Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Kip Grady, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kyle Swift, Shane Hollander, Eric Bennett, Maria Villanueva

Additional Tags:

post episode 6, Pre TLG, Kip and Ilya should be friends, Ilya has perfect gaydar, But has he ever considered how clockable he is?, Scott Hunter is new to being gay, just culturally, Kip Grady loves Scott Hunter, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Poppers come up, TLG Spoilers

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-05 Completed: 2026-02-10 Words: 19,910 Chapters: 6/6

Grady v. Rozanov

Summary

“Mm, not stuff his pockets with the drug everyone thinks makes you gay right before a press conference? Maybe!” Ilya’s voice chimed happily from the phone.

“You wanna tell us why you’re so acquainted with Rush that you can identify it in 780p, Ilya?” Kip asked.

“…I have so much leather to deodorize, Kip Grady. So many sports cars, you know.”

--

Kip can't believe no one else can tell how outrageously gay Ilya Rozanov is, but he's not complaining, he's happy to have someone else to talk to at all the hockey functions.

Or: Perfect gaydar haver Ilya Rozanov finally gets a taste of his own medicine. A series of looks into Kip and Ilya's friendship, starting after the cottage.

Notes

A/N: I just finished Game Changers and I really liked the details of Scott Hunter being so cut off from gay culture that Kip has to tell him it is ok to say queer. This is my little attempt to square the show Scott Hunter (who like, def knows) with the book Scott Hunter (who like, barely suspects.) Plus I just want to see Ilya's bitchy little ass get chirped by someone who knows what they are doing for once. Ily, Kip <3

Takes place starting right after the cottage

Chapter 1: Open Season

There were many things about Kip Grady’s new life that were glamorous. His new apartment, the art they bought for it, flying for the first time, how ungodly hot his boyfriend was. Beautiful sex and beautiful nights and beautiful honesty, it had been a hell of a summer. 

Nothing could make these nights better, though. Tonight Kip and Scott were at some god-forsaken mixer in the ends of the earth Arizona. Scott assured him that he couldn’t get out of it, and Kip didn’t want to waste any of their precious time before the season started in about two days. This was basically the last sips of their glorious summer and Kip hadn’t wanted to waste it. Which is how he ended up in a stuffy tuxedo in a hotel ball room in Tempe with yet another huge group of hockey players and their wives and sponsors. 

The longer Scott had been out, the more Kip felt for him. His friends on the Admirals were great, they really seemed to love him. When it was friends, family, it wasn’t so lonely. But most nights were like tonight. Dull, filled with jokes that were stupid or rude, with the pressure to preform and dazzle always right on the surface. And do Scott, a healthy dose of guilt about the times he failed to play hockey to everyone’s standards.

It probably didn’t help that Kip and Scott were such a topic of conversation. When Scott had talked about how it was such a big deal if he came out, Kip hadn’t really grasped the full extent. He had imagined, sure. But now he felt like chum in shark infested water, not knowing which glances were from people who wanted him dead, everyone bored to tears with nothing to talk about him and his relationship. 

“How much longer?” Kip whispered to Scott, who winced in sympathy. 

“Have I told you how glad I am that you came with me?” 

“Mmhmm, not what I asked.”

”We just got here!”

”Just an estimate.”

”Three hours, give or take? They’ll be serving dinner soon. And after we’ll go back to the hotel which is actually nice, I swear.” 

Kip had had root canals he liked better than this. He really loved Scott. He reached under the table and squeezed his hand, and he smiled. 

Another one of the huge walls of men was lumbering to their table, checking the name card. The one right next to Kip, on his left. There was an empty chair on the other side, and like four people whose names Kip had already forgotten sitting next to Scott. 

This spot seemed to be for this guy because he slumped into his chair with very little finesse, holding his rocks glass in his massive hand. He looked familiar.

”Hi, Hunter,” He said simply over Kip, with the lilt of a Russian accent. 

Scott gave a short nod, “Rozanov.”

Oh shit, Rozanov. He drove Scott insane. That wasn’t about to make this go any faster. Kip glanced over and, yes, Scott was sighing deeply. But Kip also knew that Rozanov had come to Vegas and celebrated at a gay club, so at worst he probably wasn’t a bigot, right? 

He glanced at Rozanov who was very much looking back at him. Jesus, did this guy ever smile?

“You are Kip, right? Ilya.” He extended his hand and Kip shook it.

Scott looked a little taken aback, and Kip knew Rozanov’s reputation was that he was an insufferable asshole, so maybe Scott was surprised he was being nice. Or maybe Scott really didn’t know his first name, Kip wasn’t sure. 

“No plus one, Rozanov? Would give us someone else to talk through this miserable slog.”

”Can’t all be as lucky as you, Hunter,” Ilya said, and he winked at Kip, “But it is good you found someone to nurse you through old age. Was worried the league would have to hire someone to roll you out onto the ice.”

Oh, ok. So there was the asshole reputation.

But there was something about it… wink was obviously a joke, but it was so unafraid of queerness that for Kip it raised little alarm bells in his head.  Likewise, the jab at Scott’s age was not kind but also wasn’t something Scott was sensitive about, almost deliberately chosen to not truly piss him off. Kip never felt this way at hockey functions, but he had a feeling he’d met this guy before. 

Not this guy but also yes this guy.  Like, the archetype of this humor. In art school, in history class, in gay clubs. He wasn’t being an asshole like Hunter’s friends did to each other, not in the bro-jock-frat way that Kip always felt separate from. He was just a touch… catty. Like, mean gay catty. 

And despite himself, Kip felt a smile forming, a small thread of hope that this night wasn’t lost after all. His favorite friends were catty. Elena was catty. He loved baiting her until she called him saying only ‘you bitch,’ and hung up. He loved it when his friend Damien showed up in a new outfit he was swearing was ‘fire’ and they all ganged up to rip it apart. (In good fun, of course.) He loved his friend Bryan constantly flirting with homophobes until they were so confused they were half in love. He loved to sometimes indulge just a little in stereotypes, to be a mean gay. 

Scott wasn’t like that, and Kip loved him for it. Scott was sweet, endearing, and sincere. He was beautiful and kind and not at all jaded, saved from years of disappointing hookups and gym gays who insulted your abs in bed. 

He was gay in sexuality, not in culture, and Kip liked sharing it with him. Liked telling him he was allowed to say ‘queer’ liked watching Scott blush when his friends casually said ‘yes, daddy’ to him. 

“—Besides, it seems mean to bring anyone to these things, they are so awful.” Ilya gestured around and Scott made a little huffing noise at being called mean, but seemed determined to let it slide. 

Kip wanted to test his theory. He couldn’t go too big at first, if this was going to work. 

“I don’t know, aren’t we all so lucky to sit here for three hours in this Hilton Marriott and eventually get served…” he squinted at his menu, “Braised carrots? Isn’t that what really makes all the brain trauma worth it for you, Ilya?” 

Ilya snorted through his nose, and turned more fully to sit at the table, punctuating his words by jamming his finger into the place setting. 

“Yes, absolutely right. Every night I put my body on the line to eat undercooked carrots in a ballroom that smells like feet, cutting summer vacation short, with the oldest hockey player still alive. This is what I jerked off to as a teenager in Russia.” 

Scott choked a little on his beer, probably not expecting to hear ‘jerk off’ so early in the night, but Kip wanted to grin. He didn’t, keeping his face cool. But still, he was glad to have Ilya here, the kind of conversation he was used to. 

Someone on the other side of the table pulled the conversation back to hockey, then asked Scott how his summer was and Kip liked watching him glow. He liked watching how much lighter he seemed, how his sentences seemed so much more full of life.

Next to him, Ilya Rozanov kept checking his phone, first frowning, then smiling a little to himself. He looked like he wanted to be somewhere else, distinctly, with whoever it was on the other end of the conversation. He was barely answering direct questions, letting the night slip by while he refreshed texts. Kip remembered feeling that way, when his phone was his little window to Scott. 

Scott, who was, was talking animatedly now about the Admirals strangely for next year, about their god awful diet plan. Barf. So boring. Kip decided to bother Ilya instead. He flicked a sugar packet at him and was pleased with his aim, hitting Ilya’s cufflink with a little plunk. 

“So,” Kip said, “how’s the plus one you couldn’t convince to come to this clown show?” He nodded at Ilya’s phone. 

Ilya pocketed it immediately, caught.

“I am very sorry for your boring sex life, Kip, but you can’t get off on mine, sorry.” Ilya made a dramatic face that was clearly not at all sorry, so comical Kip wanted to snort.

Scott whipped his head from his other conversation, opened his mouth to say something but Kip laid his hand on his knee to quiet him. He wished there was a way to say ‘he’s playing, I baited him’ like when dogs sneeze during a fight, but there wasn’t. He hoped this would do. 

“Believe me, Ilya, I have already read enough sexts from gym-obsessed guys Boston bros to fill a lifetime, I don’t need yours. Let me guess, it’s like “haha, and then what? What would you do if I was there? Oh yeah, like, 9 inches.”’ 

And Ilya Rozanov grinned at him. Huge, a real grin, like he’d really made him laugh. Then he schooled his face in a flash, back to stoic and Slavic. 

“Untrue, I think the last thing I said was, ‘Show me, I’m not sure you can take this—“

Scott audibly groaned, but Kip snickered, covering his eyes with his hand.

”God, stop, it’s like being haunted by the ghost of grindr-notifications-past,” he turned to Scott, gripping his knee in earnest now, “Have I ever told you how grateful I am that you don’t text like you’re a twelve year old who just found out about sex? Really, I owe you a life debt.” 

Scott turned a little pink and Kip wanted to kiss him, but he could only bask in the glow for a second before Ilya Rozanov was ready to quip back. 

“Yeah, but that was before when you were worried about your texts leaking, right, Hunter? Now he’s free to text you ‘send ass pics’ like the rest of us.” 

“Look, Buddy—“ Scott started. 

‘Look, Buddy’ Kip thought, aghast, I really have to teach Scott some better comebacks if he’s ever going to survive a night with my friends from college. 

“—quit saying gross shit and be professional for once in your life.” 

Ilya held his hands up, innocent. He looked at Kip. 

“You got me in trouble with grandpa,” He said in a stage whisper, perfectly audible. 

Kip snorted and Scott looked at him like he had shot a puppy for laughing at another one of Rozanov’s bits. He quickly looked down at his plate. Only two hours and 40 minutes to go. 

There was a first course. It was mushy, and green. It smelled weird. Kip took three polite bites. Scott didn’t even try it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ilya snap a picture of it and then shove it away from him like it offended him. Kip sat quietly while everyone talked about the league, and management, and play styles, and he only wanted to die a little bit. Two hours and 10 minutes to go. 

Scott got up to greet some sponsors in between the first and second courses, while the plates were being cleared, and Ilya leaned back in his chair like he was waiting for him to disappear before addressing Kip again. 

“So, have your all your boyfriends been boring and old, boring and old is your type?” 

“I’m flattered, Ilya, but I really am quite taken.” 

“No,” Ilya said, but not in a way that implied he was at all upset that Kip had said he was hitting on him. He sounded dreamy, wistful as he finished, “No, just asking because it turns out boring is also my type.”

Kip raised his eyebrows at him. 

“So it’s never going to work out between us, Kip, you’re too interesting. Sorry to break your heart this way. Feel free to get off to my pictures for the rest of time.”

”Woe is me,” Kip replied, flatly, no emotion at all on his face. He was intrigued though, “Your type is boring?”

”Yes, my plus-one went to sleep,” Ilya said, gesturing to his phone. 

It hadn’t occurred to Kip that he hadn’t used pronouns for whoever Ilya was sexting yet up into this moment — he had lots of queer and trans friends, lots of bi friends, and he normally just kept it generic for sake of the joke landing. He hated getting a correction instead of a laugh. But it was unusual that Ilya wasn’t going out of his way to say ‘she, she, she’ like most guys would be. 

He didn’t know-know but now… Kip knew. There was something unknowable about sexuality, the concept of gaydar always seemed a little silly, but… sometimes you could just tell, if you were dialed in enough. Not for everyone, not all the time. With Ilya, Kip could just tell. This was not a straight man.

He wouldn’t say anything, he remembered how in pain Scott was about being in closeted. He remembered how in pain he was. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t play a little.

Kip grinned at him, “Wow, wouldn’t come to the three hour Marriott dinner and went to bed without calling you to say goodnight? You might have to take this one off the roster. Did you at least get those ass pics?” 

Ilya muttered something but Kip didn’t catch it. 

“I’ll take that as a no. Tough break, bud. You want my old Boston hookup’s numbers, you could try something.. new…” 

Ilya glared at him, and Kip felt like he could feel all the responses Ilya wanted to say radiating off him.

