then less chastely, until the two of them were crawling up onto the bed, hips rocking together.

Kip started laughing suddenly, ducked his head against Scott’s chest.

“What?”

“I was just thinking about what Ilya said,” he laughed. “That I should be here to support you emotionally after he beat you,”

Scott’s head thumped back against the bed. “Great. Just what I want to hear,” he sighed.

“No, wait,” Kip whined, coaxing him back, though he was still grinning. “Do you feel supported? Emotionally?” he teased.

“I’m feeling harassed by a jackass that isn’t even here,” he grumbled.

Kip slid down his body, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. “Poor baby,” he said. “Let me make it better.”

And, of course, he did.

Chapter End Notes

BTW, Ilya absoLUTELY got cancelled on Twitter again, this time for harassing and tokenizing Scott Hunter <3

Chapter 3: A Dinner Party

Chapter Summary

Scott takes a hit. Ilya goes to Scott and Kip's for dinner.

Chapter Notes

Soooo this fic is catching some feelings....

Also thank you so much for all your kind comments! This fandom is amazing!

Scott caught a hard foul in their first game in Toronto, which checked him into the boards on his bad hip. The last time he’d fucked it up, his personal doctor had told him, with carefully reserved judgment, that he should schedule a hip replacement for the day after his retirement. The team doctors, predictably, had a much milder outlook on the situation, but even they were starting to look at him like a horse bound for the glue factory.

They didn’t even let him sit on the bench in Montreal. Sent him home early for rehab.

“You didn’t get hit like this last year,” Kip murmured over dinner one night during his recovery.

Scott didn’t argue. He wondered if players like Rozanov and Hollander and who-knew-who-else – if they were watching, too. Noticing. Doing the math on how long he’d last like this. On whether what he’d done was worth it.

So when his personal doctor said he needed another week but the team doctors said he could do a steroid shot and rejoin the team for their next road trip, Scott got the steroid shot.

Kip planned the dinner with Rozanov, and the only decent overlap in their schedules meant they had to do it the same day Scott flew back from Dallas. It should have been fine. Morning flight, three and a half hours, home before noon.

“Hey, baby, are you still at the airport?” Kip asked, his voice bright. From the faint background noises, it sounded like he was on the street.

Scott sighed, leaned against the window. “Yeah, they told us an hour delay an hour ago, and now they won’t tell us how long.”

Other guys on the team had dispersed around the gate and into the walkway, having the same conversations with their wives and girlfriends. They’d been on the road for almost two weeks. Woke up at six after a late game the night before only to get stuck in DFW purgatory.

“Shit. Bad weather? We’ve got clear skies here.”

He looked up at a serene, partly-cloudy sky. “It’s Dallas, so they probably saw one raindrop and got scared. Who knows? Our plane isn’t here yet. Anyway, should we think about calling off dinner?” He told himself it was purely a practical concern, not the lingering dread he felt at the thought of having Rozanov in his home.

“Oh, Ilya’s already here!” Kip said.

“What?”

“Yeah, he took the early train. We’re hitting the farmer’s market before my next class.”

An image bloomed in his mind of Ilya Rozanov, his arms full of grocery bags, looking on while Kip tested the ripeness of an avocado. His hand tightened around his phone. Scott remembered early in his career, when he’d still had a flip phone, a coach calling to tell him he was scratched for their next game, and he got so mad he accidentally crushed the phone in his hand. If Rozanov ever heard that story, he’d work flip phones into his usual ‘Old Man Scott’ comedy routine.

He kept his voice level as he asked, “And then he’s just, what, gonna hang out?” even though he felt he already knew the answer.

“I’ll give him the spare key. He said he wanted to get started on marinating the chicken. And before you say anything, I told him we’re supposed to be making dinner for him. He insisted.”

That was not what Scott was going to say.

“He’s gonna be alone in our house?” he said, but it came out a whine.

“Oh, my god, don’t start again,” Kip groaned. Then, like he’d pulled the phone away from his mouth, he said, “Ilya, Scott wants to know if you’re housebroken. You promise not to piss on the rug?”

He could just make out Ilya saying, “He’s worried I will find his little blue pills.”

Kip laughed and said, “Be nice.”

The voice came closer, which meant he was probably leaning close to Kip: “Do not worry, Hunter, many men need this help when they get to your age!”

Phones were a lot harder to crush these days.

From Kip 5:41PM: dinner will be ready when you get here <3

Below the text was a photo of Ilya Rozanov wearing Scott’s kiss the chef apron, standing over his and Kip’s stove, carefully stirring a pot. He was wearing a black t-shirt a size too small for him.

Scott knew, intellectually, that Kip would never cheat on him. He was too committed to healthy communication and openness. Even at their worst, right before they’d actually broken up, he’d been clear with Scott about his doubts and feelings about their relationship. Scott also wasn’t particularly worried about Rozanov seriously making a play at him. He was talking about leaving Boston to be with Hollander, for fuck’s sake.

Still, there was a territorial little animal living in his chest that wanted to charge into their apartment and punch Rozanov in the nose.

The apartment smelled amazing when he walked in. Kip was a talented cook, and apparently Rozanov was at least good enough not to sabotage him.

A cheery cry of, “Hunter!” met him before Kip could even turn around to see him. “You are meant to say, ‘Honey, I’m home.’”

Kip had a bottle of wine in his hand, a corkscrew halfway into it. He set it aside and crossed the living room to meet him at the door.

For his ears only, Scott murmured, “Honey, I’m home.”

It got him a grin and a kiss. “Welcome home.” Another kiss. “I missed you.”

Scott wanted nothing more than to sweep Kip off his feet, drag him to the bedroom, and stay there for a few hours to prove just how much he’d missed him. His eyes dragged sideways toward the kitchen.

Rozanov had set aside the apron and finished uncorking the abandoned wine bottle. “I’m not going to kiss you hello,” he said.

“Oh, darn,” Scott deadpanned.

Kip pinched his butt and leaned in to say in his ear, “Be nice. I’m serious.”

“Come,” said Rozanov, moving through their kitchen like he owned the place. He brought the bottle to the table. The plates and glasses were already out on the table. Between them sat a covered saute pan of Kip’s famous chicken piccata, a bowl of egg noodles, and a salad. “We will get you drunk, and you can complain about Dallas.” He said we like he and Kip were having Scott over for dinner instead of the other way around.

Scott pecked one last kiss on Kip’s face, careless of where it landed, and went to the table, leaving his bag by the door. His hip twinged as he sat down. “The team, the city, or the airport?”

Rozanov grinned. “Dealer’s choice.”

So that took the first part of the meal and the first glass of wine, too, and then Kip gave an update on some drama with his thesis adviser. It all felt shockingly civil for a while. Well, at least by Rozanov’s standards. He had shit to talk about just about everyone in the league, it seemed.

Scott would have been happy to keep it like that – shallow, low stakes – but after they finished eating, as he poured Rozanov a third glass, Kip made his move.

“How are things going with the mystery boyfriend?” he asked. “Have you seen him lately?”

Rozanov watched the wine settle in his glass, shifting in his seat. “Not in person,” he answered. “Schedule is bad this year.” He drank and slouched in his chair in a casual sort of sprawl that felt performative after watching him sit and make conversation like a normal person for half an hour. “Later this month, though, we have a couple days. We will meet up in the middle.”

“That’s gotta be hard,” Kip said. “I thought I was going crazy just having Scott gone the past two weeks. You must talk on the phone a lot, right?”

A little shrug that said no big deal. “More now than before. This part is still new for us, you know. The relationship part. Before it was more casual. We text sometimes, we fuck a few times a year. This is different. Good, but… what is word? Like correcting? Like something becomes correct with time.”

“An adjustment,” Kip suggested.

“Yes, adjustment.”

Scott remembered then what Rozanov had said before, that they’d been something since he first got drafted. Since both of them were drafted. God, what would they have been, eighteen? Seventeen? Babies. “Does he know you told us?”

Rozanov’s eyes snapped to him, sharp. “Yes.” He leaned forward on an elbow, chin on his palm. “And he knows you are creepy asshole and guessed who he is. Kip says you did not tell him.”

“No, we figured that wasn’t okay.”

Kip added, “I’d love to meet him, though, if he wanted. Maybe during break, if you don’t have plans? Scott and I are going to Mexico. We found this really private resort in the Yucatan…”

“Kip, they probably have their own plans,” Scott cut in, because he could already see the train wreck sliding down the tracks from a mile away.

“That sounds very nice,” Rozanov answered quickly. “I will ask. I do not have plans, but I have to check. He likes to make plans.”

“I’ll send you the info.”

Scott did not want to spend his few precious vacation days of the year playing couple’s counselor to whatever fucked up situation Rozanov and Hollander had going on. He must have made a face, because Kip gently kicked him under the table.

“I’ll do dishes,” Scott decided. He groaned as he stood up, his hip irritated from too much sitting between now and getting on the plane. The first two steps around the table were limped.

Rozanov looked heavenward like he was addressing God. “Kip,” he whined.

Scott looked between the two of them, confused.

Kip said, “Ilya…” in the same warning tone he used with Scott when he was being an asshole.

“Look at him!” Rozanov said. “He is testing me on purpose, surely. He is walking like golden retriever with hip displaysia.”

For some reason, ahead of the rush of anger he felt, Scott found himself asking, “You don’t know ‘adjustment,’ but you know ‘hip displaysia’?”

“I like dogs.”

Kip explained, “I asked Ilya not to make jokes about you being old.”

“He thinks you are very sensitive,” Rozanov said. “I think you are tough. You are hockey player! Everyone in the league chirps how old you are.”

Scott laughed as he gathered the plates. “Believe me, most people have updated their material this season.”

In some ways, that was a relief. In Dallas, he missed a wrist shot only to have one of the defensemen chirp, Wrist’s looking a little limp there, Hunter, and it rolled off his back like nothing because Dallas was a joke of a team, down by three, and he’d just won the fucking Stanley Cup. Scott didn’t care if he got chirped for being gay, because it didn’t fucking matter. He’d been gay his whole career, and he was a good fucking hockey player.

But his hip was, in fact, fucked.

“Well,” Rozanov drawled, “don’t worry. I looked around earlier and did not even find any viagra. Very impressive at your age.”

Scott imagined hitting him but didn’t do it.

“Also not as many sex toys as I expected.”

Kip burst out laughing before Scott could actually hit him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Rozanov reached over and placed a hand on top of Kip’s like they were old friends. “Of course. I would not do this to you. Why, you do have a lot?”

“Do not answer that,” Scott scolded, then finally carried the dishes off to the kitchen.

Behind him, Rozanov cried, purposefully loudly, “Nipple clamp! I do not know this word. What is nipple clamp?”

“I didn’t say that!” Kip called, laughing.

Scott thought, while he took out his frustration on the saute pan, that it might be easier if Rozanov actually did want to fuck them. He and Kip had talked at length, through various stages of their relationship, about exclusivity and threesomes. They could have had another one of those talks and either decided to draw up some firmer boundaries or fuck him and get it out of their system. Simple.

Footsteps approached from behind him. Scott glanced back, expecting Kip, but Rozanov was there, leaning against the counter. Watching him. He looked toward the table, and Kip was gone.

“He went to bathroom,” Rozanov said. He made a vague nod toward Scott. “You should walk that off before it freeze up. Arthritis, right?”

“Fuck off,” Scott snapped. He went back to scrubbing.

Rozanov made an aggrieved expression, moving to stand next to him at the sink. He picked up the dishes and started scraping them into the garbage disposal. “I’m not making joke. Your hip – you got boarded, but hit like that only gets you scratched if there is already a problem. So, arthritis, yes?”

Belatedly, he realized the saute pan was already clean. Scott took a deep breath and rinsed it. “What, are you Doctor Rozanov now?”

“My rookie season, I lived with Timofeyev. You remember him?”

Scott nodded. Big Russian guy, one of the last old goons on Boston’s lineup.

“He had arthritis in his hip. He got a new one after he retired.”

“I’m supposed to get mine replaced, too, eventually,” Scott admitted.

Rozanov turned, looking around at the cabinets until Scott intervened and opened the dishwasher for him. He started loading it. “The plane is bad for injuries like this,” he said. “Timofeyev always said, you know, the air pressure makes you become swollen, things freeze up.”

Kip’s voice carried across the apartment: “Ilya, you can’t cook and do the dishes! You’re making us look like terrible hosts!”

With a dramatic hand to his heart, Rozanov declared, “I can’t stop myself! I am too helpful.”

Scott opened his mouth to make a smart remark back, but swallowed it down. Instead, he said, “Hey, babe, I’m gonna hit the treadmill for a bit so my hip stops bitching at me.”

“I will come with you!” Rozanov announced. “Borrow me some clothes.”

Scott’s expression went murderous in an instant.

Eyes wide, Rozanov asked, “Or should I stay here and keep Kip company?”

And he wanted to tell him to just go away, but he’d actually been decent for most of the night and Kip was staring at the two of them with an expectant expression.

“I’ll grab you some sweats,” he relented.

There were actually two gyms in the building, one for the “peasants,” as Kip liked to joke, and a smaller, more private one for the expensive upper floor apartments. And it was a Sunday night, so they had the room to themselves.

Rozanov looked far too pleased with himself when he saw Scott start out at a moderate walk on the treadmill. “You know,” he said from the mat, where he’d started with stretches, “they do not actually take you out back to shoot you when you get too broken.”

Scott thought about saying, I’m not too broken – just you wait until you blow a knee or something. Or maybe, I can’t retire right after coming out or it won’t mean anything. Instead he said, “What did Hollander say when you told him?”

The smile dried up off Rozanov’s face. “He was surprised, when I told him I told you about me. He wanted to know why I did it.”

“And why did you?”

Rozanov hummed, bending forward into a lunge. “I only meant to congratulate you, but it felt like not enough if you didn’t know why I cared. You did something very brave, so I thought it was fair.”

Scott picked up the pace a little, just feeling out the stiffness and twinges. “And when you told him I knew about him?”

“Ah.” Rozanov got up and went to the stationary bike. “I was very… making lot of apology. I felt very badly. So mostly he was telling me it was not my fault, but he was worried, I could tell. He worries about a lot of things.”

“I can’t actually imagine you apologizing for anything.”

Almost primly, Rozanov declared, “I have nothing to apologize to you about.”

“You took my boyfriend to the farmer’s market.”

“Yes, hopefully someone will post picture on internet and they will stop saying I hate gay people.”

“You’re literally canceled for harassing Kip, specifically.”

“Exactly! How can I harass if we are great friends?”

Scott snorted and shook his head. He upped the speed to a light jog. They both focused on their workout for a while. His hip did start to loosen up, but it took a long while and still twinged at odd intervals. He thought about the hip replacement, how long it would take afterward to be able to run again. To be able to fuck his boyfriend again.

On the cool down, he asked, “Hey, how long did Timofeyev have the arthritis before he retired?”

Rozanov was leaning over the handlebars, arms folded, his legs still working the pedals. “Not sure. Years, I think. But, you know, he was goon. Had no teeth left in his mouth. All his fingers were crooked. Couldn’t remember shit. Guys like him, they kept them going until nothing is left. I think he’s crazy now. He owns a bar in Jersey – we don’t talk much anymore.”

The treadmill beeped the end of the cool down, and Scott stepped off it to stretch.

“You know,” said Rozanov, “sometimes I think of me and Shane like that.”

It was the first time he’d heard him say Hollander’s first name.

He had a far-off look on his face, something desolate and Tolstoyesque. “We talk about, you know, we will keep it secret until our careers are done. And the league, it just lets you wear your body down until it doesn’t work anymore, and I worry it would do the same thing to us. We will just wear down our love until it’s broken and has to be replaced.”

“He should have retired earlier,” Scott said, because he couldn’t offer reassurance directly, not when he himself was still figuring out if what he’d done would work out.

Rozanov looked up at him with a frown.

“Timofeyev. He shouldn’t have waited that long. You gotta plan for life after hockey, you know? Letting yourself get ground to a pulp like that isn’t planning for after.”

For a moment, Rozanov looked thoughtful. Then he hopped off his bike and declared, “Very wise advice coming from the rotting skeleton of Scott Hunter.”

Chapter End Notes

The next chapter will hopefully be up soon because I accidentally started writing it before I realized this one needed to happen first!

Chapter 4: A Fight

Chapter Summary

Conflict resolution with Scott & Ilya!

Chapter Notes

Thanks as always for all the wonderful feedback!

Their next game against Montreal, Scott couldn’t stop thinking about it when he looked at Hollander.

He was a weird guy, objectively speaking, but not exceptionally so. Neurotic in the way that a lot of hockey players were neurotic and not half as weird as most goalies Scott knew. He had the whole media mogul angle on his career that meant he basically had a side gig as a model on top of being one of the best players in the league, and he was probably richer than god by now.