It was taking him just a beat too long, Kip assumed because he was shoving away his favorite and most clever replies to find something suitably hetero. 

And also because Kip thought Ilya wanted to be seen. 

He’d been closeted more than once (you never really stop coming out) and there was something about being seen for who he was, being known by the older gay kids, the way even at Straw+Berry Maria knew to start gossiping with him about boys. It felt good, to be known. How much part of him wanted to say “I’m like you!” when walking around with Scott, incognito. 

But that longing for connection meant Ilya couldn’t chirp back fast enough, couldn’t shut him down effectively. 

Kip grinned, smug, like if there was ever going to be a confirmation he was teasing in the right direction it was this silence.

Rozanov 0-Grady 1 he congratulated himself in his head. 

The next two courses passed as slowly as the first, weird textures and sauces and nothing was good. Kip busied himself by seeing how far he could drag the tip of his shoe up Scott’s calf before he got a reaction. It didn’t take much.

He loved him so much, Scott’s flushed little red ears, the easy way he answered all these boring questions. Kip could already imagine the after party, the two of them in some ridiculous hotel jacuzzi, then some ridiculous hotel bathrobes. They only had 20 minutes left, they were so close to freedom Kip could taste it. 

They were also going to need ridiculous hotel room service, judging by the look of this entree. 

“Why can’t they just serve burgers at these things,” Kip moaned, but Scott’s attention was getting taken away by a sponsor who was shaking his hand. 

“Half the guys wouldn’t eat them anyway,” Ilya said, shoving his mush away again, “Macros. Protein. Too many carbs. Cauliflower rice.” 

Kip rolled his eyes. 

“What’s the point of the big tough macho guy reputation hockey has if you aren’t even going to get served a steak? I thought people only did all this shit so they could be ripped and still eat pasta.”

Ilya stuck a spoon in his mush and smelled it, dumping it back on his plate without eating it. 

“After this I will order 200 dollars of room service and charge it all to the league.”

“Yeah, they don’t pay you enough to cover it yourself. I’m sure your wallet is really hurting.”

Ilya grinned at him, crooked. 

“I know, is so hard. I feel bad for Hunter, has to pimp himself out for razors and get naked on Sports Illustrated just to make ends meet.” 

Scott returned to the table then, dark eyebrows drawn, annoyed. 

“Wow, very accurate list Scott’s recent photoshoots, Ilya. Should I be worried? You got a little crush?”

Kip grinned at him, innocently. He knew he was being a little shit. 

“No,” Scott said slipping back into his chair, running his hand down Kip’s back. Kip couldn’t help beaming at him, sincerely this time. It was silly, he was just kidding, but the fact that Scott really meant it, that someone as hot as Ilya Rozanov hitting on him wouldn’t even enter his imagination because he was with Kip—it was hot. Kip held his hand because that was all he was allowed to do right now. 

“Wow, no consideration for my fake feelings, Hunter? What if I had been in love since I was a little baby rookie, hm? What if I cried myself to sleep tonight? I thought you cared about the community.” Ilya asked, grinning. 

“I hope you do cry yourself to sleep, Rozanov.” 

Ilya sighed, looking at Scott with true disappointment, “You should let your boyfriend teach you how to chirp, Hunter, would make beating you actually fun.” 

Scott blinked, like he was trying to calculate a response to this insult to him that was wrapped in the compliment for Kip. Kip saw an opening and he decided to take it.

“You know they always said you were an asshole, Ilya, but I can see what you really are,” Kip let the set up linger, not long enough to be actually scary, but enough to see the intake of breath from both Rozanov and Scott. He wasn’t going to out Ilya—how could he? he had nothing but vibes, really—but the brace for impact was as good as a pride sticker as far as obviousness went.

It was only a beat or two of silence but it was very tense. Scott had seized up too, which made Kip feel like he suspected Ilya wasn’t straight also, which was rude of him. He wasn’t going to tell Kip this excellent gossip?

Kip wasn’t worried about any of that right now, he was just building a little bit of tension for his joke.

“—a cunty little bitch.” Kip finished, dryly.

Scott choked, eyes flitting to Rozanov like he might hit Kip and Scott was going to have to step in. 

Ilya was glaring with the full strength of his scary hockey face, but Kip wasn’t worried. He hadn’t miscalculated. 

Ilya’s face broke slowly, and he hid his giant, relief filled grin behind his hand first, then peeled out into real laughter that echoed around the ballroom. 

Kip chanced a glance at Scott too, pleased to see he was also grinning. He’d probably wanted to call Ilya Rozanov a little bitch his whole career. 

Rozanov 0—Grady 2, Kip thought smugly. 

Scott looked at him, not the for first time, like Kip was the most fascinating creature he had ever seen.

When the night was finally over, Ilya turned to them in the coat line, smiling more brightly than Kip had considered possible for his sour little face. 

“Goodnight, Hunter, have a good retirement. Goodnight Kip, I hope he leaves you everything in the will.” 

“Bye, Rozanov.” Scott said

“Bye, bitch,” Kip said, smiling. Ilya smiled right back. 

Chapter 2: Poppers

Kip didn’t think about Ilya Rozanov too much after that. He had made Scott confess to having suspicions that Ilya wasn't straight, and he did confirm that Kip was right, told him a story about a whispered room number, muffled sounds, and a years later fight with Shane Hollander that basically confirmed it. 

(“Why didn’t you tell me! This is like the point of boyfriends, so you can tell me delicious work gossip.”

“Well I didn’t know for SURE, and I don’t make a habit of like, outting people. 

“What else did you need to confirm it, to watch them blow one another on the ice? For him to blow you?” 

“Actually one time I did see them at the end of a hallway and it seemed like--”

“Oh my GOD!” ) 

But still, Kip didn’t think about him much unless they are watching Boston v. Montreal on TV and he’s grinning knowingly at Scott when they watch the face off.

Which is he was so stunned that Scott was trying to hand him the phone with Ilya on the other line. 

—

They had been watching Buffalo lose, no shock there, and Kip had gotten up to get ready for work while Scott watched the press coverage. 

Then Scott was answering a phone call with just “What do you want?” 

Kip was looking for a pair of clean socks. He hated doing laundry. He considered stealing Scotts, but his feet smelled so bad even his clean socks were funky. Good thing he was so handsome. 

“Yeah, I’m watching.”

Kip was fixing his hair in the mirror. It looked better these days, he would have to thank Elena for recommending that salon, now that he could almost sort-of afford it. 

“What? So what?” and then, “No, it looked normal to me.”

Kip padded his way back out to the living room to watch whatever had gotten Scott so upset. 

“Rozanov, what are you playing at here?” 

Kip blinked at him, surprised. He didn’t even know Scott had Ilya Rozanov’s number. He would have suggested they fuck with him more, if he had. 

“...yeah he is?” Scott was saying, looking directly at Kip. Then he covered the mouth piece of the phone. 

“Uh, do you wanna talk to Ilya Rozanov? He’s being… weird.” 

Even without the phone being on speaker, Kip could hear Rozanov yelling on the line. “Please, Kip!” 

He took Scott’s phone, not over the weirdness of all this. 

“Uh, hi?”

“Hello, Kip. Were you watching the Buffalo game?”

“Yeah, they lost, big shocker.”

“Yes. Were you watching the press, did you see—were you watching when—”

“I didn’t see the press, no.”

“Can you rewind on your TV? Can you go back to uh, 45:17?”

Kip rewound. They were interviewing the winning team, Chicago, and they had a fresh faced new rookie who played left wing on press. Scott had been following him, but the general consensus was that he was a couple years out from being truly great. Next to him was a fucking huge defensemen whose name Kip didn’t know, but when he sat down he accidentally sent the kid tumbling out of his chair and onto the ground. 

And out of his pocket rolled two tiny bottles, red and yellow, and oh my god 

“No fucking way.” Kip gasped out loud, pausing the screen. 

Poppers. The kid had dropped poppers. He had to stop one from rolling out into the press with his shoe.

Ilya was wheezing laughing, “It is not funny, but it is so—“ 

“Why bring them to the press interview, why…”

“He’s like 19, he’s too dumb to be trusted with pockets.” 

On screen the kid was turning bright red, but trying to act normal, cool. Kip wondered if he played this straight enough if no one would notice, at least not right away. He scooped up the bottle and shoved it back into his pocket. He had to stand to chase the other. 

“Oh my god poor baby, it’s not even a good brand.”

“Can someone fill me in, please?” Scott was asking, annoyed. Kip hit speaker phone on Scott’s phone, so they could both talk to Ilya. 

Kip paused the screen again, pointed. Scott looked confused. 

“He dropped poppers.” 

Scott’s face was showing 0% recognition. 

“What are poppers?”

“For fucks sake Hunter,” came Rozanov’s voice from the phone, “What is the point of you if you don’t know anything, they should send you to a class—“

Kip put the phone down, telling Ilya to hang on, and tried his best not to look too gleeful after a kid dropped something that could out himself of national tv.

“Ok, it’s not funny, it’s not. That bottle is uh… actually I don’t know exactly what the liquid is. They have a liquid in them, and when you inhale the gas they put off they have drug effect. It doesn’t last long, but famously it relaxes your muscles, especially sphincters you know like… for sex…I’m not going to sugar coat it: I’ve never seen anyone do poppers who wasn’t a gay guy about to get railed. There could be other reasons, of course, that I don’t know about. I’m not like, a big drug guy. But I’ll say this: gay guys do a lot of poppers.” 

Scott blinked, looking more concerned by the minute. “So drugs, like, illegal drugs? Why wouldn’t they stop the press conference right away?”

Kip shook his head, “They’re legal, so the kid shouldn’t be in any like, real trouble. You can buy them in like every bodega, they just are sold as something else. Leather deodorizer, that kind of thing.”

“Nail polish remover,” came Ilya’s voice tinily from the phone. 

Kip picked the phone back up, scrambling.

“Do you think they’ll notice, say something? I mean it’s all hockey guys in there, would they even know? Scott didn’t know.”

Scott folded his arms on the couch, looking cranky and left out. Kip patted him on the shoulder. 

“Mm, yeah but the press… I would guess someone in the press would know. Maybe today he gets lucky two ways, I don’t know.” Ilya replied. The press conference was seeming to play out normally, even when Kip skipped ahead, returning to the live broadcast. 

“I think my agent knows some of the reporters, I’ll tell him to see what he hears. Maybe no story,” Ilya said, “Uh, but maybe you should get the rookie’s number, Hunter. Since you are Captain Gay Hockey.”

“I’m not captain gay hockey,” Scott scoffed, “but I’ll see what I can do, I don’t want him to feel all alone if this does out him. And maybe he should be more careful, if it doesn’t.” 

“Mm, not stuff his pockets with the drug everyone thinks makes you gay right before a press conference? Maybe!” Ilya’s voice chimed happily from the phone. 

“You wanna tell us why you’re so acquainted with Rush that you can identify it in 780p, Ilya?” 

“…I have so much leather to deodorize, Kip Grady. So many sports cars, you know.” 

Scott and Kip rolled their eyes at each other, but they took his point. In the end, Ilya’s agent and Scott had been able to work behind the scenes to convince everyone it was a non-story and no one asked the rookie why he was carrying so much nail polish remover that day.

If he had to guess, that’s when Kip would say he and Ilya Rozanov started being friends. 

Chapter 3: Go Cens &lt;3

The next time Kip saw Ilya Rozanov he had home ice advantage. He was at the Kingfisher—not working, just grading papers from his TA job in grad school and watching the Admirals play Montreal on TV.

He normally went to all the home games, but now that they were publicly together Kip had been going to a lot of away games and frankly, he needed a quieter venue for just a little bit. He wanted a beer, he wanted french fries, he didn’t want to be an upstanding gay citizen for a second.

He wasn’t expecting Ilya Rozanov to push open the door, alone, wearing a long coat and a beanie pulled down tight over his ears. Kip always appreciated the Kingfisher’s ability to make New York feel like a small town but this was ridiculous. 

“Hi, Kip Grady,” he said brightly when he spotted him, sidling up to sit next to him on a bar stool, “I heard this was the best bar to watch hockey in all of New York City.”

Kip snorted, moving some poor undergrad’s essay out of the way so Rozanov could sit. Rozanov’s eyes had found the screen in front of him, already tracking the play in a way Kip envied just a touch, a native fluency in the game Kip could never hope to touch. 

He wondered why Rozanov was here, dressed nice, alone in New York City. Rozanov’s hair was slicked back, he was wearing a turtleneck, pants Scott would only bust out for an event or for the game day dress code.  

Kip thought about asking him why he was in New York dressed like date night but Kip had always nursed a little bit of romanticism for his hometown. He liked thinking of all the lonely faces walking around in beautiful coats, all the stories they held. It was cliche, for an art historian, but he loved Edward Hopper’s New York. People surrounded by light and iron and glass, lonely. He loved John Marim’s New york, where people stopped being people and blurred together into color and expression, their pain and love and sorrow all one big mark. He couldn’t bring himself to ask Ilya. People came to New York for their own reasons, their own mysteries.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t guess, though. He watched Rozanov watch the blue blurs on the screen, extra focused now that they were showing Shane Hollander’s stats. 

Scott had finally given in to the fun of speculating on other people’s queerness (only alone, only together, in the privacy of their apartment) now that they had finally put that chapter behind them. They fought over ramen takeout over if Adrian De La Cruz would ever come out (Kip had gloated when he had), which pop-stars were singing lesbian lyrics for clout, who on Survivor was lying about having girlfriends. 

Scott was mad at how unfailingly right Kip always seemed to be. Kip assured him it was just practice, he had been out since he was 18 and all his friends had been gay since he was like, 12. You started recognizing the signs. He was wrong sometimes, everyone was, but he was still about 85% correct.

Still, Scott was convinced he was wrong about Hollander and Rozanov. Kip thought they were in a secret relationship, like they had been. Scott thought they had hooked up, but they weren’t still together. He thought some of the anger on the ice was an ex-lover thing. He had promised Kip that if Kip could ever prove that they had feelings for each other, Scott would do whatever he wanted for a full day. 

It was a stupid bet on Scott’s behalf, but Kip wasn’t about to tell him that. 

“Shouldn’t you be there? Wearing a jersey, clapping? Going ‘woo,’” Rozanov asked him as Vaughn scored a goal on TV. His little ‘woo’ was very animated. 

Kip rolled his eyes, “I do like wearing Scott’s jersey, and I’ve been called much worse things than a puck bunny, so if that’s your angle here…”

Ilya shook his head, grinning, “I would never, no.”

Kyle came over and took his order, eyes lingering on Kip. Kip shook his head quickly, to indicate that they weren’t together. 

Kyle looked again, quirking up an eyebrow, the implicit question of “well, is he…?” To which Kip shrugged.

“Who are you cheering for tonight? This is a pretty serious metro-free zone.” Kip asked Rozanov, whose arms were crossed as he scowled at the screen.

He exhaled.

“Am hoping for lots of injuries, fractures,” he said, but he was much too absorbed in the play to not have a stake in the outcome. Kip would love for him to just come out and say it, but he figured that was probably too much to ask. 

“Scott says your contract in Boston is up and no one knows where you are going. Trying to scheme? Get intel? New rivals, or…?” Kip asked, and Ilya finally flicked his eyes away from the screen.

“No, I’m going to Ottawa,” he said solemnly. 

Kip laughed loudly, as if Ilya Rozanov would go play for Ottawa. It would probably bankrupt the city just to have Ilya Rozanov visit Ottawa. 

Ilya shrugged, turning his attention back to the game. The camera was cutting close on a shot of Shane Hollander and Ilya was watching his face very closely. 

“I’ve always wanted to meet him,” Kip said, nodding towards the game, “Shane Hollander. What’s he like?”

Ilya flicked his eyes to Kip without turning his head. 

“Why? He’s boring. I’m much better.”

Kip felt a smile tugging but worked hard to keep his face straight. He couldn’t wait to tell Scott. He could see Scott’s exasperated little face in his mind already, he could taste it. 

“Ah, he’s cute though,” Kip said, “And boring is my type. And yours, at least according to you.” 

Ilya fixed him with a mean scowl, a scary look Kip knew was famous for making rookies quake in their skates. But Kip was a New Yorker, so he got this look like 6 times a day on the subway. Last week someone had called him eight slurs for not letting them cut in a Starbucks line. He was undaunted. 

Ilya grumbled, “Hollander is no one’s type, he’s even more boring than Hunter. Which is impressive, didn’t know you could be that boring without being dead.”

Kip shrugged, “Seems like he’s Rose Landry’s type, I wonder if she’s there tonight.”

Ilya leaned back, eyebrows drawn, only response was an unhappy little hum. Kip couldn’t be sure, but he was reading this expression as 'Why are you being mean to me, Kip Grady?’ which made Kip want to giggle. It was fun to be on this side of the secret gay relationship. Kip should text Maria, looking back, she was MUCH nicer to him than he would have been. 

“But, no, really, what is he like?” Kip asked, drumming his fingers on his paper stack. 

Ilya gave him a wounded expression, frowning.

“Ah, I don’t see him much.” Ilya said.

Kip gave him a blank look, saying ‘Oh, really, you don’t?’ with his eyes. 

Ilya took a big swig of his beer. “I don’t know! Boring! We started playing at the same time. He’s nice, Canadian nice. Says please and thank you. Rivals thing is mostly for the story, press, you know. Would be impossible to hate Hollander for this many years.”

“Impossible to hate him?”

Ilya was tapping his foot nervously on the metal of his bar stool. 

“Yes, it would be like hating a dog, or... Hollander, he says ‘Good game, next time we beat you!’ Then I say, ‘You will spend your entire life giving everything to catch up to me, Hollander, and you still won’t. When they put your name in the Hall of Fame it will say ‘#2’ and he’s like ‘Shut up, Rozanov. See you in October! Good Luck!’ Impossible.” 

Kip cleaned up his papers, he was getting french fry grease on them. 

“Well, he certainly says something that gets under your skin. I’ve seen the faceoffs.”

Ilya scowled. “No, not true.”

He was protesting too much, he looked like a cranky little kid. It was just a touch adorable.

Kip shrugged. “I guess I’ve never seen you drop gloves. Scott and Hollander did, last season. It was like the only fight I’ve seen Hollander get into.”

Ilya perked up immediately, turning to face Kip more fully. “Yes, that was fascinating to me. What could they possibly fight about? Who is hockey’s best boy? Shoe sponsorship?”

Kip looked around as if he was about to spill a huge secret, mostly as a joke. They were in the Kingfisher, he knew everyone in here or at least someone who knew them. They would be overheard, and being overheard here would be fine.  

“I think it was confusing to Scott too. To be honest, I think he was having a bad week. We…” Kip treaded lightly, he wasn’t about to give out actual ammunition against Scott’s game in pursuit of gossip, no matter how much he wanted to, “You know, personal stuff. He was being kinda a dick to everyone.”

“What did he say?” Ilya asked. He looked like barely contained glee.

Kip shrugged, nonchalant, “He said that he only said was ‘you’re starting to sound like him.’” 

Ilya was grinning now, wide. “Hollander was starting to sound like who?”

Kip shrugged, giving him a sideways look, knowing full well Ilya knew who. “Dunno, you’ll have to ask Scott.” 

Ilya was pulling out his phone and his thumbs were flying the touch screen. Kip could guess who the recipient was. 

The game picked up after that, and Kip and Ilya were too tapped in to really be talking. It was a really tight game, both teams playing at the height of their abilities in a really fair match. In the end, Montreal eked out a victory on a frankly spectacular Shane Hollander goal. 

In the exact heightened moment of the Metro’s victory, Kip’s disappointment enveloping him (Scott had wanted this win so badly, he was going to be so upset with himself tonight, Kip should run a bath, should rub his shoulders…) he had just one more evil impulse. He leaned over to Ilya, knowing he’d be too quiet for anyone to overhear over the loud boos now rolling through the Kingfisher.

“Tell him congratulations,” Kip said. 

Ilya, without thinking, grinned brightly at the screen. Then, remembering himself, dropped his face back to neutral, then looked at Kip with more than a little bit of fear.

Kip laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. 

They finished their drinks and Kip didn’t bring it up anything else, he had plenty to tell Scott about once the sting of the loss had subsided. 

He had already packed up, headed out, when he caught a glimpse of Ilya though the window outside. Alone at the bar. There were groups of friends laughing and smiling around him, and he was silent, empty glass in front of him. He was tracing circles on the wood of the bar top, staring down at his locked phone, screen black. The light from the bar spilled out onto the sidewalk, warm orange meeting cool blue and Kip felt it rattling around again inside him again. Hopper, Nighthawks, a lonely man at a bar, no friends in this city. Kip sighed.

He went back in, tapped Ilya on the shoulder. Handed him his phone. 

“Give me your number. For the next time you’re in New York, we can have a drink in a real bar. Scott too.”

(He heard Kyle protest from where he was serving someone that this is a real bar, Kip but Kip ignored him.) 

Rozanov smiled at him, softer than usual. Friendly. He plugged his contact in saying, “I will tell Hunter you threw yourself at me.”

Kip rolled his eyes, tapped the new message button. Ilya had put his name in followed by the devil emoji, the eggplant, the peach. Kip deleted them all but his name.

“Well, at least the next time you see some rookie buying anal beads or something you can come to me directly, no need to scar Scott.”

Ilya put his hand on Kip’s shoulder, in mock pity. “Am so sorry for your sex life, Kip. Get well soon.” 

Kip laughed, and went back out into the bracing cold, sending along the text as he half jogged back to the apartment. He couldn’t wait to kiss Scott, hold him, fuck him till he felt good and then gossip the rest of the night. He was so pleased the aching part of being queer was behind him, and now it was just like this, delicious. Warm. 

Kip: This is Kip

Ilya: Thank you again for wild sex last night, and for saying my dick is so much better than Hunter’s

Ilya: And bigger

Ilya: And that he is secretly jealous that I am a faster skater 

Kip: I’m too broke for you to be saying that shit to me. I’ll sell this to TMZ, Ilya, don’t test me. 

Ilya: Would be worth it for the look on Hunter’s face

---

When the news had broken that Ilya had actually gone to Ottawa, Kip was dumbfounded right along with the rest of the hockey world. Ottawa sucked, Kip had only started traveling in the last year and even he wouldn’t go back. The team sucked, the logo sucked, the rink sucked, the food at the rink sucked. The only logical conclusion was Hollander.

Shane Hollander must really be something, Kip thought, baffled. He would probably move to Ottawa if Scott had to, but he would have to really think about it. All thoughts of Hollander and Rozanov floated away from him then, as he thought about what he would do for his boyfriend. Anything, really. 

He found his way back to his afterglow. He loved lazy mornings like this. He had class later, both one he was TAing and one he was taking, but they still had hours before they needed pants. Who cared where Ilya Rozanov played hockey? 

“Why would he go there?” Scott was asking, clearly more troubled by this than Kip, running his hand through his hair. He was shirtless and the morning light laid across him in a way that made Kip want to pick up a paintbrush instead of just studying those who did. And also made him want to lick sugar off Scott’s abs. He was a man of many wants. 

“For Hollander, obviously,” Kip said, shrugging. 

Scott gave him an exasperated look saying, “Ha ha.” 

“I’m serious. Why else would he go? I think this is proof enough, I should win that bet.”

Scott pulled him into his lap, kissing him deeply, “No shot, Grady. But you can do what you want with me anyway.” 

“Anything I want?” Kip purred into Scott’s ear, watching him melt under the whisper. Kip ground his hips down in Scott’s lap and was provided with a cracked little moan. Kip never got tired of how vocal Scott was with him. He picked up his phone to dash off a text before he tossed his phone off the bed, not to be thought about for hours. 

Kip: This is lesbian behavior 

Ilya: I do not know what you mean

Ilya: Go Cens <3

Chapter 4: Kip Grady Night

Kip couldn’t believe how regular it felt to text Ilya Rozanov after that. They talked about Survivor, mostly, Kip had gotten Scott into it and now Ilya. It seemed like he had more time to kill in Ottawa, but even the non-tv related exchanges were easy, like he was talking to Elena.

Ilya: Lee Pace officially out as bi

Ilya: Could leave Hunter for him, he’s taller

Ilya: 6’5

Kip: Hasn’t he been out since Ian McKellen said that thing when they were filming the hobbit? Also you think I can pull Lee Pace? I’m flattered. 

Ilya: Oh, I didn’t know you were a nerd. Guess you can’t pull Lee Pace then, sorry 

Kip: Booooooooo

--

Kip: Do you live far from the National Gallery of Canada?

Ilya: 18 minutes, why?

Kip: I need a favor 😬 Can you go and take a picture of the information plaque for the Maman sculpture? I’m supposed to give a talk at a conference and I need it. Just like, sometime before the 20th?

[Ilya sent two images, one of the plaque and one of the sculpture. In the image of the sculpture there’s an older couple visible through the legs of the massive spider, they look like they are smiling at Ilya who is in the corner of the shot, giving a thumbs up.]