And he was dating Ilya Rozanov.

Hollander must have caught him watching from across the rink during warm-ups, because he suddenly looked at Scott, then away, then back with a strange, panicky expression, and then he grabbed a rookie and started doing drills like nothing happened.

Again, lots of hockey players were neurotics. But apparently Hollander had a good excuse.

Montreal was playing well overall, but their goalie got scratched last minute, and the backup was a new guy Scott had never heard of. He let through more than he saved, so despite an aggressive defense ahead of the goal, the Admirals were up 5-2 by the start of third period when Scott and Shane had their first face-off.

Hollander skated up, jaw tense, eyes fixed on the ice.

Scott gave a furtive glance around them. “Chill, alright?” he said. “We can talk after.”

Dark brown eyes darted up to meet his for less than a second before sliding away. Hollander gave a stiff nod. “If you want,” he said.

Deciding the mood desperately needed lightening, Scott said, “Sure. Buying you a drink is the least I can do after we mop the ice with you this bad.”

Hollander’s expression sharpened, the challenge narrowing his eyes and curling the corners of his lips upward. He looked a little too pleased with himself to not have rehearsed it when he said, “If it’s not past your bedtime, old man.”

Maybe it was mean, to reassure him and then be a dick the next second, but Hollander needed to learn to stop chirping above his weight class. Scott leaned closer and whispered, “Leave the jokes to your boyfriend.”

He won the face-off.

They didn’t get drinks after, in fact. Hollander continued sneaking seasick looks throughout the third period while Scott and his team ensured that the backup goalie would never leave the AHL again. By the time Scott finished talking to the media in the locker room, Shane Hollander had vanished from the arena like a fucking ghost.

Scott didn’t want to make things worse by asking around about him, and he didn’t have Hollander’s number. He had half a mind to check for Montreal news reports about hockey players walking into traffic. Instead, he checked the Boston schedule and saw that they were off tonight.

To Rozanov 9:18PM: Check on your boy.

Over dinner at the arena, the younger guys talked about hitting some clubs, which Scott didn’t have the patience for anymore. Vaughan fell on that grenade and agreed to keep them out of trouble for the night while Scott went back to the hotel. He checked his phone again in the back of the cab.

From Rozanov 9:35PM: What did you do??

To Rozanov 9:52PM: Tell him to quit chirping if he doesn’t want to get chirped back.

The typing bubbles appeared almost immediately, but took a long time, disappearing a few times before starting back up again.

From Rozanov 9:54PM: He is having panic attack on phone now. You are asshole.

He did feel bad. Sometime after goal seven, he remembered Kip saying something like, Do you remember how much you were struggling at his age? and thought about how he would have reacted even a year ago if someone mentioned Kip to him on the ice.

To Rozanov 9:54PM: Did you tell him I won’t tell anyone?

Another long, interrupted response. Scott tried to imagine how the two of them talked to each other. The meanest douchebag in the league with Hollander, who was apparently beyond sensitive. They had to be different together.

From Rozanov 9:57PM: Yes maybe hundred times. You know what panic attack is?

Fuck. He probably was an asshole. They were approaching the hotel, so Scott said, “Hang on out front a second – I might need to make another stop first,” then tapped out a quick reply.

To Rozanov 9:58PM: Is he okay? I could go get him.

From Rozanov 9:58PM: No you make it worse

Scott winced. He shook his head as the cab pulled up front. “Nevermind.”

He went up to his room, leaned against the closed door and texted back.

To Rozanov 10:04PM: I’m really sorry. If I can help let me know. I’ll leave my phone on.

Normally, he would turn it off after a game this late, but he kept it with him while he showered and changed. He sat on his bed and pulled up Hollander’s press conference on YouTube.

“Whenever you have last minute line-up changes, it’s a risk,” he said, “but there’s a whole team between the puck and that net. It’s not fair to put that on one player. We weren’t the wall we needed to be tonight.” He looked like he’d accidentally kicked someone’s dog.

Scott was just falling asleep when his phone started buzzing on the nightstand. The clock said it was just after eleven thirty. The screen said Rozanov.

“Hey, is he okay?”

Rozanov snapped, “Fine. He is going to sleep. I spend fucking an hour listening to him freak out because of you. I have to be on plane in six hours.”

Scott scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he would take it that hard.”

“How did you think he would take it!” Scott had never heard that tone in Rozanov’s voice. His usual upset was droll, mean. Now, he sounded almost shrill. “You know he’s… he says he is not mad at me because of you, but I think it’s a lie. I tell him I never told you, that you just guess, but…” He said something in Russian that sounded like a curse. “I didn’t have to tell you my boyfriend was hockey player,” he lamented. “Was stupid. I could have said – fuck – politician. Musician. Fucking accountant, I don’t know. It’s my fault.”

The room was dark but for the glow of the digital clock on the nightstand, silent except for Rozanov ranting in his ear. Scott didn’t argue with him. The part of him that had religiously kept his own secret for so long agreed – it was a stupid slip-up. He’d blamed himself when Kip’s friend Elena found out, but he might have been mad in different circumstances.

Instead, he asked, “You said his parents know, right?”

“Yes, but they are in Ottawa.”

“No, I mean…” Scott finally sat up in bed and reached for the lamp, trying to get his thoughts together. “They know about both of you? Did he tell them?”

“No. His dad caught us making out.”

Scott almost laughed but caught himself, the impulse mostly one of secondhand embarrassment. “Jesus. What was that like?”

“Making out with Shane? Is very good.”

He rolled his eyes. “Getting caught, smart ass.”

Rozanov sighed. “Shane freaked out, of course. Was scary for him. But we go to their house, he talks to them, they are very sweet about it. He had a little panic again with them, but not so bad.”

Scott was getting the sense that Hollander had a lot of panic attacks. He also didn’t hear the answer he was looking for. “Okay, so what about you?”

“What?”

“Did you freak out?”

“They are not my parents.”

“And I’m not Hollander’s friend. Getting outed is still scary.”

Rozanov’s breath on the other end of the line was the only reason Scott didn’t wonder if the call had disconnected. The clock ticked toward 11:45. Finally, he said, “You think we are friends?”

Fuck. What had he said? “No,” Scott insisted.

“Fuck, you do. You don’t have many friends. Oh, no. Hunter, am I your best friend?” Rozanov’s droll tone had returned in full force. “Am I your only friend? This is no good. I am too young to be your best friend. You should have friends your own age, Hunter.”

Scott smiled despite himself, but managed not to laugh. “Fuck you.”

“No, no, we shouldn’t. It would ruin our friendship.”

If he was joking, Scott thought, hopefully he was feeling better. “Are we okay?” he asked.

Ilya hummed. “We play in New York in two weeks. I want to fight you,” he decided.

“Planned fight?”

“Yes. I will defend Shane’s honor and beat you into nursing home, and we will be even.”

Scott shook his head. “Fine.”

“And you have to drop gloves first,” Rozanov added, “or everyone will think I’m homophobic.”

“They already think you’re homophobic. They’ll just assume I’m kicking your ass for calling me a fag or something.”

Rozanov groaned. “Is fine. Kip said we can post selfie together next time I see him.”

“He said what?”

“You should be grateful me and your boyfriend get along so well after you make mine cry,” he sniffed, and it was hard to tell if he was actually still hurt or not.

“Fine, okay? I’ll drop the gloves. I’m not gonna go easy on you, though. I’m gonna kick your ass, and it’ll still make us even. Deal?”

“Okay, deal. I am going to bed now. Goodnight, Scott Hunter.”

Scott smiled. “Goodnight, Rozy.”

They had a bad week. Lost a home game to Philly, then had to fly to Vancouver the next day for a game that night, and they ate shit on that one, too. Scott was slower than he needed to be, hip nagging, and he thought about what Rozanov said about pressure from the plane. They got one whole travel day between that game and another loss to San Jose.

The guys were starting to give him this look. Scott had been prepared for them to freak out about him being gay, for the locker room to fall apart around him. He was sure some of them were saying shit behind his back, but it was hard to shit talk the guy that had just won them the cup, and Vaughan was at his side staunchly enough, he probably would have decked anyone that tried to do it out in the open. But this look, he knew, wasn’t about him being gay.

When he was first drafted to the Admirals, the team was at the very beginning of its rebuild. Half the players were past their prime, including their captain, Altamura, who was nearly forty. One night on the road, he and a group of rookies were sitting in a hotel room. One of them said, “We’re gonna be really good, you know that? Another year of good draft picks, a couple good trades. Once the dinosaurs retire, we’re gonna fucking dominate.”

They all started giving Altamura a look after that, like he was what stood between them and winning. He was a dinosaur, and he needed to get the fuck out of their way.

The guys were looking at him like that.

After the San Jose game, a sports reporter published a think piece: Admirals In Crisis: Locker Room Drama Or Something More Mundane? Scott had followed the reporter before for his canny analysis of team dynamics. Now, he begrudged the guy’s insight as he broke down the concerns and speculation about locker room cohesion after Scott came out. Then, with brutal acuity, he observed that the team didn’t seem less cohesive on the ice – it was just worse. Slower.

Hunter is a trailblazer, sure, it said. He’s also showing his age.

The Twitter threads linking to it were a mess. He knew better than to look at them, but he did. Some were calling it liberal hand-wringing, trying to make up excuses for the fact that gay players were inherently a disruption to team dynamics. More progressive fans were criticizing it for excusing the league’s homophobia: “He literally just won MVP. But surely him suddenly getting fouled every game has nothing to do with coming out in the most bigoted pro sports league in the country.” Many, though, agreed with the writer’s assessment.

He almost forgot about his and Rozanov’s agreement. Almost.

Boston was up, 2-1, so far a real grind of a game, when Rozanov boarded Vaughan in the second period. On his way to the box, he skated past Scott on the bench, met his eye, and smirked.

Scott leaned toward Jalo, who would normally answer such offenses. “Let me handle him,” he said.

Jalo gave him a strange look, but smiled and nodded.

He played one shift during Rozanov’s penalty and let himself dredge up all the anger and frustration and humiliation he’d been shoving down over the past week. The think piece. The Twitter threads. The looks from his teammates. He skated back to the bench and let it all wash over him until he was practically vibrating with it. After only one shift out, as Rozanov got out of the penalty box, he motioned for Cameron, whose shift it was, to stay back.

Scott hopped the boards and went straight for him, dropping the gloves as he went. Rozanov turned toward him, grinning, and dropped his own. The crowd went deafening.

They collided, chest-to-chest, Scott grabbing his jersey before swinging a clumsy punch that mostly caught the edge of his helmet. Rozanov shoved back, grappling on, his fist thudding against the back of Scott’s neck. Scott pulled away and drove his shoulder into Rozanov’s chest, swinging for his ribs, then took a hit to the side of his head that knocked off his helmet. Another shove, a grapple.

Rozanov pulled him close and hissed in his ear, “Show them how hard a faggot can hit.”

He reacted to the word before he’d parsed the sentence, shoving him back hard with the heel of his hand. Then, in a split second, he saw the opening made for him, Rozanov’s jaw tipped up so his face was wide open.

Scott slugged him as hard as he could.

Rozanov dropped to the ice.

In a second, two linesmen were on him, hauling Scott backward and pushing him in the direction of the sin bin. When he looked back, Rozanov was pushing himself up, slowly. He spat blood onto the ice, then looked up and grinned at Scott, his teeth stained pink.

The team fairly mobbed him in the locker room that night, wide grins and back slaps. “That was fucking epic, dude!” Vaughan crowed, and the rest all agreed they couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken Rozanov down like that. It didn’t seem to matter that they’d narrowly lost again.

Scott had sat in the penalty box wondering if it shouldn’t feel as good, knowing Rozanov gave it away to him, but it didn’t seem to matter. He kept picturing that bloody grin. Fucked up as it was, he’d done them both some good with that punch.

He checked his phone.

From Kip 8:13PM: What the fuck??

To Kip 9:02PM: It was planned. OK if I invite him over?

Then he opened his thread with Rozanov.

To Rozanov 9:02PM: You good?

The media came in. They wanted to know if the fight was related to the speculated drama about Rozanov harassing his boyfriend.

“That fight was about him hitting my alternate from behind,” he insisted.

He didn’t get to check his phone again until he was back in the cafeteria scarfing down dinner.

From Kip 9:03PM: You’re both crazy
From Kip 9:03PM: But of course it’s fine

From Rozanov 9:18PM: You broke my teeth
From Rozanov 9:19PM: How your hand

Scott grinned and looked down at it, flexing and curling his fingers. It ached faintly, was definitely starting to bruise. He didn’t care.

To Rozanov 9:22PM: Wanna come over tonight? Kip can make you a smoothie.

From Rozanov 9:23PM: You should make it you broke teeth

To Rozanov 9:23PM: Kip’s smoothies are better.

Rozanov leaned his head back against the couch cushion and said, “Ahhhh.”

Kip, leaning over him with his phone flashlight on, gasped. “Oh, that looks so painful!” He waved Scott over so he could peek in, too, and see the cracked, bloody remains of Rozanov’s lower left molars. There was a big piece missing from the side of one.

“Gross,” Scott observed.

“They give me shot, numb it up,” Rozanov assured them, the slur making his accent more pronounced. “Tomorrow, they pull them. They said it is better to get implant for molars so jaw is not more weak.”

“I’ve never lost a molar,” Scott said, sitting next to him, “but I’ve got… five? I think?” He opened his mouth, tapping the ones he knew for sure were fake.

Rozanov opened his mouth again and tapped his two front bottom teeth, which were a little whiter than the rest. He said something unintelligible, but Scott got the meaning.

“This sport is deranged,” Kip declared.

Scott grinned at him, and Rozanov tried to, but his face was too swollen.

“Turn it on,” Rozanov said, gesturing at the TV. “What they say about fight?”

He pulled up the post-game commentary on YouTube. Kip went to make a smoothie.

“Oh, that’s gotta hurt!” a sportscaster declared as Scott laid Rozanov out on the replay video.

“Now Hunter isn’t really known for fighting, of course,” said the second.

“But Rozanov is.”

“Rozanov is. And you have to wonder, with the speculation that’s been going around after those leaked mic recordings from their last preseason game, if there’s something more personal going on here.”

They cut to Scott’s locker room clip, then Rozanov’s, where he was holding an ice pack to his jaw while a team doctor ushered him down a hallway.

“He hit hard for old guy!” he yelled after him.

Kip stepped up behind the couch and handed Ilya a pink smoothie with a reusable straw. “This is fun for you guys?” he asked, judgmental. “This is your idea of a good time?”

“Clearly, though, there is some real animosity between these two.”

“You were right,” Rozanov lamented. “Still they think am homophobic.”

Scott glanced at him. “It might help, actually,” he offered. “To hide it. Does it bother you?”

Rozanov shrugged and sipped his smoothie and wouldn’t look at him.

From behind the couch, Kip gave him a look.

Scott grabbed his phone off the couch and opened Instagram. “Kip, come take a picture of us,” he decided.

Rozanov’s eyes went wide. He made to put the smoothie down, but Scott reached out to stop him.

“No, keep it. It’s our peace-making smoothie, right?”

Laughing, Rozanov shook his head and shifted closer to Scott on the couch. He held the straw between his lips and cupped his free hand over his jaw. Scott leaned in and smiled until he heard the click.

Kip passed the phone over.

The photo was pretty good. Rozanov looked enough like a sad puppy that it was obvious he was putting on an act. Scott looked somewhere between rueful and smug. He added the caption, An apology smoothie to make sure there’s no hard feelings. Good luck on the dental work, Rozanov!

He turned the phone to show Rozanov for his approval.

“Rozy,” he said. “You should call me Rozy – is more friendly.”

Scott edited the caption and posted.

Chapter End Notes

The social media meltdown that follows this.....delicious.

Chapter 5: A Strategy

Chapter Summary

Medical complications, hurt feelings, and new hockey strategies strain Scott and Ilya's new friendship.

Chapter Notes

So, fair warning, we have some angst here! Hold my hand. Trust me. It's gonna be okay. Also, I have decided on an overall trajectory for the rest of this fic and will probably have a chapter count by the next chapter.

“Oh jeez,” Kip said, which was all Scott needed to hear to feel a spike of panic. Kip swore like a sailor over minor inconveniences – stubbed toes, computer problems, traffic jams. In the face of a serious crisis, he started talking like a schoolboy in a '50s sitcom. The follow-up, "Babe, do you have your phone?" only confirmed his fears.

Scott looked around the living room, then remembered he'd left it plugged in by the bed. "Shit. No. What's wrong?" He got up from his floor stretches with a groan.

"The least bad news is I think Ilya's canceled again," Kip reported. He held out his phone, so Scott detoured to the armchair.