Ilya: I don’t understand the big spider, but I like her. Was nice!

Kip: Wow, looks like you can domesticate a hockey bro after all

Ilya: Now you owe me 😈 Send dirt on Hunter

Kip: He’s too handsome, his dick is too huge, he can last too long, sometimes I get tired 

Ilya: I don’t want to hear about his gross old man dick! Give me something I can use!

Kip: I can’t he’s perfect 

Kip: I guess his socks smell pretty bad

Ilya: Useless to me, all of our socks smell bad 

Ilya: Honestly pretty impressive Hunter can stay gay after being in locker rooms his whole life 

Ilya: Chernobyl for noses in there

--

Ilya: Did Troy Barrett say anything to you or Hunter?

Ilya: You know when you two made hockey gay? Was so straight before?
Kip: You’re really pushing the boundaries of what you’re allowed to say without some disclosure

Ilya: I don’t know what you mean

Kip: I know you know ‘disclosure’ you have to sign like 1,000 NDAs for every contract

Kip: Barrett didn’t say anything to Scott, as far as I know. 

Kip: I dropped my wallet at a thing last fall and he jogged to give it back to me. Not sure what that means for him as a person but I did have eight whole american dollars in there and he didn’t steal them. 

Ilya: 👍

--

“They should let me have a plus one,” Kip was saying as they found their seats for the hockey awards. 

“You’re my plus one!” Scott was laughing. 

“Yeah but you’re going to spend all night talking about PIMs and I’m going to do the crossword on my phone. I should get to bring Elena.”

“I am sorry my life is such a burden to you, Kip,” Scott said, really laying on the puppy dog eyes.

Ok, fine, it worked, Kip felt guilty. He patted his arm. 

“I am very excited to watch you win another award I don’t understand, sweetheart,” And Kip leaned over to kiss him on his cheek. 

Which is exactly when Shane Hollander walked up to the table to take his seat. He looked shell shocked, stunned, like he had just seen a ghost. Kip thought it was lucky that he was so convinced Shane was closeted (Or maybe not? Scott had said he had maybe come out to some people on the Metros, but because he hadn’t come out to him, he couldn’t confirm. This was the only downside to Scott as a human being) because otherwise the dude looked homophobic as hell. 

Which he also seemed to realize in that moment. 

“Uh,” Shane said, “Hi! Sorry! I didn’t mean to, uh, interrupt--”

Scott and Kip looked at him inquisitively. It wasn’t a private moment. It was really quite a small amount of pda, less than a Spanish hello. He was rooting for Shane, but he needed to get it together. 

“Nice to see you, Hollander,” Hunter said, taking pity on the guy. Scott really was so nice, Kip thought. He probably would have made Hollander squirm about it all night. Not Scott, he had the leadership thing, wanted everyone to be able to sit comfortably, be who they are. 

“This is my boyfriend, Kip Grady,” Scott finished. 

Kip stood, reached his hand out and Shane Hollander shook it. Shane smiled at him, sincere, little crinkles forming at the edges of his eyes and Kip felt himself soften. He was like Scott, scared shitless and a little lost. He was also unfairly handsome. 

Kip took a glance at Scott again, shocked as always that Scott was surrounded by these men and never seemed even tempted by it. Kip should really never let him come to these things alone, just in case.

“It’s nice to meet you!” Hollander said, clearly so thrilled to have been given another chance at his first impression, “I told Hunter already, but I thought it was great what you guys did, at the end of last season. Brave.” 

“It’s nice to meet you too, I’ve heard great things. And you’re welcome,” Kip grinned at him, “Everyone is very welcome for getting to watch me make out with my boyfriend. Next time we’re charging admission.” 

Scott looked at him, fond. 

“I hate when you get congratulated,” Scott said, joking and smiling at him, taking his hand. Kip knew this was a joke, Scott liked when people thanked them, either of them. They just had this conversation so much it was an inside joke, they were always looking for new ways to respond.

“You were already out!” Scott said, poking him on the shoulder. 

“I walked across the ice and didn’t bust my ass!” Kip complained, “And I made you look good on TV, and I’m the better kisser, and I didn’t complain for a year about how everyone was calling you a hero for doing something I did when I was 18. Nobody threw me a Kip Grady night.” 

Shane Hollander’s eyes darted between them like he was watching a tennis match. He looked worried, like he thought they might really be fighting. 

“We’re just kidding, Hollander,” Scott said to Shane, “Kip likes to make his own entertainment at these things, because they are so dull. But thank you, for saying so. It’s not everyone’s reaction.”

Hollander nodded, tightly sitting and turning to Kip. There was an empty chair between them, for a defensive player from Chicago, the same one that had sent that rookie flying on TV. 

“Has it been mostly ok, being here? Has everyone been, uh, nice?” He asked him, and Kip knew it was out of more than just concern for his wellbeing. 

“No,” Kip said flatly. He shrugged, sitting up to talk to Shane more honestly. “Not everyone has been nice,” he and Scott shared a dark look, thinking about slurs on the ice, Dallas Kent tweets, calls from the commissioner, “not here and not anywhere else. But I think it was better than we expected, honestly. More support than I thought. A long way to go, but it’s really not so bad.”

Scott nodded, Kip could tell he wholeheartedly agreed.  

“Also, it’s probably mean, but I do very much enjoy watching a bunch of hockey players try to talk to me for the first time like I am an alien emissary from Planet Gay.” 

Shane cracked an embarrassed smile at that one, “So I wasn’t the worst?”

Scott and Kip both snorted. “No way,” Scott assured him. 

“Not by far,” Kip agreed, "Although, your lineman, Pike?”

Shane’s face turned a little green, like he was deeply worried about whatever Hayden Pike could have possibly said. 

“... the first thing that he said to me is that he really loves Ru Paul’s Drag Race.” 

Shane broke out in a frankly adorable set of giggles, and Kip felt a fondness for him growing. 

“Wow,” said Shane, regaining his composure, “If it helps at all, he really does. I’m close with him and his wife Jackie, they wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The table filled up, and with the Chicago defenseman in the way, it was harder to talk to Shane. Kip craned his head, and saw that Ilya was sat at a table all the way on the other side of the ballroom. Kip thought about going to greet him, but they had gotten into it about the most recent season of Survivor and now Kip owed him 50 bucks. He’d rather not pay the millionaire, thank you very much. 

Kip liked being friends with Ilya, even though it bothered Scott just a touch. Not in a jealous way, he just hated having to spend time off the ice hearing about Ilya. It was easier now that he wasn’t really a threat, off in Ottawa. Ilya was funny, and he liked all the jokes about hockey Kip made that Scott thought were too mean. Kip thought it was good for Rozanov to be bullied by someone who hadn’t had 8 concussions for a change. It would help to keep him humble. 

Only, in thinking all that he accidentally caught Ilya’s eye and the giant Russian fucker was grinning broadly and getting up. 

“Fuck,” Kip complained. 

“What?” Scott asked, head whipping around like he was scanning for threats. It was cute he was so protective. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Kip said, “Just Ilya.”

“Rozanov?” Hollander asked. 

Subtle, Kip thought. 

Ilya bounded over, grinning at Kip. He took one look at the Chicago player and said, “Move. You are in my seat.” 

The guy pointed at his name card and Ilya quickly switched it with his. 

“Go, up, c’mon, I want to sit next to my close personal friend Kip Grady.” 

Kip wished he could look everywhere at once. He wanted to see the furious look on the Chicago player’s face as he slumped away, ejected from his seat. He wanted to see the annoyed look on Scott’s handsome face at being forced into yet another Rozanov interaction. Most importantly, he wanted to see the way Shane Hollander’s mouth fell open, aghast, as Ilya sat down backwards in the chair facing entirely away from him to talk to Kip. But he couldn't, because he was too busy looking up at Ilya Rozanov’s smug mug. 

No one should be able to loom over you while they are sitting down, Kip thought, annoyed. 

“Pay up, Grady,” he said, holding out an open palm. 

“You know your contract is public? It was like 8 million dollars last year. And you’re shaking down some innocent gay grad student from Brooklyn?”

“Ah, but that was Boston. I’m in a very different income bracket now. Need the money.”

Kip sighed, grumbling, pulled out his wallet and slapped his bill in Ilya’s hand. The asshole smelled it. 

“Smells like success,” He told Kip. Kip could see Shane Hollander leaning to see their interaction, his view blocked by Rozanov’s enormous shoulders. 

“Well that particular one might smell like coke, have fun at your end of season drug tests.” Kip quipped. It was a blatant cranky lie. 

Ilya laughed, making an exaggerated show of putting the bill in his wallet, giving it a little kiss and petting it like he was tucking it into bed. Shane’s eyes bugged out of his head like he was really worried for Rozanov’s drug tests, but Kip saw Scott shake his head in his periphery, reassuring Shane that Kip had been kidding. 

Damn, he’s really easy to tease, Kip thought. Ilya must love that. 

Ilya finally turned his chair around the right way, and greeted the rest of the table, “Hello Hunter. Hello Hollander. Have you met my friend Kip? He’s the best, especially when he makes truly terrible bets.”

“You’re such a little bitch, Rozanov.” Kip flicked a bit of trash at him. Shane Hollander looked livid at that, his pretty face was turning red. Jealous? 

Ilya must have noticed too, because he spread his long arm across the back of Shane’s chair. It seemed to soothe Shane because the tension left his shoulders. He leaned forward to avoid any touching, and gave an annoyed look at Rozanov, but seemed privately pleased. Now he was glancing around to see if they were getting away with this. It was a plausible bro move, probably. Kip wanted to roll his eyes. 

Kip really wanted to do what his friends did whenever Scott showed up with flowers, which was to call him names that bordered on slurs in an affectionate manner. These two made him fondly homophobic, the ridiculous sweet silliness of it all. 

He leaned forward to make a joke, probably ‘so how did you two meet’ but he caught Scott looking at him cautiously, a warning. Scott slid his hand over Kips and gripped, and Kip remembered, not for the first time, how hard coming out had been on Scott. 

Right, ok, yes, right. This was fun to Kip, this was probably not fun to Ilya and Shane, whose careers were on the line. And citizenship, and Ilya was Russian… he dialed it back. Coughed. Recalibraited. Did not draw attention to the elephant in the room. 

Instead, Shane broke the silence. 

“You need better friends, Kip.” He said, and Kip smiled. 

“You don’t say.” He replied dryly. 

Ilya pulled his arms in to look offended. 

“I am a great friend. I give great advice. For instance, I tell Kip to break up with his boyfriend every day.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. 

“You must be really worried about your new team if you’re trying to throw off my game that way,” Scott replied.

Kip snorted. Shane looked confused. 

“He’s getting much better, you are teaching him well,” Rozanov said to Kip, “Soon he might actually hurt my feelings.”

“You don’t have feelings, Rozanov,” Scott went on, “You are an ape on skates.”

Ilya laughed. Shane grinned too, looking a little pink around the ears. Kip would bet he had a front row seat to how many feelings Ilya absolutely did have. Kip grinned, maybe if there were 8 layers of intrigue and secrecy it would actually be worth coming to the fucking hockey awards every year. 

Kip ran his question over in his mind, determining if it was safe enough to not scare Shane Hollander. He thought it was a softball, easy enough, and he asked it with the gentleness of a kid offering to share half a popsicle with a new friend at the pool. 

“So, Shane,” He said, taking a sip of his beer, “How do you feel about Ilya playing for your hometown? Are you worried he’s going to collapse all the local infrastructure with the sheer gravity of his ego?”  

Ilya turned to Shane, grinning. Shane looked at Kip with the seriousness of a player answering a press interview. 

“Uh, Ottawa is lucky to have him. He’s a good player. We’ve played against each other for a long time, we’re friends now, with the foundation and all. Well, friend-ish. I gave him a dentist recommendation.”

Ilya turned back to Kip with a grin that had ‘bet you didn’t expect that’ written all over it. Kip had, basically, but he was happy for them, for whatever they were scheming. He gripped Scott’s knee under the table to get his quick I-told-you-so in as Shane and Ilya chanced a little glance at one another.

“That’s what he told me, too,” Kip said, nodding toward Ilya while he addressed Shane, “When I asked him about you. Well, he left out the dentist.”

Shane smiled at Ilya, a tiny bit, and Ilya smiled back. Kip could see how difficult it seemed for them to look away from each other. It was like the gravity around them changed. He felt for them in earnest then, how hard it must be to be so close and so far away. He wondered if under the table their shoes were touching. He laced his fingers with Scott’s, clutching to him, knowing it was a little silly but so glad they didn’t have to be ripped apart anymore. 