It was a post from Rozanov's Twitter, a photo of an x-ray of a jaw missing a bunch of bottom molars. The caption said, Changed my mind. Homophobic again :(

"Fuck," Scott said, taking the phone and trying to zoom in on the x-ray. "Double canceled. His coach is gonna beat him to death for sharing injury info online like this. What was he thinking?"

"That's what you're worried about?"

Scott passed the phone back. "Trust me. He just fucked up bad." He headed to their room to fetch his phone, and sure enough had two texts from Rozanov.

From Rozanov 10:41AM: I will kill you Hunter
From Rozanov 10:41AM: YOU BROKE MY FUCKING JAW

He let out a long breath. Fuck.

To Rozanov 12:22PM: How bad is it?

Scott pocketed his phone and returned to the living room. "Broken jaw," he reported.

"That's what the Twitter MDs are saying, too." Kip sat cross-legged in the chair, eyes fixed on his phone. "There's some guy on the thread who says it'll need surgical fixation. Oh, and you were right — people are freaking out about him posting this before the Raiders made a statement."

His phone hadn't buzzed yet, and Scott wondered if he might already be in surgery. He dropped onto the end of the couch closest to the armchair. "He told me to hit him," Scott reminded him, because already he could feel this turning into something that was his fault. "He made me promise to drop my gloves and fight him and then he called me a faggot and told me to hit him as hard as I could."

Kip blinked and looked up from his phone. He looked at Scott. He said, "He did what?"

"I mean, he only said it so I'd hit him harder."

"And that's... you're okay with that." It didn't come out as a question.

Bizarrely, Scott wished that Rozy was here to back him up and help explain it all, because there were parts of hockey and being closeted that Kip still didn't get.

He dropped it. He gestured at the phone. "What else are they saying?"

Kip sighed and shook his head. "Well, half of it is still the meltdown from your post last night. Tumblr is convinced the two of you are having an affair."

"What?" Scott blurted, too loud, because that could be really, really bad for Rozanov.

A lazy wave of the hand in response. "Don't worry. It's just horny shit. No one takes them seriously. The hockey subreddit had a whole joke going last night about you making him take that picture at gunpoint and something about a gulag, so now his twitter post is on there as 'I guess he escaped'."

Scott groaned and slumped into the cushions. He checked his phone again. No response. He had to be at practice in two hours. "He did ask me to hit him," he repeated.

"Are you just now considering that punching your friends in the face might not be the behavior of a responsible adult?" Kip asked.

"I'm not a responsible adult," he said. "I'm a hockey player."

The team was still buzzing about it in the locker room, calling him 'killer' and playing at boxing him as he walked to his stall.

"Did you really have him over to your place?" Vaughan laughed.

Scott shrugged and preened a little, feeling less guilty than he had twenty minutes ago at home. "Seemed like the decent thing to do, since he couldn't eat dinner last night."

"How long d'you think he's gonna be out?" Breezy asked.

Farmer piped up, "A guy I was in juniors with got his jaw busted. Was out like a month, and then he had to play with the cage on for another."

Wagner snorted. "Let's hope they count that as time served for the suspension he'd get for spilling injury info on Twitter. Fucking idiot."

A sharp rap on the wall broke through the noise, and Scott turned to see Murdock standing there, eyes fixed on him. "Hunter," he said, and tipped his head toward his office.

Scott followed him. Not until the door was closed and they were both sitting did he ask, "What's up?"

"How's the hip?"

Fuck. He shifted demonstrably in his chair, as if feeling it out. "No problems today," he insisted.

"And how was it last night?" By the look on his face, Scott thought he already knew.

"It's slowing me down," Scott allowed. "I need to compensate for it better. Focus on making opportunities for the guys ahead of me."

Murdock's mouth twisted into something regretful. He understood. Scott knew he did. He'd been where Scott was sitting. "You need less ice time," he said.

Scott forced himself to hold the man's gaze. "Maybe," he admitted.

"We're in St. Louis tomorrow," he said slowly, like maybe Scott had forgotten. "They like to play rough, and everyone likes to play rough with you this season."

He broke, eyes dropping to the desk. "I can take the heat, Coach."

"I know. I'm asking how much heat you want to take. Because if they want to be a bunch of assholes, we can use that."

The suggestion caught Scott off-guard. He looked up, sure the shock was written all over his face.

Murdock shrugged. "You'd be making opportunities," he said.

He was talking about, what, offering Scott up like a sacrifice? Fucking bait? His mind went to Ilya's old mentor Timofeyev with the twisted fingers and toothless smile and broken brain. "I'm not a goon," Scott insisted. "I'm still the best shooter we have."

"Which doesn't do me any good unless we can get you to the net."

Scott opened his mouth to keep arguing, but his throat caught unexpectedly, and he had to snap his mouth shut to avoid showing something the coach didn't need to see.

"Look, I'm not saying we do this," Murdock said. "I'm asking what you think. If you don't want to take those kinds of hits, we reduce your ice time. But last night it looked like maybe you want to go out of this game swinging."

'Go out.' Jesus, Murdock thought this was his last season, didn't he? Scott ran a hand through his hair, hated that he wasn't holding a poker face like he wanted to. "Can I think about it?" he asked, voice coming out strangled.

"You got 'til tomorrow."

Scott nodded, then got up without being dismissed, because he needed to get the hell out of this room. He got his hand on the doorknob before Murdock's voice stopped him.

"Hunter," he said.

Scott turned and made himself look at the man again. He felt a flare of anger as he did it. Murdock had been where he was, and he was still pulling this shit.

Murdock said, "You know this isn't because of the gay thing, right?"

He wasn't sure how he'd respond until the words came out of his mouth: "Yeah, it is." He shrugged. "Every-fucking-thing is now."

When Scott left practice, he had a text from Rozanov waiting on his phone. It was a blurry photo taken at a bad angle of Rozanov in a hospital gown, bandages covering the left side of his jaw and metal wires on his teeth.

To Rozanov 6:44PM: Shit

He was already headed home with his usual driver, the divider up because Scott usually wasn't chatty after practice. He closed the message thread. Opened it again.

The thing was, he couldn't talk to Kip about Murdock's suggestion because he already knew what Kip's answer would be.

To Rozanov 6:46PM: Can you talk?
To Rozanov 6:46PM: Like if I called.

His phone started buzzing before the call screen appeared, and he didn't wait to answer.

"Hey, man, how you doing?"

Rozanov said something that sounded like bade but was probably bad. It didn't sound like he could open his mouth much. He spoke slowly, carefully enunciating in a way that evened out some of his usual accent. "You call to apologize?"

"Yeah," Scott agreed quickly, though he didn't really think that's why he'd wanted to call. "I'm really sorry, dude. That sucks. Obviously I didn't mean to get you like that."

"They say could be six weeks," Rozanov said, and it was honestly impressive how pissed he managed to sound despite everything. "I going to kill you."

Scott winced. "One of the guys said he knew a guy in juniors who busted his jaw and was only out four, plus some time in the cage," he offered. "Take it easy, you'll heal up fast."

"I'm missing Montreal game." He didn't have to try to sound pissed when he said that. Scott knew. They were only scheduled for three games this season — usually they got four.

"Maybe you could use your bench time to go up there," Scott suggested.

A long silence. "He says too risky."

The hurt read as easily as the anger. Hollander's paranoia, he supposed, and couldn't help but think of himself, struggling to go to a fucking art gallery with Kip.

Scott looked out the window at the rush hour traffic. He sighed, debating just apologizing again and leaving it at that, but he really didn't have anyone else he could ask.

"Can I talk to you about something?"

"What?"

"My coach asked if I'd play bait. Since I'm getting targeted this season and I'm still dealing with the hip thing. Draw attention, take some hits, make room for the other guys. He says it's that or less ice time."

Another long pause. And then, "Okay?" as if this was a waste of his time.

"Okay, well, it's a fucked up thing to ask, right?"

"Yes. Is fucked up game."

Scott didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't this. He'd felt like he'd get something from Rozanov. Outrage or sympathy or — fuck — something. His chest clenched, and his throat caught again, and Scott realized he was about to fucking cry. He blinked quickly, fighting it off and startled by the intensity of it.

Rozanov said, "You want 'poor Hunter'?" and he was managing to sneer with his jaw wired shut. "You want me say don't do it? Sweet baby, sit on bench? Talking hurts because you broke my jaw. Go. Do it. Break your hip! Fuck do I care?"

He hung up, eyes stinging, and dropped his phone like it had burned him.

Scott took the hits in St. Louis. Managed to shield his hip and walked away with a nasty bruise to his ribs on that side instead. He stood in his hotel room after, inspecting the purpling stain that stretched along the intercostal from just under his right nipple around almost to his back.

Lifted his phone off the bed. Two texts from Kip, one sent during the game and one immediately after:

From Kip 7:52PM: Ouch! That looked like a bad hit. You okay?
From Kip 9:39PM: YES!!!!!

He hadn't replied yet. Traced his thumb along the bottom edge of the screen.

To Kip 10:14PM: All good! Sorry, got caught up celebrating. I can barely feel it.

He got home before noon the next day, his whole right side a throb of pain. When Scott pushed open the door, ESPN was on, which wasn't usual for Kip, nor was being home in the middle of the day on a weekday.

"Babe?" Dropping his bag, he rounded the entryway toward the living room and stopped dead.

Ilya Rozanov looked up at him from his couch, wearing a pair of Kip's pajama pants, no shirt, an ice pack strapped to his face with an ace bandage and bloody wads of tissue stuffed up his nose.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Scott demanded.

Kip's voice came from the hallway, horrified. "Scott!"

He looked up, saw his boyfriend stepping out of the spare room that doubled as his office. "No, seriously," Scott said. "What the fuck is he doing here? Has he been here since yesterday?"

"He's been here," Kip said, and now he sounded royally pissed, "since he got out of the hospital yesterday and didn't want to go back to Boston to recover alone."

"You can't pay for a nurse?" Scott asked Rozanov.

It looked weird to watch him speak, his teeth clenched under the metal wires and lips moving more to compensate. He said, "Yes, I try to pay Kip. He says no."

Loudly, before Scott could tell Rozanov to go to hell, Kip said, "Can I talk to you for a minute?" and made an impatient gesture toward their bedroom at the end of the hall.

He followed him, trying not to limp, and shut the door behind them.

Kip turned, his jaw tight. "What the fuck is the matter with you?" he asked, voice quiet. The calm, more than anything, hit Scott with a bolt of panic.

"You didn't think this was worth discussing? Running by me? Fucking telling me even?"

"He was in the hospital because you broke his jaw."

"He told me to!" Scott's response exploded from him, louder than he'd intended, and he knew Rozanov was down the hall hearing all of this, but he couldn't stop himself. "We're fucking hockey players, Kip! It was a planned fight that he asked for, and he told me to hit him!"

"And you did it!"

They'd been edging toward each other without realizing it, and suddenly Kip was in his face, and a poorly timed, inappropriate voice in his head reminded him that his boyfriend was very, very sexy when he was angry.

Kip shook his head. "What's going on, Scott? The two of you were getting along great two days ago."

All at once, he realized that he couldn't explain. Not without telling Kip about Murdock's plan, the one he'd agreed to, and then they'd be talking about that and he just... he couldn't. "Well, he's been pissing me off ever since," he muttered, lamely.

Taking two quick steps back, Kip made a sharp gesture at him. "Take your shirt off," he said.

"What?" Maybe he hadn't been the only one thinking —

"You only act like this much of a dick when you're in pain, and I saw that hit," Kip declared. "Now take your fucking shirt off. Let me see."

Scott's first instinct was to refuse, but it was only a matter of time anyway. Carefully, without lifting his right arm too high, he tugged his t-shirt over his head. His gaze dropped to the floor, shame catching up with him at last.

Cool fingers slid over his ribs, tracing the edge of the bruise, and then Kip's palm closed over the whole thing very gently. His other hand caught Scott's jaw and tipped his head up. He looked like he had when Scott bailed out of the art gallery, like he was trying not to show that his heart was breaking.

"I love you," Kip said.

Scott tried to say it back, but his voice didn't materialize, so he only nodded.

"I'm sorry you're hurt," he said, "but so is Ilya. So is your friend. So maybe if he's pissing you off, it's because he's in pain, and you should know what that's about." Kip leaned forward until their foreheads were touching. "You two are actually a lot alike, you know."

They played Denver on home ice the next night. They weren't a particularly rowdy team or a particularly good team, so Murdock cut his ice time, and Scott didn't feel particularly broken up about it. What did catch him by surprise, as he eyed the crowd from the bench, was Kip's empty seat. He always came to home games unless he had to work, and he didn't have a shift tonight.

They won, pretty handily, and the bit of pressure that lifted off Scott's shoulders was immediately counterbalanced with the knowledge that he hadn't had much to do with it. He checked his phone in the locker room.

From Kip 6:33PM: I'm gonna stay home and watch with Ilya. He seems depressed.

Scott closed his eyes and pressed his face against the edge of his stall.

"You good, man?" Vaughan asked.

"Peachy," Scott agreed, and reminded himself that he was being fucking considerate of Rozanov's stupid situation, even if he'd definitely put himself in it. The phone buzzed in his hand.

From Kip 9:50PM: Great game, babe! Love you!

He took his time showering and dressing and eating. His car didn't drop him back at the apartment until well after eleven. The TV was still on, volume low playing a dimly lit movie. The apartment itself was dim, only a lamp on in the living room. When Scott rounded into the room, he found Kip with his finger pressed to his lips, shushing. Rozanov lay stretched across the couch with his head on a pillow in Kip's lap, presumably asleep.

Scott whispered, "You need help escaping?" He mimed lifting Rozanov's head.

Kip smiled and shook his head. "C'mere," he murmured.

He went around the back of the couch so he wouldn't have to lean over Sleeping Beauty, who was snoring a little, and Kip bent back for a kiss that lingered.

"Good game," he repeated.

"I hardly played."

"Four assists."

Scott kissed him again, letting his thumbs slide down the hinge of Kip's jaw to the tense sides of his neck until he felt a satisfied little gasp against his lips.

"I feel like I should pay to see this," came a stilted voice from Kip's lap.

They pulled apart, Scott annoyed and Kip looking amused.

"Hunter, how was bench?" Rozanov asked. "Warm?" How he managed to turn it on within seconds of waking astounded.

"Fine," Scott snapped. "How was not taking a shit?"

This had been the primary topic of conversation in their home for a day and a half - Rozanov's fucking bowel movements or lack thereof, stopped up from the vicodin they had him on.

"I'm dying!" he declared, which was predictable, and Scott should have known better than to try to use that against him. Rozanov fucking loved whining.

Kip pet his hair, like he was a child. Which he wasn't. "How's the pain? You sure you don't want to take the evening dose?"

Rozanov shook his head. "My stomach hurt more than face."

"Scott, can you grab him some Tylenol?"

"Sure," Scott sighed, biting back a complaint about playing hockey all night and having to come home to play nurse. He was behaving.

On the couch, he heard Rozanov say, "He looks grumpy."

"It's late," Kip said. "He just got off the ice."

"I didn't see him on the ice."

Scott's hand clenched around the bottle on the counter. Reminded himself, he's in pain.

He shook out four Tylenol, two for Rozanov and two for him. Poured a glass of water, took his, then set about mashing the other two into some applesauce.

Back-to-back away games. First Chicago, where he took some hits but managed to guard his hip again. They won again. His right shoulder looked like a Rothko — that's what Kip would tell him. He called Kip that night, not to tell him, just to try to feel normal. Their discussion of the game lasted twenty whole seconds before it careened into the perpetual topic:

"I'm worried about Ilya," Kip said. He'd been working from home and dropping shifts to stay at the apartment with him, which he didn't need to do. "We were flipping between your game and Boston, and I looked over, and he was crying. Started talking about how this is supposed to be his last year with the team and he's missing it, how he doesn't think they have a shot at the cup this year and he'll probably never have another chance at it..."

Rozanov already had one more cup under his belt than most players would ever see, and he was crying because he couldn't get a second one. Because he had a dumbass plan to move to fucking Ottawa, if Scott understood it correctly. Nuking his career and crying about it. Asking Scott to fight him and crying about it.

"No one is making him leave Boston," Scott snapped.

"Could you at least try to have a little sympathy?"

Scott shifted the ice pack on his shoulder. Clenched his jaw. "Yeah, okay. He's sad," he sighed, trying a different tact. "All players get mopey when they're injured. It's normal."

He caught his own eye in the mirror. Right.

He took the hits for the first two periods in Los Angeles, until they did manage to get his hip, and Scott spent the rest of the game on the bench. The team cleaned it up without him, won in overtime. They were recovering, and it wasn't because Scott was getting to the net any faster.