They didn’t have much more of a chance to talk that night, an usher came and made Rozanov go back to his real seat, and all the hockey boys had dull awards to present and dry speeches to give. Kip only had one quick moment to get a dig in at Rozanov, while Shane was on stage presenting. 

Ilya was sitting in the audience, not talking, paying attention for the first time all night, looking so clearly besotted with Hollander Kip couldn’t believe everyone in the MHL hadn’t figured it out. 

“Is this enough evidence for you?” He whispered directly in Scott’s ear, pointing. 

“Nope,” Scott said, looking over, and then flashing his pearly whites at Kip. Kip huffed and pulled his phone out to text Ilya. “Have I mentioned how hot you look tonight?” 

Kip felt himself blushing in the dark. But it wouldn't distract him from one more dig. 

Kip: Close your mouth, you’re drooling. 

Kip: Hands on the table where I can see them.

Ilya: Sorry, I don’t understand you, my english, you know. 

Kip: Funny how your english always goes when it’s time to fess up

Kip: You guys are cute together. 

Ilya loved the message. 

Chapter 5: Light Blue

Chapter Notes

The post that outed Shane and Iyla came across Kip’s feed with no fanfare. It didn’t weigh anything. It didnt give off extra light, heat. it wasn’t really so different from the posts above it and below it, except that it ruined at least two lives. Kip was seeing it earlier than most, probably, his algorithm was all hockey and gay news now.

There was something awful about it, the kind of internet post that felt too big for the medium. Wars, assassinations, and Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov caught kissing. Kip just could feel it, the enormity of it, the way it turned these stars into targets for the worst hatred the world could throw at them. The way that even the words in the headlines seemed to buzz angrily, despite being chosen to be neutral. Caught. Intimate. Leaked. It made Kip’s hands shake for them. It made his stomach turn. 

Kip was curled up on the couch in sweats when Scott got home, and Kip could see it all over his face that he had seen it too. He looked grey. Kip pulled him in, clutched him, feeling awful but feeling so grateful for being able to have done this in their own way, that they were together now, that this cyclone hadn’t torn them apart.

“Thank you,” Scott mumbled into his shoulder. 

“For what?” Kip asked.

“I know it’s mean but, for telling me how you felt, for helping me come out. Pushing me, a little. If this had been me… I don’t know, Kip, I might not have…” 

Kip held his face, kissed him, salty from the tears they were both shedding. It wasn’t fair to cry over something bad happening to someone else, but god, it seemed like the world just kept getting darker. Seemed like he needed to hold on to Scott for dear life. 

They hadn’t been spared, either. There were always death threats, always scary DM’s targeting Kip’s family. People blamed Scott for this, somehow, as if he had been locking Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander in a room and making them kiss. Like he really had ‘ruined’ hockey, been the one to corrupt it. Like there were never hockey players who liked boys before Scott Hunter and all the ones who came after had him to blame.

“It’s not, though, it’s not. And we have each other. And, god, I think they have each other. Have you talked to them, Shane…?”

Scott shook his head. “Haven’t gotten a chance. Did Rozanov reach out?” 

Also no.

Kip and Scott were so swept up in the playoffs that they didn’t even get a chance to say anything till after the homophobia onslaught to end all homophobia onslaughts had begun in earnest. People on twitter were saying Hollander tripped on purpose to throw the game for Ottawa, or some other dumb nonsense that seemed easy to disprove to Kip. Didn’t brothers play for opposing teams all the time? 

That never seemed to matter to an angry mob. 

“I’m going to go see them. Tell them what I’ve been working on with Vaughn.” Scott said, looking aged by just reading the tweets on his feed. 

Kip nodded, rubbed Scott’s back. “You’re really good at being Captain Gay Hockey,” he told him and watched Scott crack a smile. 

Kip sent his own message, but it didn’t feel like enough.

Kip: I’m really sorry. For you, and Shane. You should have been able to come out or not come out on your own timeline. I don’t know why so many people give a shit who you’re with but I wish it was different. You shouldn’t even have to come out, you should get to just be who you are

Kip: you know that 

Kip: I hope you’re ok. Scott and I, we’re here if we can help

Kip: I have been waiting a really long time to say it though, so congratulations on your ungodly hot boyfriend that I had no idea about, I definitely did not know the whole time

Ilya: fiancé :) 

Ilya: thank you

It took Kip a full day to see the message. 

Kip: FIANCÉ? 

Ilya didn’t respond. 

--

The months passed. Kip watched from the outside as Shane went to Ottawa. Kip was formulating a plan, Kip was chewing on the inside of his cheek. He knew it was better now, and it was probably excellent for everyone that Shane and Ilya were on the same team. 

Well, not for Scott, who now talked about playing Ottawa like soldiers talked about the front lines. 

Still, he wanted to reach out. He couldn’t shake how different their story had been from Ilya and Shane’s, how they had been met with an MVP award and open arms and Hollander and Rozanov had nearly been thrown out of the league. Been made into a meme, people editing Shane’s jersey to read ‘Homoander’, clipping together everything they had ever said to look stupid, burning new effigies now complete with ludicrous fake dicks. 

It wasn’t like Kip could do anything about that, but he wanted to do something. 

Kip knew he had to ask this question in the right way, so he waited. He made dinner, Scott’s favorites, he wore his glasses. He wore his favorite of Scott’s Admirals hoodies, and tried to look as cute and snuggly as possible. This was his best and truest power in their relationship: how much Scott wanted just to be domestic, just be together, comfortable. He waited until they were a beer and a wine deep, respectively, curled up on the couch in front of the fire. 

“So,” He said, watching Scott’s hand trace little circles on his thigh, “I decided what I want.”

“What you want for what?”

“I won the bet, Hollander and Rozanov. Obviously. I mean, they’re married. Even you can’t deny that.”

Scott looked suspicious, “Ok, fine. You were right. So what?”

Kip smiled his prettiest smile at him, “So you have to do whatever I say, for a day. That was the deal.”

Scott’s eyes darkened, and he leaned in, running his huge hand up Kip thigh. “Oh, so I’m entirely at your mercy, huh?”

“Yep.” Kip said, solemnly. 

“What will you do with me?”

“I want to invite Ilya and Shane Hollander for dinner after the home game next week.” 

Scott’s excited bubble immediately burst, he threw his head back in agony. 

“Kip, why.”

“I like Ilya. And I’m worried about them, I think they need more gay friends. You need more gay friends too, Scott, you only understand like one out of three things Daimen says to you.”

”Why do our gay friends have to be Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander?”

Kip shrugged helplessly.

“It’s just dinner, Scotty. I’ll cook, there will be wine, we’ll laugh, it will be fun.”

Scott glared at him. 

“You do realize in this scenario either I will have just crushed our guests or they will have just crushed me?” 

Kip laughed, “You’ll crush them and I’ll give them an extra helping of dessert. It’ll all work out.” 

---

Kip regretted his little ploy when it was actually time to have Shane and Ilya over. He had to rush back from the rink to finish cooking while Scott did press. He was fairly sure either Ilya or Shane would be pulled in for an interview as well, so they wouldn't beat Scott here, but that was all conjecture. Kip yanked Scott’s jersey off his head with frantic quickness, and found himself hopping on one foot to grab his socks off with one hand. 

He wanted to look nice, for their guests. Partly because they would be coming in their walk on clothes (which meant suits, and in Hollander and Rozanov’s cases the negative press attention had them really rolling up to games like they were going to the fucking Met Gala) and Kip didn’t want to feel underdressed in his own house. The other part was, well. They looked like that. Scott looked like— and Ilya looked like— and Shane looked like— 

Kip looked at his hair and groaned. It didn’t matter, this wasn’t a beauty contest. It just made it a little less fun to make new friends when those new friends had all posed shirtless on Men’s Health magazine. 

Kip finished dinner, it was a respectable spread, poured wine. Turned the TV on in the background to watch Scott, still dripping sweat, say that they just were a little off their game tonight, the Cen’s had gotten lucky. Ottawa had won, 2-1. Kip didn’t like to watch him lose, but he still looked glorious even all sweaty and gross from the game. God, Kip really would still fuck that man while he looked like that, even knowing what he smelled like right now, and there wasn’t any lust more pure than that. 

He should talk faster though, to hopefully avoid leaving Kip alone to host. He adjusted his sweater and he waited. 

“I’m here!” Scott called from the doorway, looking flushed. When he spotted Kip he froze in the doorway, frowning. “Jesus Christ.”

Kip looked down at himself to see if he was covered in sauce or something, and then behind him, to make sure nothing was on fire. Seemed fine.

”What?”

”You look way too good. Can we cancel? I have a lot of ideas that are more fun than this. You look…That’s…” Scott trailed off, crowding into Kip’s space. He looked fine, this was a good sweater, but there was no need for all of that. 

“Ok don’t patronize me, I just didn’t want to look as scrawny as I feel in this particular group of people.”

Scott was grinning, leaning down to kiss him, “You’re so delusional about how hot you are,” then he leaned back, serious, “And I hope you always stay that way so you never leave me for someone in your league.”

Kip rolled his eyes, but kissed him deeply for good measure. He couldn’t see himself through Scott’s eyes, but he was grateful for how he seemed to actually believe that they were equally matched. 

“They’ll be here soon, you think?” Kip asked Scott who nodded. 

“I sort of… sprinted. I didn’t want to leave you alone, so…I think probably, 10 minutes?”

Kip grinned at him, goofy and fond. 

It turned out they didn’t need to wait on bated breath to know when Ilya and Shane would arrive. Their laughs could be heard echoing up from street level. When Kip looked down, away from the beautiful view and towards the dirty snow banks, he could see them laughing at each other, Shane holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a snowball in the other. 

Ilya was smooshing snow in his face, clearly just having been a victim of an earlier ice attack from Hollander. Shane shoved him into the snowbank and Ilya brought him down on top of him, laughing. 

Scott rolled his eyes, “Babies.”

Kip laughed, but he couldn’t help but be pleased watching them kick snow at each other. He only had really seen them giving their hardest game faces on TV, talking about prospects and training hard since they were outted. Something in his stomach relaxed, seeing them be playful and goofy with one another, like this whole thing had been more than scarring, like what they had was still the real thing. 

Kip snuck a look at his real thing, who was diligently setting the table and futzing with the fancy lights in the apartment to make sure it was not too dim and not too bright, to make a dinner he didn’t even want to have go smoothly. Kip loved him so much. He wished he had a snowball to throw at him. 

“Hello, we are here for sex party?” Ilya’s voice came booming in 10 minutes later when Scott had buzzed them up. They had mostly done a respectable job getting the snow off their clothes, but Shane still had some in the hood of his sweatshirt, under a truly beautiful wool coat that ended at his knees. 

Scott scowled, but Kip just rolled his eyes, walking to meet them at the door. Shane seemed unfazed by his husband’s jokes, which was miles away from the stuttering mess Kip remembered from the last time he had seen Hollander. Out seemed to suit him, with his hair longer, framing his face, his shirts better cut, his clothes just a touch more stylish than purely practical. He was already removing his shoes and laying them neatly on the shoe rack. 

“Great, we’ll show Shane to the bedroom and you can see yourself out, bye-bye Ilya.” Kip quipped, taking the bottle of wine Shane was holding out to him, ignoring Ilya and the pouty little expression he was pulling. 

Not that Rozanov was easy to ignore he also looked visibly happier than the last time Kip had seen him. He also looked, impossibly, more ripped. Probably a side-effect of Hollander’s clean eating and famously rigorous routine. Kip wondered if they did yoga together. Then he very quickly stopped wondering that. 

“Hi Shane. Thank you so much for coming! Sorry to hit on you the moment you stepped in, Ilya brings out the worst in me.” Kip said.

Shane shrugged, a little pink to his cheeks. “S’ok, I’d throw him out of bed too if I was, uh, able. Thank you for having us.”

Ilya sulked at that, pouting at Shane, who muttered, “You know I couldn’t,” as quietly as physically possible under his breath to Rozanov. Kip pretended he didn’t hear, because it made him laugh to see how Ilya preened. 

“Hello Kip,” Ilya said, with his cheer restored. He didn’t grin brightly, still had those Russian facial expressions, but Kip could tell he was in good spirits. “Thank you for being our good luck charm.”

Scott came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel and god he looked good like that. He kissed Kip on the cheek. 

“Long time no see, boys,” Scott said, “Food is this way.” 

“I like your place,” Shane said, taking a look at the windows, nodding appreciatively at the spectacular view, “How long have you owned it?”

Ilya rolled his eyes and leaned over to Kip, “Everywhere we go he does this. When we retire he will be real estate agent. Mr. Investment Property.” 

Kip snorted, and to his surprise, Shane turned around with a little smile on his face. 

“Only because I really want one of those yellow blazers,” he shrugged. 

“To answer your question, I’ve been here about 8 years, but it looked like shit for the first 7, like a set for a really boring movie. Kip really helped make it worth it.” Scott called from the kitchen, he was still pulling out water pitchers and serving spoons. 

Kip smiled at him. It wasn’t true. The apartment had always been glorious. But Scott had been so thankful as Kip started to make things homey, adding lamps and vintage rugs and art, both the kind you bought from galleries and the kinds he bought from friends. Prints, paintings, photographs, vintage furniture and furniture Kip stole from his parents basement. It was still clean and minimal in here, but it felt more them, more lived in, personal.

Scott offered Shane and Ilya the tour and they followed behind as he showed them rooms, bathrooms. Kip was really pleased with the new paint colors he had put in last month, even though he had thrown out his back rolling the ceiling. 

“You should come help us, too,” Shane said, “I hired someone and our Ottawa place still looks like a target threw up.”

Ilya snorted, “I think it is too many pillows and blankets. We will be suffocated in our sleep, linen closet avalanche—“

”It doesn’t help that it’s also covered in dog toys and socks.” 

“Anya gets bored, she can put her things where she likes. Plus it is also covered in coasters, everywhere there are coasters, like when we have the team over 18 year old rookie will use a coaster,” Ilya countered. 

”We’re setting an example.”

”You’re setting an example, I am leaving rings on purpose.”

Scott was looking at Kip totally perplexed and Kip, for once, fully understood. It was jarring to go from watching Rozanov and Hollander, roasting each other for years, talking shit on the ice, bruised ribs and split lips, 20 minutes ago calling Scott old in their pressers— to this. So domestic. 

It was one thing to know they were married, and another to see it. 

Shane was asking Scott to see something esoteric and boring, the plans they drew up when they redid the bathroom, maybe, which briefly left Kip and Ilya alone in the guest room that had become Kip’s office. 

“I like this,” Ilya said, pointing at a little painting above the desk. It was mostly a soft grey blue, and prominently featured a yellow dog, which was probably why Ilya liked it. The dog was sleeping soundly on a figure’s legs, plaid pants adding a contrasting texture to the dog’s silky fur. 

“I like it too, my friend Annie painted that when I was in college. It’s of me, that’s how I ended up with it, well its really of the dog, but it's my lap. Her name is Daisy. She lives in San Francisco, now.”

Ilya smiled a little at that, just a touch. He gestured at the painting, the color of the room. “You know, in Russian, ‘light blue’ is slang for gay?”

Kip rolled his eyes, “What are you implying Rozanov, my Russian, it's not so good," he said referencing all the times Ilya dodged his implicit and explicit acknowledgments of his queerness. 

Ilya smirked at him. 

Kip continued, "..but I guess it takes one to know one, huh?" 

Ilya grinned, nodded, looking like he’d wanted to agree to one of those jokes for a very long time. 

—

Dinner was surprisingly easy. Ilya started bothering him about the newest season of Survivor, Shane asked polite little questions about his degree, his teaching, what he loved to study most. Then, Kip suffered through at least 20 minutes of shop talk.

It was a necessary evil, but he still found his mind wandering off, thinking about the laundry he had to do later, how Elena’s date last night turned out. 

“Kip,” Ilya said, drawing his attention back. He was leaning away from Scott and Shane who were discussing the new tactics Miami’s team was trying out with their defensive line, “When Troy Barrett came out to me, he said his last boyfriend was a famous actor who is now out. Who do you think—“

Shane kicked him, under the table.

”After the year we’ve had, do you really wanna speculate on other people’s private lives, Rozanov?” 

“Yes,” said Ilya, simply.

”You call each other your last names?” Kip asked, smirking, “Kinky.”

Shane’s face colored a little again, “Not always, but we’re on the ice so much, with the team and all…”

Ilya gave him a look and turned back to Kip, “That’s not why.” 

“Hey! That is why!” Shane was piping up from his side of the table. 

“No, the first time I called you Shane you ran away from me like—"

Kip’s eyes met Scott’s across the table in the universal ‘oh we’re gonna unpack this later’ look. Scott grinned at him, despite himself. 

“I didn’t run away, I—" Shane was gesturing animatedly before he seemed to realize himself and stop. 

“No, please, go on,” Kip grinned, “Actually, can you start from the beginning? How the hell did you two end up like this?”

Ilya grinned, proud. 

“Uh,” Shane was starting, “Well, we… we’re worried about the fallout if certain details get out, but…”

Ilya looked at Shane, made some sort of gesture to Kip and then Scott, something small and simple. Kip was guessing it meant something to the effect of, ‘they are trustworthy, they’ve basically known, they didn’t say anything.’ 

Shane seemed to take his point. 

“We got together, casually, starting from the summer before our rookie year.” Shane said. 

“Your rookie year?” Scott said, eyes bulging out of his head. Kip could feel his eyebrows flying up, trying to do the math.

”Yes, that is the part that seems to shock people the most,” Ilya said, finishing swallowing a particularly huge bite of food, “I think the most surprising is how Shane came out to me as gay when we had already been fucking for seven ye—“

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane was saying, kicking Ilya’s chair. 

Ilya grinned at him. 

“Who made the first move?” Kip asked, eyes darting between them, trying to guess. 

Shane rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Wait, let me rephrase,” Kip said, seeing their nervousness, the squirming from both men, and bit back his laugh.

“Just to be clear I gave my first blowjob in the back of a pickup truck on Long Island when I was 16. It was February and I thought my mouth was going to get stuck to that guy’s dick like the frozen pole in A Christmas Story. After we were done he thanked me for clearing that up, and told me he wasn’t gay. So, scout’s honor, I’m not here to judge. Whatever it is, I’ve seen worse.”

Kip raised one hand and put the other over his heart, not here to mock but in true gay solidarity. 

Scott was giggling from his side of the table, “I didn’t know that story.”

Kip gave him a truly pained expression, “He got cum on my scarf. And he tried to copy my Spanish homework the next week.”

“Prison.” Ilya said, simply. Kip nodded. 

Shane smiled at him, just a little, and he seemed slightly more relaxed now. 

“Ilya made the first move.”

”I did not! You did. You were checking me out. You stared.”

"Staring is not a move.”

"Staring is my only move,” Scott said, stabbing a piece of pasta with his fork. “I’m hopeless at flirting. Kip took pity on me. I went to his work and stared at him until he did all the conversation work for us.”

Kip waved his hand. “You weren’t that bad, believe me. I’ve had much worse. One guy came up to me and just said ‘nice mouth.’”

”Did you go home with him?” Ilya asked.

”No comment.” 

Scott looked scandalized, and Kip grinned apologetically at him. 

”Well, Ilya started jerking himself off at me in the showers as his move, so he has no room to judge.”

Kip’s mouth dropped open, and so did Scott’s. Ilya just shrugged. 

“It worked, no?”

Shane kicked his chair again. “You’re such an asshole.”

”Yeah, but you like me.” Ilya said, grinning. 

Scott looked torn between being fascinated and being sick, he shook his head, clearly trying to remove the mental image. 

“So, for like, the whole time? Your whole careers, you’ve been together?”

They looked at each other, shook their heads. 

“We… well, I, at least tried really hard not to be gay. We never like, talked about anything because it seemed so impossible. So, sort of yes and sort of we’ve been together since 2017. Actually,” Shane put his fork down, and Kip could see Ilya’s hand reach his knee under the table, “Actually, I wanted to ask, I… I have been having trouble with this new… visibility. I like who I am now, and I love Ilya. But I feel awful being like, a gay icon, because…” 

Shane looked up at the ceiling, down at his food. He wasn’t big on eye contact, Kip had noted. 

“I mean, I just don’t know anything about it, you know? I am not an activist. I’m still trying to unlearn the gut instinct to run and hide any time anything gay comes up because I might be found out. I think about it all the time, how there would be so many other people who would be better at talking about this stuff than me, but people are always asking me for soundbites, or wanting me to be on Out magazine or whatever… I don’t know. Like, when I met you, Kip, you said this thing—“

Kip bit the inside of his cheek. He’d never wanted to make Shane Hollander feel insecure about anything. It seemed hard enough for him to navigate expectations without Kip weighing in. 

“You said they didn’t throw you a Kip Grady night. And like, I know it was a joke, but it’s true, right? I’m getting celebrated for like, the bare minimum. I didn’t even actually do the brave thing and come out. Well, eventually we did together, but you know,” Shane finished, shaking his head. 

”Well, you’re also getting absolutely smeared in the New York Post for the bare minimum, if that helps.” Kip said.

Shane winced. 

“No, but really,” Kip shifted, more serious now, “You do fine, Shane. I’ve seen the clips. And the foundation, I know that means a lot to people, and you have queer people of all stripes there. I mean, I can’t speak for all the gays either, but I think the best you can do is be yourself and try hard to be kind. I think like, thousands of kids feel better about being themselves because Shane Hollander is gay.”

Scott nodded, “Yeah I for sure had a lot of… imposter syndrome? I guess? I mean I am gay and it is hard, in hockey. But sometimes people call me and ask me about trans rights in sports and meds I’ve never heard of and I’m scared shitless thinking if I said the wrong thing I could really hurt a lot of people, a lot of people who are like me. Or more vulnerable than me, I’m just like, a white guy. Normally I make people email me those questions so I have some time to reply, I have some trans-rights and intersectional organizations I ask when I’m lost. I can send you some emails?”

Shane nodded, enthusiastically. 

“Now that he’s gay, he wants to be the best at being gay,” Ilya said, directing it to Kip, “He will win the Conn Smythe of being gay.”

“Not you, Rozanov?” Scott asked. 

Ilya shrugged, “I will win the Conn Smythe of being Bisexual.” 

Kip shook his head, sadly, “And just like that, the biggest rivalry of a generation comes to a close.”

—

Ilya and Shane stayed later than they expected, and they all laughed more than they had thought, giggling and telling stories and sharing little humiliations and jokes. Ilya had cast team rosters to the TV and made them take bets on who the next player out would be, over Shane’s loud protests. (Kip bet on the youth from Chicago, with the poppers. Clearly he was too horny to keep it hidden forever. Shane had reluctantly put his money on a pretty linesman from San Diego. Ilya had demanded to know why, to which Shane said something about how he looked at him, which had quickly soured Ilya on the game.) 

Even Scott seemed to be having a good time, and a little moved when Ilya coughed up that he finally decided to go be with Shane the night of their kiss, of Scott’s coming out.

(“It was big of you to admit that, Rozanov, it means a lot to me,” Scott had said.

”Yes well, I’m very big,” Ilya replied, winking at him. 

“You can do better than that,” Kip told him, giving him a disappointed look. 

Ilya paused, thinking. 

“… I’m sure it will mean a lot to you when we win the Stanley Cup and I blow Shane on the ice?” Ilya tried again, looking to Kip for his judgment. Shane groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

Kip wiggled his hand, "Better, not your best.”)

They sent them home, bundled up for the cold, laden with leftovers and promises to do this again soon that Kip thought Scott might even actually mean.

”Thank you for having us,” Shane said, smiling at them, “I promise to not actually email you too many questions. I’ll meet you downstairs, Ilya, I gotta call my mom back. Goodnight!” He took the stairs.

“He is obsessed with working out. Can’t even take the elevator. Also thank you from me,” Ilya said, “We know it’s way past your bedtime, Hunter, generous of you to stay up. Kip, when he dies next week, you can come stay with us, we will take good care of you.”

Scott just laughed, wrapping his arms around Kip’s shoulders from behind. 

“Oh, this is fine with you Hunter, you don’t mind if we steal your boyfriend?”

Scott shook his head, “Rozanov, you’re going to have work way harder than that to make me jealous. If I got nervous every time a man tried to pick up Kip I would never be able to leave this apartment again. Last week the barista wrote ‘call me, daddy!’ on his Starbucks cup.”

Kip tamped down his grin. He didn’t know Scott noticed that. He barely had, too busy drooling over one of Scott’s cellys on YouTube on his phone even while the man was right there. He was too far gone for Scott Hunter, it was like tunnel vision. 

“Besides,” Scott was going on, stepping ever so slightly into Rozanov’s space to intimidate him, “Didn’t like, everyone in the world just find out your husband is gay? Which means your competition just went from like, no one to like…” 

He looked at Kip, and Kip was so pleased to see the barely restrained glee hidden in his expression, “…just about every gay man on this side of the Atlantic, give or take, right?”

Kip nodded, “Oh, for sure. Guys had posters of him in art school, and those guys hate sports. Before they knew they had a chance.” 