The flight there had been uncomfortable, and the one back would be worse, so Scott took one of the heavier painkillers he usually avoided taking and knocked out for the whole thing. Woke up in New York a little dazed and managed not to limp off the plane because there were press taking photos as they descended the stairs. He came around a little better in the car heading home. It was cold and rainy, and he sometimes wondered if the weather flared his hip up, too, and how he'd ever be able to tell without hockey flaring it up first.

Scott got two steps into the apartment. Dropped his bag. Looked up, and there was Kip, the love of his life, playing cards at their kitchen table with Ilya fucking Rozanov.

"How long are you planning to stay here?" he demanded, which wasn't what he'd meant to say, but his head felt too big and his chest felt too small.

Kip looked up at him, eyebrows raised, and already Scott knew he was about to get told off, because he deserved it, because that was rude and Rozanov was in pain.

He held up a hand. Shook his head. "Sorry," he muttered. "I gotta..." and he walked right back out the door. Scott wasn't even sure where he was going, just followed his feet to the elevators.

He ended up in the gym, which was empty, and climbed onto the treadmill. He'd flown in sweats and a t-shirt. The sneakers weren't his usual running shoes, but they were fine. The painkiller was starting to wear off, and it didn't make things stop hurting anyway. It just made the pain feel a bit farther away. So his hip was twinging as he sped up the warm-up walk, but he didn't pay it much attention. He didn't spend much time on the warm-up at all, he thought. Got himself up to a decent run.

The door opened. Scott didn't look up. Rozanov said, "Fuck. Stop, stop, stop," and just like that he was in front of the treadmill, punching down the speed.

Scott looked up, brows furrowing as he slowed. His face was still bandaged, but he hadn't sounded weird. "They took the wires off?"

Rozanov ran his tongue over his teeth. "This morning, yes."

The treadmill slowed to a walk before Rozanov shut it off. "What the hell do you want, Rozanov?"

"You're doing your coach's stupid plan."

Scott felt himself flinch. "Yeah. So what?"

Rozanov shook his head. "So what happened to planning for after hockey?"

"What happened to 'go break your hip'?"

"Oh my god!" Rozanov groaned. "I say one thing to you while I am on drugs after fucking surgery, and your baby feelings are so hurt you let your coach kill you?"

Scott stepped off the treadmill and into Rozanov's space, shoved a hand hard against his chest. "Fuck you!" he snarled. "I have done shit for you — fuck! — I have fucking been there for you this season, and you have been nothing but an asshole to me! I was rattled, okay? I asked you for one fucking thing, and you just..." His voice caught the same way it had on that call.

"It was bad time, okay! What do you want me to say? I went to get a fucking tooth pulled and an hour later they have me in surgery. My season is fucked — my last season with Boston, I won't see Shane again for months, I'm on fucking drugs, and the guy that broke my jaw calls to cry at me about his coach being mean to him!"

It was a near thing, reining in the urge to hit Rozanov again, and the feeling of pulling it back did something painful behind Scott's ribs. He turned and paced to the other end of the small room.

"I'm sorry," Rozanov said. "I didn't know you took it so serious."

"This could be my last season, too, you know," he choked.

Rozanov blew out a noisy breath. When Scott turned around, he was standing with his arms wide. "Come here."

He frowned. "Why?"

"You're having a mental breakdown. I'm going to give you a hug."

Scott blinked at him, waiting for the joke. When Rozanov just stood there, waggling his arms impatiently, he cautiously approached. He stepped into range. Rozanov's arms closed around him, gentle but firm.

His hands came up to settle on Rozanov's back, but he just stood there at first, their chests touching. When a few seconds passed and he wasn't let go, Scott let himself sag a little heavier into it, his chin on Rozanov's shoulder.

All at once, he started crying. Not loud, just little bitten-off breaths and sniffles that definitely gave him away, but he didn't try to stop. "It's working," he said. "We're winning again."

One of Rozanov's hands started rubbing up and down, slowly, on his left shoulderblade. "You didn't tell Kip about this genius little plan."

"He'd freak out," Scott explained. "He doesn't get it."

"He should freak out. It's stupid as fuck. You been hit in the head too many times if you don't know that."

Scott laughed, but it sounded wet. He took a deep breath. "If I don't make it through this season, then what I did doesn't mean anything for you and Hollander."

Rozanov's hand landed on the back of Scott's head, sharp and unexpected.

"Hey!" He pulled back, rubbing at it.

"Oh, I forget," Rozanov said, glaring at him. "Patron saint of gay hockey Scott Hunter, you need to die for my fucking sins?" He shook his head. "Shane and I are making a future because of you and Kip, okay? You already did the big, important thing. Now all you are is a big, important pain in my ass. Shut the fuck up and stop being stupid."

Scott stared back, then wiped at his eyes, belatedly a little embarrassed. "Okay."

"Can we go back now? Kip is probably cheating looking at my cards."

Though he still felt weirdly wrung-out, Scott smiled. "He loves cheating at cards."

Rozanov snorted. "Oh, I know."

They headed back toward the elevator.

"I took a shit yesterday," Rozanov reported, proud.

Scott wrinkled his nose. "Congratulations."

"Kip almost had to call plumber."

"If I tell you to get out of my house, are you gonna do it?"

The elevator door dinged ahead of them.

"Probably not, no."

"Get the fuck out of my house."

Chapter 6: A New Plan

Chapter Summary

Kip blows a gasket, and things start to change.

Chapter Notes

We have a chapter count!! Also, this chapter is almost pure fluff as an apology for torturing you so horribly last chapter <3

Thank you as always for the lovely comments - they really do keep me coming back to write faster!

Kip freaked out.

"You know there are people online saying this is league-sanctioned gay bashing?" he yelled. "And now you're telling me it's not just the league, it's your own fucking coach! And you agreed to it!"

There were a lot of loud, broad declarations about Scott being in an abusive relationship with the MLH, and at one point, Kip turned and saw Rozanov and seemed to remember why he was in their apartment in the first place, and yelled, "Oh my God, and you, too! You're all like this!"

Rozy had, of course, never seen this side of Scott's boyfriend and stood off to the side, hands clasped politely in front of him, his eyes wide and fixed on the floor.

He demanded Scott take his shirt off again, which he did, and it — okay, it looked bad. His whole right side was a mess of different colored bruises. The ribs were starting to go brownish-green. The shoulder was a deep, mottled purple, and the hip, when Kip tugged his waistband down to see right in front of Rozanov, was pink and visibly swollen.

Kip looked like he was about to cry. From behind his back, Rozy caught Scott's eye and made a cringing, awkward expression that read halfway between an apology and commiseration.

"I'm calling your doctor," Kip decided, stepping back.

Scott sighed. "I can call him."

Kip pointed a finger at him. "No, because you are calling your agent."

"What the hell is Todd gonna do?"

"What you pay him to do!" Kip snapped. "Which is think of what the fuck you're supposed to do!" He was pacing. Scott didn't know if he'd ever seen him this worked up. "And when you're done with him," he said, clearly thinking and talking at the same time, "you're calling the union."

Rozy finally spoke up. "Call Vaughan, too."

They both frowned at him. "Why Vaughan?" Scott asked.

"He is still alternate captain, yes? Where the fuck is the rest of the team when you get hit?"

Scott didn't know what to say to that. It hadn't felt like the guys were leaving him open, but maybe...

"No, instead Kip should call. He is more angry. It has more effect."

Kip spun on his heel to face Rozy, eyes narrowing. He pointed at the kitchen table. "Sit. Explain it so I can yell at him correctly."

Scott let out a slow breath and got his phone from his bag, still abandoned by the front door. He punched in his agent's number and went to the bedroom.

He and Todd were on shakier ground since he came out, and Scott got that. He'd made Todd's job a lot more complicated, hadn't warned him about any of it before it happened. Still, they'd been working together a long time. He had Scott's best interests at heart, probably.

"Okay, future reference?" Todd said. "If your coach tells you to pick a meat grinder or staying off the ice, you fucking call me. Jesus, kid." Todd was the only person in the world who still called Scott 'kid.'

"Yeah, I'm kinda getting that," Scott agreed.

"This isn't a you problem," he said. "The team traded away way too much bench depth on the run for the cup. They shouldn't have to be playing you like they are. They should have kept you on injured-reserved for another week, but who the fuck would fill in if they did?"

Scott closed his eyes and sat on the end of the bed. "Kip's flipping out. He's making me a doctor's appointment right now, I think. He's gonna tell me to go on reserve again."

"Do it," Todd said. "The team isn't hurting for points yet, and if they burn you out before Christmas, you're all fucked anyway. Take a week, maybe two. They can live without their star center that long."

"Okay!" Rozy practically shouted as he strode into the living room. "Game is starting! Turn off creepy murder show, please."

Scott looked at his phone. "Puck drop isn't for twenty minutes."

"I like to watch pre-game." He dropped onto the couch on Scott's good side.

"No, you don't. You just don't wanna watch my show." But Scott switched over anyway. He glanced sideways, clocking the performative boredom on Rozy's beat-up face. "What'd they say?"

He looked over, caught. Huffed. "I can go to practice starting Wednesday. I should go home this weekend, I think."

Scott was surprised at the little sting of disappointment. He'd thought he'd go crazy, both of them being cooped up in the apartment on leave, but so far he was spending most of his time at medical appointments or on the phone, including one long, apologetic call with Vaughan. Kip had been making up for the shifts he'd dropped to stay home with Rozy ("You can babysit each other."), and it had actually been really nice just hanging out.

"You could go home Tuesday," Scott suggested.

Rozy lifted an eyebrow at him. "What happen to 'Get out of my house'? You are so sad for me to leave now? You will miss me?" He squirmed closer on the couch until he was practically draped over Scott's left shoulder.

Scott shoved him off. "No way. You're a pain in the ass. But Montreal is playing in Brooklyn Sunday afternoon."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Shrugging, like he hadn't been working up to mentioning it all day, Scott said, "We could go, if you wanted. If he was okay with Kip finding out about him, Hollander could even come back here after."

Rozanov's eyes narrowed. "What is this? This is creepy thing? You want to watch us have sex? You and Kip really are swingers and you lied to me."

Scott laughed. "No, that's not exactly what I had in mind. But I guess Kip and I could go to the movies if you wanted to sexile us from our own apartment." Then, catching himself, he said, "Oh, sexile is —"

"I know 'sexile,'" Rozy assured him. "I was rookie once, remember?"

"Well, you could. If you wanted." Scott imagined telling himself a few months ago that he'd willingly kick himself out of his own goddamn home to let Hollander and Rozanov screw.

Well, he supposed he'd done crazier things this year.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Scott said, because it had been nagging at the back of his head for — well, for a long time, but it only recently felt like something he could say. "Why doesn't it make sense for Hollander to move?"

Rozy pulled back a little. "A few reasons. His contract is longer, we would have to wait. Canadian citizenship would be easier for me, safer to protect me from Russia if we get outed. His parents are in Ottawa, so we would be close to them."

"Yeah, but the Centaurs suck ass," Scott said, and felt a little bad when Rozy's face crumpled.

"I fucking know."

"He could trade early. It wouldn't be any crazier than you moving as a free agent. And you can get an immigration lawyer. You're a fucking pro hockey player, lots of guys get citizenship." He almost argued the last point, too: you have people here, but decided not to push it.

Rozy shook his head. "Hollander has this crazy fifty-step plan, okay? He has it all figured out, and I am happy to do this to be with him."

Scott opened his mouth, then shut it. Let it go. "You must really love him."

"I do."

From Vaughan 12:42PM: lmao why the fuck are you at a Scouts game with Rozanov

Scott glanced up at the jumbotron, but it had already moved on from them, assuming that was how Vaughan knew. He wondered if he and the guys were watching the game together — they were all in Minnesota for a six o'clock game — or if he'd just seen something on social media.

"They spotted us," he said, tipping his phone for Rozy and then Kip, on either side of him, to see.

Rozy reached over and snatched his phone out of his hand, speaking as he typed out his response. "This is Rozanov... I have stolen your best friend... he says I am more funny... and better hockey player."

Scott shook his head and looked over at Kip, who was laughing.

Hollander came out with the next shift change, and in seconds he was all over the Scouts' net. "God, he's fast," Scott muttered.

"Yeah," Rozanov murmured, sounding a little dreamy.

Scott elbowed him. "Loser."

"Kip, hit him back for me. I am on the bad side."

Kip very delicately elbowed him in the ribs, then leaned over and kissed his jaw.

They offered to all go for drinks together after the game, but Hollander had insisted it was too obvious, that it would look like a double date. Scott didn't know if that was true, but he also didn't know if Hollander just still didn't want to see him after their last interaction. Or maybe he was just eager to meet up with his boyfriend in private. So Scott let it slide.

He and Kip headed to the movies, one of the Oscar-bait kind that Kip loved where a lot of middle-aged people sat around and talked for most of it. Scott didn't dislike them, but he kind of felt like they'd be just the same as a podcast for all that happened on the screen.

Then a late dinner at a fancy sushi place in their neighborhood. They got a secluded section all to themselves. Kip made fun of Scott's chopsticks technique, then fed him to make up for the teasing when Scott started pouting. They drank probably too much sake.

"Can I ask you something?" Kip asked after they finished their main dishes. He reached across the table and placed his hand on Scott's. "Do you see yourself playing another season?"

All the looseness the sake had slipped into his muscles tightened back up. Scott resisted the urge to pull his hand away. This was Kip. Kip was safe. He exhaled. "I don't know," he admitted. "I feel like everyone around me decided this is my last season without telling me, and I'm not..." He shook his head. "I didn't come into the season ready for it to be. I think I would have done things differently."

Kip's thumb rubbed over the back of his. "Is it just that you'll miss it? What worries you about retiring?"

Scott turned his hand over so their palms were clasped together and thought about it. "If I get chased out after a season, then maybe I didn't actually break down any barriers, you know?"

"I didn't know you thought about it like that. That's a lot of pressure."

"I didn't," Scott snorted, "until fucking Rozanov showed up." He took a drink. "But he said that's dumb as shit and he doesn't need me to — fuck, what did he say? Be gay Jesus and die for his sins?"

Kip burst out laughing, pulling his hand back to cover his mouth. He got up and moved to Scott's side of the booth, sliding in next to him on his good side.

"And I guess I worry it's gonna be a terrible season, we won't even make playoffs, and last year is just gonna look like a crazy fluke or something, and I'm gonna go out on a low note."

Resting his head on Scott's shoulder, Kip took his hand again, laced their fingers together. "And sticking it out another season is gonna change that?"

Scott kissed the back of his hand. "I've been having this kind of crazy idea," he said. "Todd says they're running me ragged because we don't have enough depth at center, it's all balanced on me right now. And Rozy has this fuckass plan that he's gonna nuke his career and move to Ottawa to be with Hollander, but that's fucking stupid and he'll end up regretting it forever." It was the first time he'd said as much out loud, and Scott surprised himself with how pissed he sounded about it.

Kip kissed the back of his hand in return, waiting.

"Hollander could come here," he said, pulse picking up just saying it. "To the Admirals. Mid-season trade, maybe before playoffs. The Metros are weirdly shaky this year, so if I could get us to playoffs... Hollander could get us a season I can retire on."

"Have you talked to Ilya about it?" Kip took a sip of Scott's drink.

He shook his head. "I don't think he wants to hear it. I think he's ready to walk his whole career right off a cliff for Hollander, and I don't even know if Hollander realizes what he's asking."

When he looked over, Kip was smiling at him, a sort of smirky thing like he'd caught Scott doing something he wasn't supposed to.

"What?"

"I'm just remembering you saying what a pain Ilya is, how you don't like him, how you don't want to have dinner with him..." He laughed. "It's nice, seeing you get all protective over him."

Instead of defending himself, Scott caught his chin and kissed the sake off his lips.

They stayed a while at the restaurant bar and didn't get home until late. Scott was just drunk enough to get handsy in the cab, and Kip kept giggling. He stopped them outside the apartment door, reining his tipsy grin into a very earnest attempt at seriousness and putting his finger to his lips.

Scott unlocked the door, and they both slipped inside.

The apartment was dark except for one lamp in the living room, and for a second, Scott kept on assuming that Rozy was asleep and Hollander was gone.

Then, down the silent, dark hallway, came a muffled moan.

Scott whipped around to look at Kip, eyes wide.

Kip pulled out his phone, checked the time. Twelve thirty. He mouthed, They're still going?? and then slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

Biting his lip, Scott looked at the door, then back toward their bedroom. "What do we do?" he whispered. "Do we leave?"

"And go where?" Kip hissed back. "We live here!"

"We could get a hotel."

A bed creaked. Another moan.

Kip dissolved into silent laughter, slumping against the door and covering his face with both hands. He shook his head. "We'll just be quiet," he decided, and gestured Scott toward their room.