“Better keep an eye on those showers, hm, Rozy?” Hunter finished, grinning. 

Ilya’s face darkened, he scowled, opened his mouth. It was too late though, Kip and Scott could see clearly the chirp had landed, and all Ilya could manage was a half hearted, “Fuck you, Hunter,” as he shuffled himself into the elevator. 

Scott waited a respectable 20 seconds before turning to Kip, vibrating with excitement,

“It took me 10 fucking years,” he paused to press Kip against the wall, “But I finally,” kissed him, “FINALLY,” Scott’s hands were on his hips, pulling him up so he had to wrap his legs around him for stability, “got him back!”

Kip laughed, “I’m so proud.”

”Couldn’t have done it without you, baby,” Scott purred into his ear. 

On the way to Scott tugging him to bed, Kip reached for his phone to text Ilya, but saw he already had a missed text.

Ilya: Can’t believe you actually taught him to do that 

Ilya: Was like watching a dog walk on hind legs

Kip: See you soon, bitch 😘

Chapter End Notes

A/N: So, this got longer and slightly more angsty than I originally intended so I've added an additional chapter, a fun lil epilogue that includes KIP GRADY ON ICE

Stay tuned!

Chapter 6: EPILOGUE: Face-Off

Chapter Notes

Kip was having trouble following the conversation. Maybe because Scott was so pretty on the facetime, all cleaned up with teeth gleaming. Maybe it was because he was already four gin and gingers deep and Kyle was yelling something to Maria in Spanish which made it hard to focus. 

They were pre-gaming, to celebrate Kip’s recent success. He’d just gotten a fellowship, a three year fellowship through Columbia that was going to allow him to work on his thesis uninterrupted. He’d even gotten an article in an academic journal this month. He was quitting the Kingfisher, not to be a ‘kept man’ to his millionaire husband, but to actually follow his dreams. He was feeling pretty thrilled about it, and he had invited his friends out for one truly ludicrous night of drinking and clubbing to celebrate. 

He was turning 30 this year, he was married, his friends were pairing off. He wanted to take this fleeting moment in the in the liminal in-between of Christmas and New Years, where New York was full to bursting, to prove he could still get drunk enough to shake ass on a bar. He was still so fucking young, god dammit. 

That wasn’t exactly Scott’s thing, bless him. Besides, he had a gala tonight that was dull as dirt. They had agreed, Kip would celebrate with his friends tonight and Scott would come home still wrapped in his tuxedo and Kip would take it off him with his teeth. 

On the phone, Scott was saying, “…event ends at 11, we'll be back around 12:30, and the hotel was booked solid because of New Years. So they booked a train for tonight, but they don’t have anywhere to put their stuff. Rozanov is going to come drop their bags off, and I told him he was welcome to hang out if you guys were gone. Is that ok, baby?”

Kip was kicking his feet as he sat at the kitchen island, half dancing along to the pre-game music. 

Kip wanted to trace Scott’s face on his phone screen with his fingertips. He was so pretty. 

“You’re so pretty,” Kip said. 

Scott laughed, on the phone, “Ok, sweetheart, let me try again. Ilya is coming over, ok?”

”Deadass?” Kip asked, thrilled, “Yes, Ilya, sick. He’ll come out with us.”

He could hear Maria and Kyle discussing who Ilya was from the other room, it was decided he was the ‘smoulder-y Russian one.’

”I think he just wants to put his bags somewhere, ok? I love you.”

Kip couldn’t remember saying goodbye, and he had sobered slightly, eating endless chips and watching his friend Chelsea do her makeup by the window. By the time Ilya actually showed he had totally forgotten he was coming.

“Oh!” Kip said in shock as Ilya Rozanov (wearing sunglasses and a sweeping coat on with a backwards hat jammed over his hair like he was trying not to be seen) wrangled two roller bags and two backpacks into their apartment. 

“Hi,” he said, voice as low as ever. Then he lowered his sunglasses, comically, “New look for you.”

Kip grinned at him, flashing all his teeth and dimples, “Old look. I haven’t worn these jeans since undergrad.” 

Kip knew he looked good, basically poured into these jeans that made his ass look perfect. He was a classic dresser, even for clubbing, but he’d picked a cropped shirt that made both his biceps look respectable and showed off a strip of the abs that he worked so desperately hard to keep. He wasn’t doing all those crunches to not be proud. 

He knew what Ilya meant though. He looked gayer than usual, gayer than he put on display for hockey events, walking around with Scott where they tried to look as inoffensive and digestible as possible. Gays: we’re just like you! Kip thought. And that was fine, really, but not tonight. 

“Maria! Can you make Ilya a drink?” Kip called. 

Maria looked up from her phone where she was queuing up more pump up songs. 

“Oh, yes please,” She said, looking at Rozanov appraisingly.

Ilya put his hands up, “I’m not drinking, Hunter said we could keep our bags here. We’re taking the train to the airport at 3 am.”

Kip shook his drunk little head, and then regretted it. Spinning. 

“No, Ilya, you have to come.” Kip said, putting his hands on his hips, “We’re celebrating! C’mon, aren’t we friends?” 

Kip put on his best attempt at puppy dog eyes. 

Rozanov didn’t get a chance to reply because the like, 10 people (maybe 12, Kip couldn’t remember if Jose and Jacob had gotten here yet. Yes. Maybe. They were on the way?) draped over the living room in various states of dress and undress were bursting out in pleas for him to come along. They were a welcoming bunch, and thriving in the sweet spot of drunkenness that makes you want to get the whole world drunk with you.

Kyle grinned up at Ilya from his reclined position on the couch, he was laying on top of three people. Kyle was such a show-off.

“Yeah, Ilya, what are you, old? Scared?” Kyle reached his hand over to trail down the tails of Ilya’s coat in a way that implied that he might be scared of Kyle specifically, that maybe he’d shy away from his touch like gay chicken. Ilya didn’t move, but he did roll his eyes. 

”You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Ilya quipped, and Kyle laughed. Ilya knew his boyfriend, Eric Bennet, frankly Kip did think Bennet qualified as both old and scared. Eric was safely at home tonight, he didn’t drink, but he was on speed-dial in the event anyone needed a ride home. “Would love to come celebrate, but I can’t. We have no where to stay tonight, so.”

Ilya shrugged helplessly at Kip. 

“Stay here,” Kip said, easily, “You and Shane can have the red guest room. It’s nice. And then you can celebrate me, and it’ll be funnnnnn,” he teased. 

Ilya’s moment of hesitation as his eyes flicked to the rum and coke Maria was handing him was all Kip needed. What else was going to do, sit here and wait for Shane and Scott to finish their stupid dinner? 

Kip was already dialing. Scott picked up the FaceTime, because of course he did. Kip could see the ballroom behind him, his lovely little tie a little crooked. 

“They are going to think I’m anti-social, if I spend all night talking to you!” Scott protested. 

”Hi, handsome. Can you get me Shane Hollander?”

Ilya made a confused noise from where he was standing. Kip shoved him hard in the chest, indicating an arm chair he should be sitting in, watched Maria perch on the arm and start peppering him with questions. Ilya took a little sip of his drink, looking amused. 

“Uh, yeah, hold on— Hey, Shane?”

Shane appeared on Kip’s phone and Kyle wolf-whistled from the couch. It was a fair point, Shane Hollander always looked like he stepped right off a film set. 

“Wow, you clean up good. Hi! I’m kidnapping your husband.” Kip said. 

”I—thank you, what?”

--

In the end, it was easier to convince everyone than Kip had thought. Shane gave in, probably because spending most of the night at JFK was no one’s idea of a good time and staying here meant he and Scott could have horrible healthy breakfasts together before they drove them to the airport. Scott, who had been a good sport about being subjected to this group of people before, thought it was hilarious to see Ilya roped into Kip’s shenanigans. Ilya was grinning as Kip’s gaggle of girls and gays started needling him about his old days clubbing in Russia and Boston, not as forgotten as he thought. 

The only real speed bump was that Ilya was not dressed to go out. Kip offered him something from Scott’s closet, but the look of utter cold disdain Ilya had given him was almost enough to sober Kip up. 

Ilya had dug through his bags and found something mostly suitable, a silk shirt, jeans. He pushed his hair back. Kip was frankly impressed by the efficiency of his transformation, but Kip’s friends heckled anyway. 

(“Too straight,” called Damian, “You gotta fit in if you’re going to hang with us, Rozanov.”

Ilya was shouting from the bathroom, seemingly as at ease in group party preparation scenarios as he was on the ice, “I came from hockey in Colorado, what do you want me to have, assless chaps?” 

“Put a jock strap on,” Kyle yelled. 

“I’ve got it,” Jose said, striding up to Ilya and confidently unbuttoning an extra two buttons on his shirt. He stumbled back dramatically, looking like he would pass out from the sight, “Jesus fucking Christ, do you live in the gym?”

Ilya smirked, looking flattered, turned to Kip for his approval. 

“Shirt is Rick Owens, best I can do.” He said, shrugging. Kip waved his hand, allowing it. 

“I’m pretty sure they are just trying to get you to strip, anyway. Let’s go girls.” Kip said, rounding everyone up and into the elevator.) 

Kip was experiencing most of the dancing part of the night in flashes. He remembered laughing, vodka sodas. He remembered pulling Kyle on the dance floor, happy there was no tension there. He remembered watching Jacob kissing a boy he was pretty sure was his ex Adrian in the corner, so that would be drama tomorrow.

It wasn’t his first time seeing Ilya Rozanov at a gay club, he’d come to Scott Hunter night, but he fit in so seamlessly it really did make Kip want to ask questions. Shane and Scott weren’t like this, had Ilya been in these spaces somewhere else? Was there just more crossover between queerness and party spaces? Did Ilya have grand stories about underground gay nightclubs in Russia?

All good questions for another day, because Kip was busy. He was singing along to choruses that melted into other choruses. He was grinding on Maria, getting spun around by Jacob, wearing someone’s sunglasses and backwards cap from a pretty boy in the second bar. The third bar? 

Scott: Shane and I are back, hope you’re having fun!

Kip: It’s not eben fun to do this now 

Kip: Altho I am very good at dancing 

Kip: No one is hot as you :( 

Then he pulled Ilya in by the scruff of his neck to take a selfie to send to their husbands. 

“They are back, hm?” Ilya asked, squinting at the texts on Kip’s phone as the picture sent.

“Ohmygod,” Kip laughed in a rush, “You wanna go back.”

“No, I did not say this,” Ilya said, stern. He shot Kip a quick look that said, yeah, he did. 

“It’s not even two yet!”

“I said nothing!” 

“You’re so whipped. I’ll round everyone up, freak.”

Ilya grinned guilty at him, and Kip wasn’t surprised to find that he had paid everyone’s tab. 

--

The sheer volume of them (8 people now, maybe 7? Jacob had gone home with that guy, that’d be interesting) could be accurately described as a roar in the apartment as they spilled in from the elevator. Scott and Shane looked like they had driven a freight train through their night as they all came stumbling in, rap playing out loud on someone’s phone. 

Ilya had transitioned into captain mode, which Kip recognized from Scott, but Ilya's was more chaotic, full of energy. He had carefully made sure no one fell into the street and was orchestrating music, a food delivery, more drinks, running the space like it was his own. Kip laughed, stealing away to the bathroom to fix his hair. 

When he came back Ilya was saying, “—Is not weird that I know ‘twink,’ Hunter, is weird that you don’t know ‘twink.’ Everyone knows! Would be like not knowing what a power play is.”

”What does twink mean?” Shane asked, now standing in the kitchen, apparently waiting for Kyle to finish making him a drink. 

“What’s a power play?” Damian asked at the same time. 

Ilya scrubbed his face in frustration. Scott laughed. Kip flopped on the couch next to him, throwing his legs over Scott’s lap and grinning at him as he stretched his arm behind him. 

“I’m a twink,” Kyle said, leaning into Shane, wearing his flirty bartender face that Kip knew well from countless shifts together at the Kingfisher, leaning forward to show off his biceps as he shook whatever it was he was shaking. 

Shane drew his eyebrows in, not understanding. Kip nudged Ilya with his foot, nodded. Ilya snorted. 

“You gonna go defend your man, Ilya?” Kip asked. Ilya shook his head, gave him a look that said ‘wait, you’ll see.’

“You could have been a twink,” Kyle went on, “Except your shoulders look so fucking good. You’re like, huge. But you’re pretty enough. How’d you manage not to get all dinged up, playing hockey?”