They tiptoed down the hall. As they went past the spare room, he swore he heard Hollander say, "Fuck, please," and Scott closed their bedroom door behind them as quickly and quietly as he could. He followed Kip into the bathroom, where they finally dared to turn on a light.

"We've been gone like seven hours," Kip whispered as he tugged off his clothes. "They had to have taken a break, right?"

Scott snorted and went for his toothbrush. "I dunno. Maybe this is how they make up for lost time."

"I mean, I know they're both professional athletes, but my god. Scott, is this how you'd be going at it if I were more athletic?"

He had to finish brushing and spit before he could answer, because whispering with a mouth full of toothpaste seemed too complicated. "You're plenty athletic," he said. "And I'm not twenty-six."

Kip, down to his boxers, wrapped his arms around Scott's middle, chin on his uninjured shoulder. "You're very sexy, though."

Scott rinsed his mouth and spat again. He caught Kip's eye in the mirror. "We're not fucking while we listen to Rozy and Hollander."

"Party pooper." Kip kissed his neck, then reached for his toothbrush.

They both got ready as quietly as they could, shut off the bathroom light, then crawled into bed. For a moment, the apartment was quiet.

"Maybe they're done," Scott said.

The guest bed started squeaking again.

Kip burst into quiet giggles, burying his face against his pillow. "Ilya can't even do oral, haven't they run out of things to do?" he snickered.

Scott pressed a hand to his mouth. "Don't make me laugh."

"Can you imagine if they lived together?" Kip pressed. "They'd never get anything done."

"They probably stopped for dinner, right?" Scott whispered.

"I hope so. They need the calories."

Rozanov's voice, distinctive and more audible than any of the other noises so far, groaned, "Fuck!"

Kip snorted way too loudly, which set Scott off laughing, dragging the blankets up to cover his face. Swatting his arm, Kip shushed him, which was probably louder than the laughing, so Scott hissed back, "You shush!" and that got Kip laughing again, dragging his pillow over his head.

As they slowly got themselves back together, Rozy's voice called through the wall, strained. "Uh, sorry! I did not see it was so late."

Beside him, Kip's shoulders started shaking again. He pulled the pillow away and yelled back, "That's okay!" He was smiling like a maniac. "Shane, you should stay for breakfast!"

Even though Scott didn't feel like he knew Hollander very well, he realized all at once that he could perfectly picture the mortification on his face, the way that he would look, during the long silence that followed, like he was praying to get struck by a meteor or something.

Finally, Shane's flat voice called back, "Thank you."

To his credit, Hollander did actually stay for breakfast instead of sneaking off before dawn, which was what Scott expected. He sat at their kitchen table in a sweatshirt he'd probably borrowed from Rozy but which was actually Scott's, and a pair of sweats he was pretty sure Rozy had bought at the corner store, since he was still living out of his overnight bag from the Boston-New York game two weeks ago.

"Rozy, did you drink the last of the milk?" Scott called, his head inside the fridge.

"No, there's another in the door. I add extra to shopping order."

Scott found it, set it on the counter, then went into the freezer for frozen fruit.

"Shane, do you have any dietary restrictions?" Kip asked.

"Uh, yes." From Rozy's snort, Scott suspected this was an understatement.

"Can you have eggs?"

"Yes."

Rozy nudged past Scott, reaching over his shoulder and pointing into the freezer. "He can have weird vegan sausage no one eats. I think it's just soy."

"Oh, Elena left that here," Kip said. "Go for it."

"He can't have bread," Rozy said when Scott pulled out the loaf.

"Neither can you, metal-mouth. This is for me."

"Kip, he is being a bully."

"Yeah, but he's cute, isn't he?" Scott got a kiss on his way to the toaster.

Hollander didn't say much as the three of them moved around each other in the kitchen, just sat at the island and watched them like animals in a zoo. At one point, Rozy stopped by him and whispered, "Hey, you okay?"

Shane nodded minutely.

Rozy looked like he might kiss him, then didn't, just touched his elbow and went back to smoothie-making duty.

They ended up with a motley breakfast: soft foods for Rozanov, eggs and a mostly-kale smoothie for Shane, a comparatively dainty plate for Kip who routinely reminded Scott that the amount of food hockey players had to eat was obscene.

"Ilya," Kip said, "what are we gonna do without you here?"

Scott counted on his fingers as he suggested, "Watch whatever the hell we want on TV. Make foods you have to chew. Fuck in the living room."

Hollander choked on his smoothie.

Kip patted Rozy's arm. "Don't listen to him. He's gonna miss you."

Eyeing Hollander, Rozanov said, "Well... maybe we spend more time over break? In Mexico?"

"Oh, are you coming with?" Kip exclaimed. "We would love to have you. It'll be so much more fun with you two along."

Scott maybe hated the idea a little less than the last time they'd discussed it.

Without lifting his eyes from his smoothie, Hollander said, "I'm, um, I'm thinking about it. Ilya wants — well, I mean we both want to go. I'm just not sure if it's..." He shrugged and winced.

Scott wondered how often Kip had seen that look on his face before. "No one's gonna think twice about you going to Mexico for vacation," he said. "We picked the place because it's discrete. It's a house on its own beach. There's a car service, security, and we can book private tours around the area."

Hollander rubbed at the back of his neck and looked out the window. "I came out to some of the guys on my team this year," he said.

"Oh," Kip said. "Wow. That's huge."

The Metros were having an off year. That was all Scott could think.

"Anyway, I kind of feel like..." His face twisted up, like he was struggling to find the words.

"Like everyone's looking at you," Scott suggested.

Hollander looked at him then, and he had these sad little puppy dog eyes that made Scott want to go beat up all the kids that were being mean to him at recess. "What if they ask who I went with?"

Scott sighed. "They probably won't. Seriously, anyone who's gonna be an asshole about it is a guy that probably wants to know as little about it as possible. And if they do, say you went by yourself to be alone." Then, not sure why he felt the need to do it, he found himself confessing, "I spent years taking overseas trips by myself to go get laid. No one ever noticed."

Under the table, Kip set a hand on his knee and squeezed.

"See?" Rozy said, listing toward Hollander with a softer smile than Scott had ever seen him wear. "It will be fine. Nobody will know. Just a nice vacation, yes?"

Hollander smiled back. "Yeah. Alright."

Then Kip, because he hadn't yet learned exactly how neurotic Hollander was, said, "But you two aren't allowed to screw the whole time, okay? I have a whole list of ruins and museums I want to visit!"

"Kip," Rozy groaned.

"I'm just saying. Seven hours! I hope you took a water break."

Shane Hollander looked wistfully at the balcony, his face crimson.

"What, is Scott not showing you this much of a good time? It's because he won't take the viagra."

"I'm gonna kick your ass."

"If Scott wouldn't get off me that long, I'd start loaning him out to backup boyfriends."

Hollander looked at his phone screen, which was blank. "I'm gonna be late for my bus," he decided, and headed back to the bedroom while the rest of them kept arguing. He reemerged in yesterday's clothes and stopped by the table.

"Uh, thank you for breakfast," he said. "And, um, sorry."

Scott stopped kicking Rozy under the table. "You're welcome any time, man."

"It was really nice meeting you," Kip agreed.

He looked for a moment like he might just leave, then seemed to steel his nerves. Hollander bent down and kissed Rozy. "Bye," he whispered.

Rozy's thumb dragged over Hollander's jaw. "Bye," he said, then said something in Russian.

Shane said it back.

Once the apartment door closed behind him, Rozy turned to the two of them and glared. "Shut up," he said, though they weren't saying anything. "Stop looking at me like this."

They did not.

Chapter End Notes

Next chapter will be set in MEXICOOOOOOOO

Chapter 7: A Vacation

Chapter Summary

On their trip to Mexico, Scott works up his nerve to confront Shane about the Ottawa plan.

Chapter Notes

I'm living for all your wonderful feedback, thank you!! Without further ado, please enjoy a beach episode.

Scott got to beg off of the All Star Game, which he'd been planning to do anyway, but nobody tried to argue when he did. Rozy debated pleading his jaw, which healed fast and was now steel reinforced, but Hollander wouldn't make up an excuse to get out of it, so they both went.

"I'm excited they're coming," Kip said their first evening, his fingers carding through Scott's hair as the gulf surf lapped around their legs, "but I'm glad we get a couple days to ourselves." Then he pressed Scott back into the wet sand and kissed the salt off his lips until the sun went down.

Scott looked up from his book — which was about a cult, not a serial killer, thank you very much — and blinked at an onslaught of colors. "What the fuck are you wearing?" he asked.

Rozy looked down at his flamingo-printed Hawaiian shirt, which was mostly open over his bare chest. "I am on vacation," he said. "Also hello. Also you are very rude."

From inside the house, Kip's voice called, "Ilya!" and then the front door pushed open, and he was rushing forward for a hug.

Peeling himself off his lounge chair, Scott set his book aside and nodded at Hollander, who was coming up the front walkway looking like the unibomber, sunglasses and a baseball cap, baggy black t-shirt. He waited for him, since Kip was already dragging Rozy inside. "Hey, man," he greeted.

Hollander smiled awkwardly, said, "Hey," and then gave some indistinct mumbles of protest when Scott took one of his bags.

"How was New Orleans?"

"Uh, yeah, it was — yeah."

Cool. They'd work up to verbal.

Rozy turned as they stepped inside, declaring, "You have to warn me if I am about to sit somewhere you fucked on."

Scott waggled his eyebrows. "Enjoy standing."

"Scott," Kip snorted, then added, "He's joking."

"Avoid the beach, though," Scott goaded. "I'm still finding sand in my —"

"Is this our room?" Hollander asked loudly, heading down the hall.

Their first trip outside the house, at Rozy's insistence, was to a shop in town the resort manager suggested might have surf boards.

"Doesn't your contract ban surfing?" Hollander hissed as they navigated through the scuba gear.

Rozy snorted. "Who is going to narc on me? You?"

"Do you even know how?"

"No, I want to learn!"

"You're supposed to take lessons or something, not just teach yourself." Hollander was dressed like he was in witness protection again, sunglasses indoors and all.

Kip brushed past Scott's shoulder and whispered, unnecessarily, "Remind you of anyone?"

Scott turned and headed to the other end of the store, which was mostly sporting equipment, and focused in on the first thing he found: a beach volleyball set. He picked up a volleyball and gave it a little toss. Held it aloft and said, "Babe, what do you think?"

Kip turned and frowned at it. "I think you're all gonna be crazy competitive and drive me nuts."

He caught the shopkeeper's eye and gestured toward the kit. As they were finishing ringing it up, Rozy came to the front with a surf board on his shoulder, intricately painted with an underwater scene.

"It's decorative," Hollander was muttering. "That's the kind you're supposed to hang on a wall or something. All the other ones were shaped differently."

Rozanov said, "Other ones are boring. I like this one."

Sounding put out, Hollander said, "I thought you liked boring."

Rozy smiled. "Only for very special cases."

So they spent the afternoon on the beach. Scott and Kip set up the net and court markers, bickering over how exact the dimensions needed to be — Kip seemed to think inexact courts would discourage them all from treating the game like an Olympic event, but Scott knew better. Down toward the shore, Hollander sat in the sand on a lounge chair. He hadn't even taken his shirt off. His gaze darted between his phone and the water, where his boyfriend had spent more time falling off the surf board than he'd spent on it.

"Hey, Hollander!" Scott called. "Can you tell me if these lines look even?"

He came over and stood at the edge of the court with his hands on his hips. "What's regulation size supposed to be?"

"Sixteen meters by eight."

"Do you have a tape measure?"

Kip sighed. "Great. There's two of you. I'm gonna go make sure he doesn't drown." He headed back down the beach.

"How tall are you?" Hollander asked.

"Six-two."

Hollander pulled up some sort of calculator on his phone, then frowned at it. "Well, that doesn't help."

Scott looked over his shoulder to see a long line of decimal places. "Are you good at math?"

Slowly, Hollander turned to look at him, his expression flat.

He realized what he'd said. "I'm not — I wasn't saying because — Jesus, I'm asking because I'm not. Hell, I assume you're not either, because you're a fucking hockey player."

Something strange happened then. Hollander's lips twitched into a smug little smile as he turned away.

"No way," Scott said. "Are you, like, secretly funny or something?"

"I dunno what you're talking about," he said, voice completely flat. "And I'm gonna tell Ilya about the math thing. He'll probably kick your ass."

They scouted around the property for something they knew the metric size of. When that didn't work out, Scott and Hollander sat down in the sand and tried to do math. Neither of them was any good at it.

Kip and Rozy came back up the beach, the decorative board tucked under Rozy's arm. "Whoo!" he cried. "Surfing is hard work! You should come try with me next time."

"That wasn't surfing," Scott said. "That was falling down. A lot." From Kip's smirk, he agreed.

Hollander, his eyes fixed on the calculator on his phone, said, "This beach is bad for surfing. The shoreline is the wrong shape."

Rozy gestured at the phone. "What are you doing, moya lyubov?" Scott had heard him use the phrase before, figured it was some sort of pet name.

"We don't have a tape measure, so we're trying to figure out how many Hunters long the court is supposed to be."

"Well, how tall are you?" He set the board down.

"Six-two."

Rozy rolled his eyes so hard his whole head went with it. "How tall in fucking centimeters, not your made up, crazy system."

Hollander supplied, because he'd converted it on his phone earlier, "One eighty-seven, point nine-six."

"So... one eighty-eight, yes?" Rozy held his hand out. "Give it." He tapped on the phone briefly, then passed it back. "Eight and a half Scott Hunters long." He turned to Kip. "This is what happens when school teachers let athletes pass class without doing work."

Kip said, "You should see his spelling." Traitor.

"Hunter thought I was good at math because I'm Asian," Hollander tattled.

"I didn't say that!" Scott laughed.

Kip gestured at the phone. "This? Isn't 'good at math.' This is division. With a calculator. You should both be able to do that." Then he offered Scott a hand up out of the sand and kissed to show he was only teasing.

Scott murmured against his lips, "It's a good thing I'm cute, huh?"

"Mhmm."

Beside them, Rozy had dropped to his knees behind Hollander, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and cooing affectionately in Russian. Somewhere in the mix, he heard, "little stereotype breaker," and Shane shoved at him, whining, "Fuck off!" his face bright red.

Kip nudged Scott's cheek with his nose. "We're gonna go order dinner," he decided, speaking up. "And not look out the window for a little while."

Scott crept out of his and Kip's room before sunrise the next morning only to find Hollander in the living room, lacing a pair of sneakers. He was, like Scott, dressed for a run.

"Oh, hey." Scott kept his voice low and held up his own running shoes. "Mind if I join you?"

Hollander did something approximating a smile and nodded.

They went out on the road, because running in sand sucked ass, and did the warm-up and the first mile in a silence that was more companionable than awkward, though not by much.

"How's your, uh, your leg injury, right?" Hollander asked, then quickly added, "I'm not trying to get intel or anything. Just — you can set the pace, if you need to."

Scott fought back a smile. "I'm good, thanks. Took my time, did my PT. I got this fucking thing..." He lifted the side of his shirt to bare the top of his new hip brace. "Running's good for it."

Hollander nodded, lapsed into silence for another quarter mile before saying, "You haven't been taking as many fouls as before you went on leave. I, uh, I read some articles about it. The way you were getting hit at the start of the season."

So there was one worry confirmed: Hollander was definitely weighing his own situation against Scott's season. "Yeah, the team stepped up," he said. He didn't particularly want to talk about it, but Hollander needed to know. If he was going to find a way to his big question, he needed to say this first. "You know, it was Rozy — Ilya — he's the one that pointed out that I was getting hung out to dry. The guys seemed fine after I came out. I mean, the cup helps with that, and then we had the whole summer. I figured, you know. They're hockey players. Probably some of them are being shitbags behind my back, but whatever. I didn't think they'd let me get targeted on purpose."

He decided to leave out the part about playing bait, the calls between management and Todd and the union. It had been sort of messy, but Murdock pulled him aside when he came back to practice and actually apologized for the whole thing.

"Anyway, Rozy pointed it out, and Kip called Vaughan and threatened to kill him or something. I wasn't there for it, but I guess Vaughan knew which guys were the ones being shitty, and he tore them all a new asshole, gave a big speech about how they could be douchebags if they wanted but they weren't allowed to sabotage our season over it. And I guess the rest of the team got really pissed about it, too, once he put it that way."

Hollander kept his face turned away from Scott and didn't say anything for another half mile. Finally, he said, "I only told four guys. You know, friends. Guys I thought would be okay about it."

Scott glanced over, saw Hollander's face twisted in pain. He fixed his eyes ahead of him, decided to give the guy some plausible deniability. "How's that going?"

"I feel like there's more guys that know now." His voice shook a little. "No one's said anything, but the locker room just feels fucking weird, you know? Like, there's gotta be at least a few people I didn't tell that know now. I don't want to think any of my friends would have... but I dunno."

Just thinking about it made Scott's stomach twist. He could imagine the scenario vividly. "You guys seem a little off this year," he offered.

Hollander looked at his smart watch. "We should probably turn around."

They turned around.

Scott waited until their cool down to say, "I'm sorry if someone outed you. But, you know, all that shit they feed you about team unity and doing what it takes to get the team where it needs to be — all of that applies to them, too, you know. If they can't put it aside for the game, that's on them. You're just fucking existing, man." And he was just trying to reassure the kid, but saying it made something clench up tight in his chest.

"I'm not, though," Hollander choked. "I'm fucking — I'm in a relationship with a player from our biggest rival. I've been sleeping with him my whole fucking career."

"Do they know that?"

He looked horrified at the question. "No! No, fuck, I wouldn't do that. It's not safe for him."

"Then this isn't about him."

They approached the house to find Kip and Rozy sitting on the front porch, sipping coffee.

"You two look cozy!" Scott called.

Kip shouted back, "Some of us know what 'vacation' means!"

Once they got closer in range, Rozy said, "It's fine for Hunter. If he stops running he will turn into fossil. Shane has no excuse. He's just crazy."

Hollander climbed the porch, leaned over Rozy, and shook his sweaty hair at him.

Rozy held his mug out of the range of fire. "You two have to rock-paper-scissors for first shower. Don't let Hunter convince you to share. He's a pervert."

"So jealous," Scott teased. On impulse and not sure how Hollander would take it, Scott snagged his wrist and tugged him toward the door. "Come on, beautiful."

In Hollander's defense, his face had been a little red from the run already. His eyes went wide, and Scott could see the moment he realized it was a joke, well after Kip, who was already laughing at Rozy's outraged face.

Hollander, miracle of miracles, smiled.

"It was out of bounds!" Scott shouted, pointing to the indent in the sand where the ball landed.

"No, if it lands on strap, it's in!" Rozy rounded the net. "I saw it hit!"

He made to grab the ball, so Scott dove for it first, snatching it against his chest. "You didn't see shit. I was standing right next to it. I wouldn't have let it go if it was gonna be in."

"I didn't see," Hollander admitted, unprompted, from the other side of the net.

"I don't care," Kip replied.

"Give it over, Hunter, it's our ball!"

Scott took a step back from Rozanov's advance. "Fuck you, it's not. Get in your court, I'm gonna serve." He stepped to the back line, making to serve.

Rozy dove for the ball. Scott wrapped his arm around it again, and the two of them went barreling into the sand, Scott's back taking the brunt of the fall. He hooked a leg around Rozy's knee and twisted, trying to flip him over but only managing to tip them onto their sides.

Kip said, "I swear to god, if you two knock out any more teeth..."

Which seemed to give Rozy an idea, because in the next second, his mouth clamped around Scott's wrist, startling a shout from him. "Ow! You fucking bit me?!" The volleyball squirted from between them, flinging a few feet up the sand. As soon as Rozy dove for it, Scott pounced onto his back, grabbing a handful of hair and smushing his face into the sand.

When Scott let him up for air, Rozy cried, "Shane! You have to save me!"

He didn't expect Hollander to listen — Kip wouldn't have — but a moment later, strong arms were hauling him off Rozanov by the armpits. "You know, volleyball isn't a full contact sport. You'd both be disqualified," he observed.

Rozy rolled onto his back and dramatically spat sand into the air. "He tried to kill me," he moaned.

"I'm gonna get rabies," Scott muttered, looking at the tooth indents in his arm.

Kip declared, "I think that's enough volleyball for me today." He stepped over to Rozy's side and looked down at him. "Are you too injured to teach me how to surf?"

"He doesn't even know how to surf," Scott reminded him.

But Rozy had already accepted a hand to his feet and was practically bouncing with enthusiasm, tugging Kip back up to the house where he'd left the board.

Scott looked back at Hollander, who had a bemused sort of expression on his face. "What about you, are you going for surf lessons?"

"It's against my contract," he said.

Biting the inside of his cheek to fend off a smile, Scott glanced down the beach at the lounge chairs in the sand. "Alright, well, I'm thinking a beer, a chair, and some sun. You in?"

Behind his sunglasses, Scott let himself look a bit more than he might normally, as Hollander slathered sunscreen onto his bare chest and arms. Consolation, he figured, for having to listen to the kid ramble about SPF and zinc and how many teaspoons should be applied and Health Canada recommendations for reapplication time.

At least the view was decent. He didn't get those Calvin Klein commercials for nothing.

In the water, Kip and Rozy were taking turns falling off the surfboard now. At one point, they both managed to stand on it at the same time, holding onto each other's elbows, and then down they went.

Scott laughed, then lapsed into silence, closing his eyes and taking in the sun.

Beside him, Hollander said, "When Ilya told me he was hanging out with you two, I didn't really know what to think. I guess I didn't expect it was serious enough for him to live at your place for a week."

He sifted through those words. The way Hollander talked made it hard to pick apart what he was feeling unless he was in a total spiral. "Were you jealous?" he asked.

A hum, thoughtful. "Maybe. Like, we both have friends. We even have friends that know — Rose and Svetlana."

It was the first Scott had heard about Rose. Landry, he presumed.

"But that's all separate. We haven't had anyone that knew about both of us."

"Your parents," Scott pointed out.

"Well, yeah, but that's different," Hollander said. "That's family."

A piece of what had been nagging at Scott for months reared its head. That late night call with Rozy, talking about getting caught, what it meant for Shane and no mention of his own feelings. "Hollander," he sighed, wondering if now was the time, if this was how he would ask. It was too early in the vacation for it, could leave things awkward for days. He diverted. "Can I call you something else? Shane? Holly?"

"Not Holly," he said, and when Scott glanced over, he was making a face. "The biggest douchebags in juniors called me Holly."

"Shane," Scott tried.

Shane nodded.

"He doesn't have any family left, Shane."

Sitting up suddenly, Shane turned to face him. "He has a brother. Did he tell you about him?"

It was the first he'd heard of it. Scott shook his head.

"He's fucking horrible. They don't talk anymore. Ilya cut him off after their dad died. He's older than Ilya, but I don't think they ever got along. I don't — I mean, I don't have any siblings, so I don't know how it actually works, but I feel like..." His brow creased behind his sunglasses. Resting his elbows on his knees, Shane looked out toward the water.

"The way you two fight," he said.

Scott sat up a little, worried that maybe he'd been fucking something up here. Rozy liked to pick fights. Delighted in it, even. Scott had just been matching his energy, he thought. Well, minus the broken jaw.

Then Shane said, "I don't think he ever got to fight with his brother like that. You know, just fun. I think it was always scary instead."

Something settled in Scott's chest, like he'd received some kind of blessing. And then, just as quickly, it felt too serious, too fucking earnest. No wonder Hollander hardly ever talked, if this was the kind of shit that came out when he did. "Well, he didn't give me much choice," Scott said, trying to brush it off. "He's fucking annoying. He just nagged at me until I started hitting back. Did he tell you how he got me to break his jaw?"

Shane smiled. He shook his head.

"He told me to show everyone how hard a faggot can hit."

He laughed, almost silently, and that made Scott laugh, too. "It was a good fight," Shane said. He ducked his head and rubbed his hands between his knees. "Once he told me it was planned, I watched the replay, like, fifty times."

"Seriously? That do something for you?" he teased.

Shane blushed and sank back into his chair. "Shut up. No." Then, "Can I call you Scott?"

His first thought was that it would make Rozy jealous. "Yeah," Scott said. "Absolutely."

Rozy had a way of whining, "Shane!" that made Scott sure Hollander could put him on a literal leash if he felt so inclined. Scott lifted the towel off his eyes and looked over to see him literally crawling up Shane's legs from the sand, trying to insinuate himself between Shane and the book he was holding.

"Come surfing with me," he whined. "I'll teach you. I'm such a good teacher — ask Kip."

"I'm reading. Leave me alone."

Having finally wormed his way under the book, Rozy started kissing at Shane's face and neck. "Please, moya lyubov. You can read your book in Canada. When is next time you can go surfing with me?"

"Ilya," Shane laughed, trying to elbow him out of the way. "It's against my contract."

Scott snorted. "You two are gross."

"He's lying," Rozy insisted, plastering himself to Shane's front. "He's pervert. He wants to watch us fuck because we are so young and beautiful."

From Scott's other side, Kip piped up, "Well, we already got the audio performance."

Shane, flushing, muttered, "Take Scott surfing."

Rozy's head lifted so fast he bumped it on the underside of the book, knocking it into the sand.

"Ilya!"

"Scott?" Rozy demanded. "Who are you calling Scott? Hunter? Your business associate, Hunter?"

"We're friends," Shane insisted. "That's his name."

Rozy gasped dramatically, sitting up and tipping into the sand. "Hunter, what did you do? You know this man one time ran out of my house because I call him Shane during sex? We were fucking for six years before I can call him first name."

"That's crazy," Kip remarked. "Scott asked me to move in after one fuck."

"That's crazy," Shane shot back.

Scott was starting to feel a little hemmed in by the conversation. "I'll go surfing," he decided, hefting himself up off the sand.

"Is it safe?" Rozy asked, faux-innocent. "What if you break —"

"You say one word about my hip, and I'll kick your ass again."

Rozy bounced up to his feet. "Again! When have you kick my ass? Planned fight doesn't count, that was on purpose."

They headed down the beach toward the surf board. "I literally kicked your ass yesterday."

"No, because my beautiful boyfriend stopped you."

"It still counts!"

"Does not."

They argued all the way into the ocean, right up until Scott got the surf board under his belly, paddling with his arms like he'd seen Kip do.

"Okay, so you see a good wave, you get up fast like burpee. You can still do those?"

Scott kicked water at his face. "How do I tell what's a good wave?"

"I will tell you. Just wait." Then, after a few seconds, "There, this one! Get ready."

He saw it, a larger, rounder swell sliding toward them. Scott braced his arms on the board, waited, then pushed up as fast as he could. For a moment, he felt weightless, the ocean rising beneath his feet.

The board slipped forward and away from him. He toppled backwards, crashing down into the water. When he surfaced, spluttering, Rozy was swimming after the board, his arms arcing over the water in long, confident strokes. Once he'd caught it, he turned back and shouted, "Very good! Fall a few more times, you will get it."

Their last night, Shane built a fire on the beach. The rest of them were city boys and useless for this undertaking, so after a meaningful glance with Scott, Kip took Rozy by the elbow and asked him for help making drinks.

Scott grabbed a handful of wood and went to the makeshift fire pit. Now or never.

"Thanks," Shane said without looking up. "You can just set it over there for now."

He set the wood on the pile and sat on a folding chair. Scott broached, "So, um, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

That got him to look up, hands stalling on the logs he was arranging. "Okay?"

"You can keep going," Scott said, because he'd noticed that he talked a lot easier if they weren't looking at each other. "Ilya told me about the Ottawa plan."

Shane let out a slow, audible breath. He nodded. Finished stacking the big logs and moved on to smaller sticks.

He ripped off the band-aid: "You can't ask him to do that."

Shane looked up again, visibly flustered, then looked back at his work like if he kept his hands moving, Scott wouldn't notice. "We talked it through together," he said. "It's what we both want."

"No, what he wants is you," Scott insisted. "He'd be nuking his whole fucking career, and he'll do it because he loves you, but that doesn't mean it won't make him miserable."

Giving up the pretense, Shane set one last stick and sank to his knees in the sand. He rubbed his hands on his thighs. "We need to be closer to make this work between us. We can't do another year like this, only seeing each other for three or four games and All Stars."

"And he's the only one that can move?"

"My contract isn't —"

"So fucking sign and trade," Scott snapped, harder than he meant to, because already he could feel this turning into a veil of excuses around the big anxiety in the center. "It would be less shitty than him trading as a free agent. Boston gets nothing if he does that. At least Montreal would get their money's worth off you."

Shane's mouth hung open. "I can't leave Montreal," he said, horrified.

"But he can leave Boston?"

"My parents —"

"He has people, too." Scott stared him down, not willing to budge on this. "You're asking him to move somewhere where he doesn't know anybody, where he'd have nobody but you. Do you understand how fucking selfish that is?"

Shane flinched. "Fuck you," he croaked.

"I'm not saying this to hurt you, Shane."

"Did he ask you to talk to me?"

Scott shook his head. "No. I tried to talk to him about it, and he wouldn't fucking listen to me. He'll do whatever you tell him to, even if it hurts him. So I'm asking you not to let him do this."

Shane slumped to sit on his butt, hugging his knees. He took a few shaky breaths, his brow furrowed. "He said he wanted to move to Canada for the passport."

With a sigh, Scott took a gentler tone. "Rozy doesn't even know what kind of fucking visa he's on, okay? My travel agent asked, and he had to send her to his travel agent. I asked one of the Latvian guys on my team about it, and he says you can get American citizenship off that visa in five years. He's probably already eligible. How long would he have to wait if he started over in Canada?"

"I didn't..." Shane ducked his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I guess I never looked it up."

Scott reminded himself how fucking young they were. What an idiot he was at their age. It was fucked up that they were left to their own devices to figure this shit out. Fucked up that the league didn't have someone hand-holding Rozanov through the whole process by default.

All at once, Shane seemed to crumple. He pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. "I just want this to work," he croaked. "I just want a fucking future. It's not fucking fair."

"I know." He hesitated, not sure if distance or closeness would work better in that moment. He got up and moved around the fire pit. Sat down next to Shane so their shoulders touched. The sun had disappeared behind the house, and the sky was going purple over the ocean. "The Admirals need a center," he said, voice soft.

Shane looked up at him. His eyes were wet.

Scott took a deep breath of his own. "I think this is — I need this to be my last year. We're on track to make the playoffs, but I don't know if I'm gonna hold up through them. Montreal's on track to wash out. The trade would make sense. We already know how the Admirals are dealing with a gay player on the team. It would take some of the guesswork out of it for you."

Seeing the petrified look on Shane's face, Scott slowly wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed.

"Plus," he said, "I'll be around, and I know where all those fuckers live. Anyone messes with you, I'll go kick the shit out of them for you."

A half-choked laugh slipped from Shane's lips. He leaned into Scott's side. "Fuck," he mumbled. He still looked miserable, but Scott didn't think it was about the prospect of moving to New York.

"Listen, I asked some really unfair shit of Kip before I came out," he said, "and he dumped me for it. More than once. And he was right to do it. When you spend all your time protecting yourself, it's really fucking easy to let other people get hurt instead. So learn from my fucking mistakes, alright?"

With another breath, Shane seemed to reassemble himself, bit by bit. He moved out from under Scott's arm and went back to the fire. "I should get this going before it's too dark," he said.

Scott backed off, thinking maybe that was all he'd get tonight. He had to hope it was enough. He looked on as Shane pushed dried-up palm fronds into the center of his stick structure, then pulled out a lighter and lit them. They went up bright, fast, and Scott probably would have left it at that, but Shane bent close to the fire, face close enough that Scott worried for his eyebrows, and blew, open-mouthed, onto the flames. They lowered to an orange glow. He moved back, and they burst higher than before, a brighter yellow that caught the larger sticks, which started to smoke and crackle.

Shane looked back at him. "Okay, so how do we make it happen?"

In the morning, Shane Hollander went surfing.

Chapter 8: A Trade

Chapter Summary

The plan comes together.

Chapter Notes

I had a busy couple of weeks IRL, but I'm so excited to be posting this chapter! The final chapter will be shorter and more of an epilogue, so it should be done fairly quickly. This really was a doodle of an idea that grew legs and started running, and I've been blown away by how many people have been enjoying the journey with me. Thank you!!

Incoming call from: Rozanov

Scott glanced at his phone screen, then gave a tight smile to Vaughan and the few other guys hanging around outside the locker room. "Catch you later," he said before heading down the hallway and accepting the call.

"Hey, what's up?"

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" And that was genuine anger. He'd learned it well.

He glanced around for somewhere less populated, opted for an emergency stairwell and slipped inside. "Plenty. You'll have to be specific."

"You told Shane I can't go to Ottawa?" Rozy practically roared. "What the fuck did you say to him? He was crying apologizing to me. I told you it was fine."

Scott scoffed. "You did not fucking say it was fine. You said you were 'willing to do it' for him, and that's exactly what I fucking told him. I told him you're dumb as shit and you'd do whatever he told you even if it was a dumb fucking idea."

"Was not your place to say, Hunter. Fuck you."

He ducked to peek up the stairwell, but it seemed empty. He sat on the stairs. "Oh, yeah? Who's place was it, then? 'Cause you sure as shit weren't about to stick up for your own goddamn interests."

"Shane is my interest, okay?"