Shane looked like he was trying to solve a puzzle with his mind, “Well, we wear helmets, and when you’re under 18 you have to wear a face cage—“

“Hollander, he’s hitting on you,” Ilya called from the couch, not getting up, reclining with his arms spread on the back of the couch. Shane’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Kip stifled his giggles behind his hand, sharing a look with Ilya.  

“Oh! Oh. I’m married. Thanks.” Shane took the drink from Kyle, who looked baffled. Kyle flirted for sport more than anything, but he wasn’t normally met with that level of flat affect. Kyle knew Shane was married. Truly an immovable object and an unstoppable force, Kip thought.

“You’re drinking?” Ilya asked, as Shane took his seat by him. 

Shane shook his head, “It’s a mocktail thing.”

“Eric doesn’t drink,” Kyle was saying as he flopped on the carpet by the coffee table, “I’m good at them.”

That gave Kip an idea. Eric had mentioned Ilya’s eerie ability to read sexualities and dynamics and Kip had been dying for a demonstration. 

“Ilya,” Kip said, silky smooth, “I have a question.”

Ilya tore his gaze away from Shane with what looked like quite the effort. He was softened by alcohol, and his face had been betraying more fondness than usual. Kip was politely ignoring how he seemed stuck to Shane. He knew the years of secrecy must have created a deep need for PDA.

"I hear you have a little party trick?”

Ilya raised his eyebrows. Kyle caught on. 

“Oh yeah, Eric and Scott said—“

"They say you’ve got a real knack for reading sexuality,” Kip finished.

”He actually said ‘magic gaydar’” Kyle added, “but he also said you call me his ‘child bride,’ so I was hoping he was being facetious.”

Ilya waved them off with a scoff. 

Shane blinked, “What are you talking about?”

Kip gawked, “You don’t know? It’s like the first thing everyone says about Ilya. He’s got like a sixth sense about who wants to hook up. I’ve never gotten to see it in action.” 

“It’s not weird, people are just obvious. I pay attention. Barrett said I was perceptive.”

Shane turned to look at him carefully, evaluating, then laughed. “God, I’m so bad at that, I didn’t even notice you were good. I never even asked how you knew I was gay.”

Ilya shook his head, smiling, “I told you! You stared. When we met you shook my hand twice. And had most of the conversation looking at my mouth.” 

Shane scowled, “I did not.”

”Oh, ok,” Ilya said, “My mistake, you were not having a whole conversation with your mouth watering looking at my dick the night of the draft—“ 

Kip nudged him with his foot again, cutting him off. 

“Ok, enough ancient history, give it a shot. Who here do you think has…? Who here would…?”

“You want me to do a party trick, like trained monkey?”

”Yeah that’s what I want, Rozanov, it’s either this or you gotta do a little dance for me.”

Ilya sighed, put his glass down, and then did an unbelievably thorough roast. He called out Kyle’s former crush on Kip (mercifully mostly gone now that he was so in love with Eric,) said Maria wanted him which would have been deeply egotistical if she didn’t blush deeply and hide her face basically conforming it, correctly cited many hookups in the room (Kip had, regrettably, slept with both Jacob and Jose, years ago) and finished it off by saying that Scott would have wanted Shane if he had any clue he was gay. 

Kip gasped, mock scandalized, exaggerated. Scott had said as much, drunk off his ass on a beach in Cancun last summer. Nothing that happened before them mattered, they were so together now, but he loved to tease and loved the drama.

Kip took a minute to appreciate how secure he felt, how in love. How crazy it was to sit here with friends and exes and crushes and have it all not matter, all melt away because it wasn’t anything like what he had with Scott. Silly stories, jokes. 

“Fuck off, Ilya,” Shane said, rolling his eyes, “he would not.”

”Oh, he would.” Scott said, laughing, “Arguably, he did. Do you remember when I asked you if you wanted to have a drink after the game, oh in like… 2014? Alone? You spent all night talking to me about my PIMs so I figured you weren’t into it.”

Shane stared at him like he had grown another head. Kip was hiding his face in his hands. Ilya looked torn between being smug that he was right and annoyed at Scott hitting on Shane. He slid his hand over his husband’s shoulder.

“How did you know I was gay? Did everyone know? Do I have some sort of ‘kick me, I’m gay’ sign tacked to my back?” Shane was asking, outraged. 

“I mean, your ass is nice,” Kyle said, “Not as nice as Ilya’s, but—“

”You’re pushing it,” Kip said to Kyle, who grinned back at him. 

“I didn’t know,” Scott said, “I just was, you know, maybe trying to find out.”

”I knew.” Ilya said. Shane blushed. 

“And I knew about you,” Kip said, tipping his drink towards Ilya. 

Ilya crossed his arms, huffed. 

“In some ways, I think that makes me the most powerful of all.” Kip said, laying back across Scott’s lap, drunk and happy and laughing, king of his tiny gay world, full of gin and hockey. 

—

Maybe that’s when I flew too close to the sun, got too cocky. I’m Icarus, Kip thought ruefully in a gross locker room in Montreal five months later. 

He and Scott were here for Shane and Ilya’s Irina Foundation Camp, and Kip was having a great time doing research in the archives of the MMFA. 

Or he was, until Scott called him down to the rink today under the pretense of having a surprise for him and the surprise turned out to be him, Shane, and Ilya trapping him in a locker room, still suited up and looking giant, grinning at him like wolves. 

“We will teach you to play hockey! Like one of our little campers.” Ilya said, taking a glove off to pinch Kip’s cheek in a big brotherly manner. Kip hit his hand. 

“It’ll be fun!” Scott was saying, chipper, “You said you wanted to learn some stuff, right? You literally couldn’t ask for better teachers.”

Shane smiled at him, small, and nudged him with his shoulder, “We have to be out of here in like two hours anyway, so it really can’t be so bad. After, we’re getting dinner.”

Kip looked around at all their giddy faces, and knew this was a battle he was losing. “Fuck! Fine. But I swear to god if you spend the whole time laughing at me…” 

He’d have no recourse, really. But he’d like to pretend. 

Scott kissed him on the cheek, handing him skates.

“Suit up, Grady.” Ilya said, and then he sat down on the bench like he intended to watch him. Kip wanted to throw things at him.

Shane rolled his eyes, “C’mon, Rozanov, let’s go,” and he hauled Ilya up by his shoulder pads. 

”Oh, I see, too good to get naked with the rest of us.”

”Damn straight!” Scott called after them as they laughed. 

Ilya’s joke came echoing down the hall, “See you all in the showers later!”

—

“I look so stupid,” Kip whined to Scott as he helped him down the hall and onto the ice. 

“You look so cute,” Scott was smiling, straightening Kip’s helmet, looking at him like he was precious. 

“Can you skate?” Shane called as Scott was helping him onto the ice. 

“Yes, sorta, some. I learned when I was a kid. I wasn’t exactly good.” Kip said. It was true. He busted his ass skating with his best friend Amy in Times Square the first time he tried. The hot chocolate after was his favorite part of the whole day by far. 

“You’re doing alright!” Scott said, impressed that Kip could stay upright and navigate some. 

Ilya handed him a stick, “You look like little baby deer.” 

“Thank you so much Ilya, can’t tell you what that means to me.”

Scott attached his phone to some sort of rink aux and played music, reaching out to Kip. “We’ll get warmed up and then we’ll play two on two!” 

“An extremely even match.” Kip replied, dryly, wondering if he could even make a loop successfully. 

“You remember how to stop?” Shane called as he and Ilya skated around aimlessly in the center of the rink. 

“Run into the wall?” Kip called back. 

Ilya shrugged, said something to Shane. They were too far away to hear now, or maybe Kip just needed his whole brain to stay upright. Hollander took off, faster than Kip could ever conceive of being—on land or ice—then he turned on a dime and charged his husband, looking like he was going to plow into him. He stopped only at the last possible second, a hockey stop, and showered Ilya in snow. Scott laughed. 

“Ok, ok,” Kip could hear Rozanov saying. He skated backwards, away from Shane, and the stopped with his arms out and his skates in a cross, lifting his arms up. It was a tricky little move that, even to Kip’s eyes, looked more appropriate for a figure skater than a hockey player. 

“Why do you even know how to do that?” Scott called to him as they passed where he was in the center of the rink. 

Ilya shrugged, “To pick up girls.” 

Kip snorted. 

“What, you don’t believe me? Girls love that. Very easy. Angel stop, panties drop.  Now, for boys, you have to skate for 17 years, be the best, get picked first in the draft, score 70 goals your rookie season, win Stanley cup, win MVP, and then maybe, maybe they will let you come to their house. If you are lucky.” 

Shane grinned at him, looking fondly annoyed. 

Scott started skating backwards in front of Kip. “Let’s pick up the pace, c’mon.”

Kip was proud of his ability to stay upright, but any pride fell apart the moment the stick was involved. He could barely move stick and stay standing, much less do anything with the puck, but the giants around him wanted to play a pick up game anyway. 

“Teams?” Shane asked, and Kip’s mouth fell open as he realized Scott was thinking about it. His husband was going to abandon him—

“You’re just going to— oh my god this is like gym class all over again, can I get some sort of note to sit out, this is horrible—“ Kip complained and Scott leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. 

“Roz, with me, Hollander with Kip.” Scott called. Kip would never forgive him for this.

The other two nodded in a way that made it seem like this was the obvious choice in a way that was totally alien to Kip. 

“Hi,” Shane said, skating up. He really did look right on the ice, everything about Shane Hollander just made sense here. He was kind of like an artist, if his canvas was his own body, skates, and wrecked shin guards. He rubbed his hands together. 

“Ok,” Shane said, seriously, “Kip. We are playing to win.”

Kip shook his head, “Like hell we are!”

”No, no. Ok, lock in with me here. I’m not as good at the people stuff part of captaining as Ilya, but here’s the thing: I am better at hockey. We can beat them. Don’t you want to see them beaten?”

Kip cocked his head. He did, sort of. Both Scott and Ilya were too tall, too broad, too good at this. Someone really should take them down. It just, you know, wasn’t going to be Kip.

He’d really never heard Shane say anything cocky, so this must be how he really felt, weird as it was.

”Their defenses are weak, look at them,” Shane pointed, and across the rink Scott and Ilya were scowling at each other, clearly already fighting, “They have no chemistry.” 

Kip nodded, tentatively. 

He liked seeing Shane like this, biting a mouth guard, pleased. He thought he understood Ilya a little more. 

Ilya understood people, it was all obvious to him.  Easy to see all the tricks, all the little catty cast off comments, all the little digs they made to protect their egos. But Shane wasn’t like that, he wasn’t obvious. He was tricky to learn, hard to get to know. He was strikingly transparent with questions and deeply mysterious with actions. 

Kip could only tell that now, because this was clearly the first time he had ever seen Shane Hollander truly lit up, ecstatic to be playing with his husband and his friends. 

Kip really liked being friends with Shane, he decided. 

“When we go, Ilya will slam me against the boards, Scott will try to take the puck. All you have to do, and I mean all, is keep the puck out of the goal long enough for me to get back in. And you know Hunter, he’s soft on you, I don’t care how you do it. Wink, anything.”

Kip laughed at him, for being so serious, but Shane just doubled down, boyish smile spreading over his face. 

“Grady, we can do this,” He reached his gloved hand out, and Kip, despite himself, dapped him up.  

—

In the end, Ilya and Scott had won their little pick up game 6-4. But Shane and Kip had put up a surprisingly good fight, with Shane’s surprisingly deep knowledge of how Ilya and Scott would play. Shane was brilliant. Kip had managed to pass to him once, and even got a goal, if you counted it even though he got it sliding across the ice on his knees and batting the puck in with his glove, while Ilya was trying to get Shane to kiss him instead of playing. Scott assured him that they would have counted it either way. 

Kip felt pleased, cheeks pink with the cold, and maybe for the first time in his life found himself really understanding that playing sports was fun. He knew they had been taking it easy on him and he didn’t care. 

Shane and Ilya had graciously showered in the women’s locker room to maintain Kip’s dignity, but not before Ilya called out to them to ‘not do anything he wouldn’t do.’  

And, yeah, maybe Kip did understand Ilya and Shane’s origins just a little better watching Scott scrub himself down in the shower, looking like he was carved out of marble and smiling at Kip like he knew exactly what he was thinking. 

Scores be damned, Kip really felt like he had won that day. 

Ilya: You have been in there a long time and we are hungry 

Ilya: Shower sex is bad for old men, he could fall, break a hip.

Ilya: Losers pay for dinner, btw 

Kip: Fuck off, Ilya

Ilya: <3

Chapter End Notes

A/N: I feel a little sad finishing this one! Good bye my friend Kip, your pov was so fun to me! Also Shane Hollander I will defend you with my life.