"Oh, don't say that," Scott groaned. "That's pathetic, man. Listen, turns out blowing your whole life up isn't a requirement to keep him. Turns out he doesn't even want you to as soon as he figured out that's what you were doing. Congratu-fucking-lations and you're goddamn welcome."

"You are —!" and Rozy had apparently crossed some new threshold of pissed off, because he broke into a string of Russian spat so acidly Scott hardly needed a translation.

"Yeah, well, all that to you, too, you fucking child!"

Rozy snapped, "I would not have asked him for any of this."

Scott snorted. "Oh, I know. He loves you, okay? Try acting like you believe it."

On the other end of the line, he could hear Rozy's harsh breaths, still seething but maybe starting to come around.

"This plan is better."

"Because you can ride your broken hip on Shane Hollander until retirement?"

That actually made him pause. Because, yeah, there was a part of Scott that was doing it for that. No denying it. He lowered his voice. "Those dipshits in Montreal are gonna ice him out, and he knows it."

"Because Admirals are so supportive," Rozy sneered.

"You know what? They are. A hell of a lot better than they could be. The bar's pretty fucking low."

"Well, I guess it don't matter what I think. He's talking to agent tomorrow. You blindside me," he said, then spat out another word of Russian, something nasty-sounding, an insult.

"Yeah, cry all you want," Scott snapped. "I'm not gonna apologize for watching out for you."

"Fuck you."

"Oh, and hire a fucking immigration lawyer, dumbass."

Rozy hung up.

Scott glared down at his phone. Took a deep breath. It was strange: if they'd had that argument at the start of the season, he would have assumed they'd never talk to each other again. Now, it felt almost cathartic. Cuss each other out, stew, and they'd be fine. He thought about what Shane had said about them fighting like brothers. That fight certainly hadn't been fun, but it didn't feel scary either. Still. Scott had never had a brother.

His thumb traced along the edge of the phone screen. Scott opened his messages app.

Typed. Cringed. Deleted it. Sighed. Typed it again.

To Rozanov 3:03PM: I love you

Scott stared at the text bubble, nose wrinkling.

To Rozanov 3:04PM: dipshit

Scott counted his breaths as he walked past the physical therapy suite, the finance office, marketing, and finally stopped in front of the door at the end of the hall. Mike Berardi, said the placard on the door, General Manager.

He knocked twice, waited for a muted, "Yeah, alright!" then opened the door.

Berardi was, most simply described, an aging guido. He had a pot belly, a constantly-visible hairy chest, and a head of black hair so thick it was a common debate among the team whether he wore a toupee. Up until the cup last year, their interactions had been limited to handshakes over awards and asking Scott to sign shit for Berardi's various relations.

Looking up from his computer, Berardi squinted at Scott and rubbed at his temple. "Don't fucking do this to me right now, Hunter," he said.

Scott glanced up and down the hall, which was empty. "Do... what?"

"If you're dropping by my office unannounced, you're either about to tell me one of my staff did something discriminatory or that your hip won't make it through playoffs. You know I have an ulcer? The doctor says I can't have coffee until it's gone. So don't fucking do this to me."

Letting a smile crawl onto his lips, Scott stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "No. No, I got something better for you than that." He settled himself in one of the chairs in front of Berardi's desk. "I'm here to tell you how we're gonna get me through playoffs."

Berardi leaned back, lips pursed. "Alright, I'm listening."

"What if I told you we could get Shane Hollander?"

Kip's hand closed over his, drawing Scott's fingernails away from his teeth. "Hey," he said, voice soft. He pressed his nose against Scott's cheek. "You said this was a done deal."

Fixing his eyes on the TV, Scott nodded. The announcers were talking about Montreal's ongoing goalie woes, their unusually inconsistent season. "Yeah," he agreed. "I mean, it basically is."

"Basically," Kip echoed, his eyes set on Scott.

"It's tight, but Jersey and Washington are both ahead of them," he explained, maybe trying to reassure himself with the recitation, too. "Montreal would need a two point win and both of them would need to lose their last games. They still don't have a decent goalie and they lost seven of their last ten games, three of those in regular time."

"But...?"

Rozanov skated onto the screen, his usual hammed-up crowd work, courting jeers and boos from the Montreal crowd with a grin on his face.

"Boston gets a wildcard slot whether they win or lose," Scott said, quiet as if Rozy might overhear him through the screen.

Kip pulled back and twisted to look at him more directly. "You said he wasn't pissed anymore."

Scott shrugged a shoulder. "He seemed alright when I was in Boston."

They hadn't had time for anything but a late dinner at Rozy's place before Scott had to get back on a bus. He'd asked, Are we good? and Rozy rolled his eyes and called him a girl and annoying, and then shyly admitted that it would be nice, having Shane in New York. They hugged when he left, and Rozy had hung on for an extra few seconds, like he needed it.

"And I don't think he'd — Rozy wouldn't throw a game," Scott said, firming up the statement like his own certainty determined its truth. "He wouldn't."

But he could. It wouldn't even negatively impact Boston. Let Montreal get the two points for a win, and then there would be a slim but very real chance that Washington and Jersey both beefed it and gave up the second wildcard slot to Montreal.

Kip sighed, then shifted back against his side to face the TV. He tugged Scott's head onto his shoulder and stroked his fingers through his hair while they waited for puck drop.

Halfway through first period, Rozanov slammed Hollander against the boards, flung the puck out from under him, and Marleau one-timed it past the latest fuck-up goalie.

They both exhaled.

The Admirals clinched third in the division, and in five days they'd be up against Carolina in the first round. Kip had, for the years they'd been on-again during playoffs, tolerated the no sex superstition. Not gracefully, but he did tolerate it. And, in the spirit of peacemaking, Scott gave him just about anything he wanted in the little time he had before playoffs started.

Which was why Scott had spent a long shower cleaning himself very thoroughly. He walked from their bedroom in a towel, flushed and already thrumming with anticipation, when he heard Kip's voice from the living room:

"There you go. Just breathe."

Scott poked his head around the corner, instead of striding out in all his mostly-naked glory, to see Shane Hollander on his couch, bent forward with his head between his knees while Kip rubbed his back with a sympathetic expression.

Kip's eyes darted up to meet his. He winced, sheepish.

He retreated to get dressed.

When Scott returned, Shane had managed to sit up, though he was hugging himself, head tipped back on the couch and eyes squeezed shut. "Sorry," he said, and something told Scott it was not the first or even tenth time he'd said it. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I..."

Scott lowered himself onto the couch on his other side. "Hey, kid. What's going on?"

"I'm just freaking out," Shane explained in an oddly conversational tone, like someone might report that they were running late. Informational.

"You have the meeting with management today?"

Shane nodded.

"Is it done?"

This time, a shaky, panicking breath preceded the nod.

Kip rubbed his arm. "I think freaking out is totally reasonable here. It's a big deal."

"God, what the fuck am I doing?" Shane went forward again, face to his knees. "What am I gonna tell my fucking team?"

Scott set a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed. "You're gonna say, 'Nice to meet you, fellow Admirals'," he suggested.

Kip shot him a warning look. "Trades happen," he said. "Your friends will understand."

"Oh, God," Shane groaned, "my friends. What if they — what if they're so mad they tell people?"

Scott knew right away what he meant, though Kip's brow creased for a brief moment of uncertainty before reading the answer on Scott's.

"Then we have to kill them," Scott sighed, trying for levity because the real answer was that it would really, really suck. "Would you wanna do it yourself or should we just hire someone?"

Shane peeked up at him, his eyes watery.

"Fine," Scott relented. "I can do it."

That finally got a smile past the goalpost, wobbly though it was.

"So when are they making the announcement?" Kip asked. As if on cue, Scott heard the ding of his text message alert from down the hall. He got up and headed toward the bathroom where he'd probably forgotten it.

"I think right away," Shane said.

From Vaughan 3:31PM: bro check espn NOW
From Vaughan 3:31PM: u seeing this shit??

And in the minute since he'd received those, the team group chat had exploded.

Chat: death to carolina motherfuckerrrrrs

Breezy: YOOOOOOOOOOOOO WHAT
Cameron: what?
Breezy: SHANE FUCKING HOLLANDERRRRRR
Wagner: WHAT
Vaughan: holy shit
Vaughan: holy shit dude this is fucking crazy
Gillis: I'm gonna pass out
Cameron: oh my god what is even happening right now?
Gillis: or jerk off I can't decide
Breezy: SHANNNNNNNNE FUCKING HOLLANDER MOTHERFUCKERRRRRR
Gillis: maybe both
Wagner: I just read the article what the fuck
Jalo: is this real
Vaughan: i can taste that fucking cup man
Jalo: am I dreaming
Wagner: @Hunter where the fUCK are you

Scott looked up at the bathroom mirror and saw himself grinning like an idiot. Instead of replying, he went into the chat settings.

Hunter has added Shane Hollander to the chat.

Breezy: WHAT
Cameron: guys be fucking cool holy shit be normal
Breezy: HUNTER WHAT THE FUCK
Cameron: be normal
Gillis: Mr Hollander it's a fucking honor sir

From the living room, Shane called, "Scott?"

Scott stuck his head out the door, hanging off the door frame, still grinning.

Shane was staring at his phone, eyes wide in alarm.

"Welcome to the team, rook. They love you already."

Practice was going to be intense before playoffs, but maybe not as intense as the calorie packing. They made a ridiculous-looking trio: Shane and Scott in the back of Scott's car service, Rozy on a video call mounted to the divider wall, all three of them cramming breakfast into their mouths as fast as they could manage.

"You're nervous," Rozy observed with his mouth full of sausage. He, in particular, was way too skinny for a playoffs run, having lost weight after his jaw surgery despite best efforts. "Don't be nervous. They are still jizzing pants about the trade."

Scott didn't disagree. He'd spent the last sixteen hours trying to impress upon them just how introverted Shane was. No, he doesn't want to go out for drinks. Or dinner. No, he doesn't need you to bring anything to his hotel. When he admitted, reluctantly, that he was probably crashing at his and Kip's place anyway, Vaughan threatened to beat him to death.

Shane's singular contribution to his new team group chat, Thanks, guys. Can't wait to kill Carolina with you! had resulted in what Scott could only characterize as 'swooning.'

"It's not that," Shane said around the straw of his protein shake. "It's... well, I was thinking last night."

"Oh no," Rozy groaned. "Middle of the night plan. You did not wake Scott up to tell him? Why am I only one who has to deal with this?"

"You're the only one who sleeps in bed with me."

Scott swallowed a mouthful of granola and asked, "Am I gonna like this plan?"

Shane took a deep breath then, in a rush, said, "I'm thinking about coming out." He glanced between Scott and the phone screen. "Like, timeline-wise. I'm worried some of the guys in Montreal won't keep their mouths shut, so if I start to get ahead of it, that's gonna be better, right?"

"Publicly?" Scott asked. Rozy's stunned face on the screen mirrored his own.

"No!" That very forcefully. "To the team, I mean. So it's not a big dramatic thing. And I think..." He looked at Scott with his shoulders hunched and actually backed off his shake to say, "I want to do it while you're still there with me."

Sometimes, Scott had to remind himself that Shane Hollander was two hundred pounds of solid muscle and could probably take five normal humans in a fight. Times like this, when he reminded Scott of nothing so much as the smallest, saddest puppy in the animal shelter.

"And I don't want to do it during playoffs, obviously," he went on, like this was all just strategy. Just a fifty-point plan, like Rozy had once said about the Ottawa plan, and nothing to do with a highly personal, highly emotional decision. "And this week is gonna be about figuring out team cohesion with me in the mix anyway, so it would make sense to just get this right out front so we can work through it if there's gonna be any awkwardness. Plus, like you said, everyone is still really excited about the trade and they'll all be focused on playoffs, so maybe it just wouldn't be as big a deal."

Rozy said, "Is he breathing? I can't tell if he's breathing. Moya lyubov, oxygen, remember?"

Shane took the straw back into his mouth and sucked down about a quarter of his shake in one go.

"Are you saying you wanna do it today?" Scott asked, flabbergasted.

A little shrug. "I mean," he said, straw still in his mouth, "and it's no big deal that you told them, but it would make a little more sense why I'm staying with you, too."

Rozy groaned dramatically, which was gross because his mouth was full again. "No! They're going to think you're fucking!" he whined.

"What?" Shane yelped.

"Internet is already making jokes about it. Did you see Twitter? Not you, Shane, I know you did not look at Twitter."

Scott had, unfortunately, looked at Twitter. "They're saying I sucked you off to get you to move to New York," he explained. "They're saying I could have done it years ago if the MLH wasn't homophobic."

"Hashtag head-Hunter!" Rozy cheerfully supplied. "His leg might be fucked, but his throat still works!"

"The joke is really about me, not you," Scott reassured him. "I don't think anyone in the public actually thinks you're gay. They're just flipping out because of the trade."

Shane sucked on his shake, eyes flitting between the two of them.

"You're going to do it," Rozy said, voice softer.

He nodded.

It didn't occur to Scott to worry about having the team there early enough before practice until they were walking to the locker room, but even those few minutes proved unnecessary. Everyone was already there like they'd been waiting for ages, and a hum of noise fell silent when Scott and Shane walked into the room.

He scanned their wide-eyed faces until his gaze landed on Gillis, who looked like he was about to cry. Scott burst out laughing. "Okay, okay. Guys, Hollander. Hollander, these are the guys. I swear, they're usually a little less intense."

Murdock slipped in a side door, gave Shane a nod like they'd already met — probably yesterday at the meeting when he signed over.

Shane lifted a hand in greeting, ducking his head. "Uh, I'm looking forward to playing with you all." For a second, it looked like he might stop there, but Scott watched him get up his nerve, an expression he'd come to recognize in a thousand little moments where Shane's myriad fears met his endless determination. He cleared his throat.

"I, um, I really didn't expect to be here this year. Or ever. I really thought I was gonna retire in Montreal, actually." He seemed to realize he'd been fidgeting and shoved his hands in his pockets. Let out a slow breath. "But Scott vouched for you guys. He told me this was a safe place to be if I wanted to come out."

The room was silent, the team hanging off Shane's every word. Some eyes went wide in immediate realization and surprise. Some brows furrowed in confusion first, like the words didn't compute. A few jaws, Murdock's included, dropped open. Vaughan and a couple others just smiled.

Breezy spun to face MacDouglas, one of the defensemen. "Macky," he said, "if you fuck this up for us, I swear to Christ, man. I swear to Christ, I won't even make it look like an accident. I'll do it in the fucking street."

MacDouglas held up his hands in surrender. "No problem from me, man," he said. Then, to Shane, "We're good, man. Really."

Scott pointed at them. "And this doesn't leave the locker room until Hollander says it does. Anyone that talks is sabotaging our run. Clear?"

A chorus of agreement went up, a few solemn assurances of, "You got it, Cap."

He was probably the only one close enough or who knew Shane well enough to recognize that he was trembling. Scott put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Leaned close and murmured, "You're tough as fucking nails, you know that?"

Shane choked on a laugh.

Scott slapped his back. "Go suit up, kid."

Kip missed their second and final home game against Carolina — they clinched it in four, the last one a particularly embarrassing shutout — to watch over a freshly concussed Rozanov, who had been driven from Toronto to their apartment by Shane's parents.

"I understand, you know?" he ranted from his spot on the couch. "Playoffs, you hit where someone is hurt already, but you know what is attach to my jaw is my fucking head."

Scott, bone-tired and for the first time since buying it thinking his apartment might be a little small, looked at a bemused Kip and said, "You heard this one already?"

"Twice," Kip agreed.

He'd expected Shane's parents to be affectionate or maybe congratulatory with their son, but his mom had launched almost immediately into an analysis of the Admirals' left wing, saying things like, "Honey, just because you managed to cover for it this time doesn't mean you'll get away with it in the second round. It's a new dynamic, and your coach needs to be making adjustments."

His dad only squeezed his arm, gave him a meaningful nod, then moved over to extend a hand toward Scott. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, Hunter."

"Scott, please." They shook.

"David, then," he agreed. "I can't say we were thrilled to hear you were pulling Shane farther away from us, but I appreciate the way you've been looking after these boys. You and Kip." He glanced toward Kip, who was setting an ice pack over Rozy's eyes.

"Mom, please," Shane said, backing away from her. "I haven't seen my boyfriend in, like, two months? Can I say hi to him?"

She held her hands up, pacifying. "Sorry! Sorry." Then, moments later, she was giving Scott the same sort of frank feedback. He'd heard that Yuna Hollander was the ultimate momager, but witnessing it in person was something else. "I mean, obviously Boston is going to wash out without him," she said, thrusting a thumb at the couch, where her son was bent over Ilya like they were doing the death scene in Romeo and Juliet. "And I really don't see Detroit pulling ahead of Tampa after last night's debacle, so you'll have Toronto or Tampa in the third round. Assuming you take out Pittsburgh, which you will."

Kip wrapped an arm over Scott's shoulders, and he let the moment wash over him. A busy home. A man that loved him. A couple of dumb kids making out on his couch. These almost-strangers that would, he realized, be around now. Part of his life, probably, the same way Elena and Kyle and Kip's dad were part of his life. Maybe they should get a bigger place. Maybe closer to school for Kip. They wouldn't need to worry about proximity to the Garden, after all. Not after this year.

"Oh boy," Kip said, combing his fingers through Scott's hair and giving his head a little shake. "You are so toasted, baby." He laughed and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Sorry, Yuna, I am officially sending this boy to bed."

"God, sorry," she said, probably realizing that Scott had missed the last who-knew-how-much of what she'd said. "You must be exhausted. We'll get out of your hair. Are you alright watching Ilya tonight, Kip? We could take him back to the hotel with us. I don't want Shane or Scott losing sleep right now."

Kip shook his head. "I got him. Between him and Scott, I should just get a nursing degree."

"Hey," Scott protested.

The affection with Shane came on their way out the door. Scott tried not to stare as they wrapped their arms around their son, swaying him. Yuna said, "I love you, sweetheart," and it made something clench tight in his chest.

Scott wandered by the couch. "How many brain cells do you think you lost?" he asked.

Rozy flipped him off, the ice pack still covering his eyes. "Still better with math than you."

"I guess you couldn't watch the game, huh?"

"I listened to some."

"He was incredible," Scott murmured.

A smile spread across Rozy's lips. "Always is."

Scott hardly got any ice time against Pittsburgh, which was fine. Hollander and Vaughan and Wagner were a fucking terror together on first line, tuned in like they'd been playing together for years, not weeks. And by the time they came up against Tampa, he was glad for the rest time, because they were making them work for it. They'd gone into overtime every game so far, four rounds this last game, and Scott had never felt so much like a wrung-out towel in his life.

He stumbled into the cafeteria and blinked at the sight in front of him: the whole first line lay sprawled on the polished tile floor, heads pillowed haphazardly on each other's stomachs and thighs.

"This is goalie behavior," he told them.

"Watch it," protested Andersson, who was sitting at a table and eating like a normal human.

"You're just jealous," Shane mumbled, his eyes closed, "because if you got down here you couldn't get back up."

The rest of the guys burst into slightly hysterical laughter.

"Hollander," Wagner wheezed. "Who taught you how to chirp?"

Scott bit his tongue because he knew exactly who. He grabbed his meal and sat by Andersson, keeping half an eye on the giggling pile of teammates.

"Hey," said Andersson, "if this is what it takes for them to play like they have been, I say we serve their meals on the floor."

Scott lifted his Gatorade, bumped it into Andersson's in a mock toast. "No shit, man. St. Louis won't know what hit them."

The roar of the crowd felt different this time. Scott didn't know quite how to describe it, but the sound felt like it was for him in a way it hadn't last year. He wasn't on the ice when the final goal was scored, got to hop the boards and swarm Shane and Wagner with the rest of the team. It took ages for him to filter his way through the crush of bodies, to get his hands on Shane's shoulders, helmets pressed together. "I knew it!" he cried. "I fucking knew it, man!"

As the captain, Scott still got to hold the cup first, to hoist it over his head in triumph, but when he turned to pass it to Shane and both their hands were on it, that's when the camera flashes really went nuts. He could imagine just what the commentators were saying then. If that's not a passing of the torch, I don't know what is.

And, this time, when the friends and family came onto the ice, Kip was right there with everyone else. The crowd cheered a little louder when they kissed, and their lips parted on a breathless laugh.

Then he turned and Kip's dad swept him into a hug, too, like his own father might have, and said, "I am so proud of you, son. So proud."

Scott didn't realize he was crying until he pulled away and Kip started wiping his tears.

A few feet away, Yuna and David were just releasing Shane. The three of them drifted closer. David shook his hand — the man loved a handshake. Yuna held him by the elbows and said, "Congratulations."

Shane's eyes drifted toward the stands, where he knew Ilya was sitting with his friend Svetlana. He looked to Scott, lips pressed flat together. "I can't do what you did," he said.

Scott put a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed. "Not this time. Not yet."

"Not yet," Shane agreed with a smile.

Chapter End Notes

Credit to my beautiful lowkey_existential_despair for coming up with #HeadHunter - they are blessed with glorious visions from the HR gods

Chapter 9: Epilogue

Chapter Notes

I'm going to miss writing this story so, so much. Thank you for everyone who came along with me in all this silliness! In particular, thanks to lowkey_existential_despair, mockspeed, and randomnickname for all their contributions and cheer reading.

Darkness pressed upon him like water, like a great sea bearing him down, down into the depths, and no matter how hard his leaden limbs struggled toward the light, it never got any closer. Then, somewhere in the dark, he heard a voice:

"Here lies Scott Hunter."

And he knew that voice. The accent. Felt an instinctual kick of irritation at the mere sound of it.

"He was a very good hockey player for, like, maybe five, six years. Then he played for another ten even though he was not so good anymore."

The surge of outrage that washed through him finally dragged Scott up to the surface. Not enough to open his eyes but enough to slur out the words, "I'm going to kill you."

"Sometimes," Rozy said, "I feel I can still hear his voice. Calling to me from..." A few words of muttered Russian.

A woman's voice said, "Purgatory, blondinchik."

"Yes," he said. "From Purgatory, probably. He was not interesting enough for Hell."

"As soon as I figure out how to move," Scott sighed, "I'm gonna kick your fucking ass."

A laugh from nearby — no, from several directions at once, disorienting.

Another familiar voice called, "Kip, he's waking up!" Vaughan. That was Vaughan.

The woman — Svetlana — said something else in Russian that started, "Ilyusha," and then in English added, "Stop picking on him."

Scott finally managed to blink open his eyes, cautious, waiting for a painful onslaught of light but finding the room pleasantly dim. Not home. The living room of Rozy and Shane's new place in Connecticut. The shades were drawn, only cracked at the top, and a muted TV played on the other end of the long room. Kip's face came into view above him.

"How's the pain?" he asked.

"Pain?" Scott echoed, confused.

"The nerve block hasn't worn off yet," said Shane, the voice he used when he'd done too much research on something. "He might have another six hours or so."

"How many fucking people are here?" he whined.

Elena leaned over the back of the couch to peer down at him, too. "Just everyone you literally invited over for New Hip Day."

Scott groaned. New fucking Hip Day. His attempt to make himself feel less anxious about the surgery. It was so easy, so routine, such a minor procedure that they could have a party about it. What a stupid fucking idea.

"He has to get up soon," Rozy said, sounding pleased. "I want video of him using the walker."

"Vaughan," Scott said, "I need you to kill him for me."

From across the room, Svetlana called, "Don't worry, Scott! I took his phone an hour ago."

Which was how Scott ended up puttering about with a walker, like he was exactly as old as Rozy joked he was, while Rozy orbited his trajectory through the house like the world's most annoying moon. "You know, we can style this up for the wedding," he remarked, gesturing at the walker. "Paint it black. Maybe add something cool like skulls or flames."

"Are you twelve years old?" Scott griped, focusing on his steps and the strange feeling of returning sensation. "And I'm only gonna need this for a couple days."

"But it suits you!"

"I'll be fully recovered by next summer, unlike you if you keep running your mouth."

"You would not let your best man look beat up!"

Vaughan, from the couch, yelled, "You're not the fucking best man, Rozanov!"

"There is no best man," Scott reminded them both. "It's... Kip, what's the fucking word you used?"

"Heteronormative."

"Yeah, that."

Rozy leaned in close enough that Scott had to try his luck at bending away. "Okay, but if you did have a best man, it would be me, right?"

"Ilyusha, leave him alone!" Svetlana called from the kitchen, where she, Shane, and Kip were all involved in getting lunch together.

"Don't bother," Kip said. "He secretly likes it."

The next step startled Scott into a grimace.

"Ah-ah!" Rozy leapt back, pointing at Scott like he'd caught him cheating. "Nerve block is wearing off. Kip, bring me the constipation pills."

"I will get the fucking constipation pills," Scott snapped, continuing his slow journey to the kitchen.

They ate. Vaughan refused to let him win a video game, even though Scott was on drugs. Elena painted his toenails when he was too tired to sit up and stop her. Shane left to make up the guest rooms, and Rozy very conspicuously disappeared right after him, and nobody actually believed it took that long to make up the guest rooms.

Kip sat with Scott's head pillowed in his lap and stroked his hair until he fell asleep again.

He woke to rubbing against his ribs, and when he opened his eyes it was to the sight of Rozy's face, way too close to his own. "Good morning, sunshine," he said, emphasis on the wrong syllable, then darted in and pecked a kiss on Scott's lips.

Scott's arm swung wildly, smacking him away hard as he shouted, "Fuck off, Rozanov!"

Rozy landed on the floor, laughing. "Come on, Hunter, get up. You need to do more walking."

So he did more walking, to the kitchen for another painkiller, then back. Elena had to leave to catch the last train back to New York. She kissed his cheek and said, "You sure know how to throw a party."

"Yeah, yeah."

And as soon as she was out the door, Vaughan leaned closer to him on the couch and asked, "So... is she single?"

Kip woke him the third time, Vaughan the fourth, and by the time Shane woke him for his fifth lap around the living room, Scott was so tired he could cry.

"Just let me fucking sleep, man," he pleaded.

But Shane and Rozy were already practically lifting him off the couch and into position with the walker. It was late, a chorus of frogs singing through the open patio door. "I know, man," Shane sympathized. "But you'll be even more upset if you don't get ahead of the scar tissue."

Scott started walking, eyelids drooping as he shuffled along. "Is Kip asleep?" he asked.

"He and Vaughanie are taking early morning shift," Rozy explained. "Sveta went home." He went ahead of Scott to the kitchen island where the lights were on low and a book sat open. "Here, help me study for exam while you are awake." He lifted the book and cleared his throat to read:

"Name three national US holidays:
A) President's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Memorial Day
B) Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving
C) New Year's Day, Presidents' Day, Christmas Day"

His brain was coming online slowly. "I feel like the first one is there specifically to fuck with Bostonians," he yawned. "St. Patrick's Day is way bigger than Christmas for you fuckers."

"My first St. Patrick's in Boston, I drank so much green beer," Rozy recalled, chin on his hand, "when I threw up, it was like scene from The Exorcist."

Shane had been keeping pace with Scott, a hand out in case he misstepped. "Your first St. Patrick's in Boston you were eighteen," he chastised.

Rozy rolled his eyes at Scott. "He is going to call police now."

Scott reached the counter, eyeing the little practice booklet with the American flag on its cover. "What's the next question? Let's find out if I deserve my citizenship."

"Oh! Here is good one: Who was the US main rival in the Cold War?"

"Canada," Scott said and yawned again. "Bunch of moose-fucking commies."

Shane clicked his tongue. "Shit-talking your spotter? Really?"

Scott feigned a stumble just to watch him dart in immediately. He straightened up and smirked.

"He's being an asshole," Rozy declared. "Put him back to bed."

"Please," Scott agreed.

Either they gave him an extra hour or two in the morning or else the cumulative effect of the naps had finally caught up with Scott's exhaustion, because by the time Kip woke him just before six, he actually felt well-rested.

"You look better," Kip agreed, swiping his thumb under one of Scott's eyes.

Scott ducked his head to sniff himself. "Feel a little ripe, though."

Kip smirked. "Is that you asking for your first sponge bath?"

"Gross," Vaughan complained from his spot in front of the coffeemaker. "I just woke up, dude."

"Did you get that nurse outfit we talked about?" Scott asked, watching for Vaughan's whole-body shudder with a grin.

"Seriously?" he whined. "It's been bad enough watching fucking Rozanov try to stick his hand down Hollander's pants every five minutes."

"Oh, like I haven't had to hear about every model you've banged for the last six years."

Vaughan flipped him off.

Kip held out his arm. "Think you can get to the bathroom without the walker?"

"I'm feeling properly motivated," Scott agreed.

They stayed in Connecticut for three weeks. Vaughan left after a few days. Elena made one trip back. Kip's dad came for a few days, Shane's parents for a week. Rose Landry even made an appearance, and Scott surprised himself with how star-struck he got.

The house was on a big plot of land with old, mature trees framing a garden and koi pond with a paved walking path Scott had traversed so many times by their last night, the rubber pad of his cane was rubbed and stained the same pearly tan.

"What if we did the wedding here?" Kip asked, staring out at the yard from his seat at the patio table. "Something small. String lights up in the trees. We could put a dance floor over there." He gestured to an open stretch of grass.

Scott let himself picture it, fondly, before reminding him, "It'd have to be really small, babe. Only people that know about Shane and Rozy. We're not gonna make them play pretend in their own house."

Shane shrugged a shoulder. "We're planning to tell more people once Ilya has his citizenship. As long as you kept it small..." He glanced at Ilya, questioning, but when he made to speak with his mouth full of pasta salad, Shane tucked two fingers under his chin and made him finish chewing.

Rozy swallowed demonstratively. Lifted his eyebrows, a silent, happy? then turned to Kip and Scott. "We talked to a PR manager a few times. She is saying things like 'soft launch.' You know, let it leak a little, become badly kept secret. Probably already happening with Shane, but I think it got mixed up with hashtag head-Hunter. Most people think it's a joke. Anyway, I think it's a good idea."

"Plus, we could hire security," Shane suggested. "Make sure there's no paps."

"We could have a phone drop," Kip added over the rim of his wine glass. "Like a secret orgy."

Scott narrowed his eyes at him. "What secret orgies have you been to?"

Waggled eyebrows. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Shane washed down a bite of chicken with his ginger ale. Asked his boyfriend, "Do you know who you want to tell first?"

"Marly," Rozy said, no hesitation. "I thought about telling him before exam, but..." He tipped his head from side to side. "After what happened in Montreal..."

Wincing, Shane nodded his understanding.

"I think he will be cool, though. We did a threesome together once. He did not even say 'no homo.'" For the life of him, Scott still couldn't tell if he was joking when he said things like that.

"I wanna tell Wagner," Shane said. "He's gonna ask a million questions, but I think you two will get along really well."

Scott felt a flush of warmth run through him that he couldn't blame on wine — he was stuck with Shane's ginger ale, too, according to his recovery plan. He had eleven months before he needed to be able to dance all night. As Shane and Ilya traded names back and forth, he let the earlier vision of the backyard fill out in his mind.

His phone beeped.

"Okay," Rozy declared. "Off your ass, old man. Time for evening walk."

Scott glanced around his chair, then said, "Fuck, I left the cane inside."

Rozy stood up and held his arm out. "Come on. I know you are just making excuse to feel up my beautiful muscles. I understand."

"Fuck off," he laughed, but grabbed Rozy's arm and stood up.

"I guess we're on dish duty," Kip told Shane, and the two of them started gathering the remnants of their dinner.

He didn't need to lean on Rozy at all as he walked, really just needed the extra stability to prevent a fall. They started down the path into the darkening garden as fireflies began to glint in the grass.

"So, back to training camp next week," Scott noted. "Doing okay with that?"

Rozy hummed. "Boston and New York play four games just in the preseason this year. Three in regular. Come to the house whenever we have the same free day. We might even get sick of each other."

Scott let himself grin under the cover of darkness. The frogs started to sing.

"Okay, Scott Hunter," Rozy said. "I am going to say something just once, and you are not going to be a jerk about it or ever mention it again. Understand?"

"Alright."

They slowed to a stop, and Rozy turned to look at him. Took a deep breath. "Thank you," he said. "For everything."

With the hand still holding his bicep, Scott gave him a squeeze. "Back at you, kid."

The moment hung between them, Rozy's lip quivering just briefly, his eyes sliding away. Then he huffed and slapped at Scott's hand until it dropped to his elbow. "Stop groping me, pervert. Come on. If you cannot do another half mile, I will put you in the nursing home myself, and then you can tell all the other perverted eighty year olds how you got to feel up the best hockey player in the world."

"I get to feel up Shane after this?"

"Betrayal!" he shouted. "My own best friend, he says this! I'm going to cry, Hunter. And I will tell my boyfriend you made me cry, and he will beat you up. He's very strong. And second best hockey player in the world. Repeat after me, okay? I want to hear you say it or I'll leave you out here for the wolves."

"There's no wolves in Connecticut."

"Oh! He is wildlife expert now. Mr. City Boy, he knows about wolves."

"I know about fucking New Haven."

Rozy made a few wordless mocking noises at him, flapping his hand like a mouth.

"I can't wait until I can beat you up again."

"You have never beat me up!"

"I've beat you up four times."

"Planned fight doesn't count. Or beach! Or the time with the paint — I wasn't trying that time."

And so it went for another half mile.