Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Past Hurt/Present Comfort, (is that a thing?), Talking About Feelings, death of parents, Discussions of Death, Grief/Mourning, Scott and Ilya talk about their dead parents, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Post-Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Pre-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Community - Freeform, Fuck AI

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-10 Words: 2,561 Chapters: 1/1

Join the Club

Summary

He meant to have this conversation months ago, if he’s honest.

Truly, he’d planned on reaching out. Had tweaked his usual Instagram message, the one that both offers condolences and community. Scott didn’t figure that Rozanov would respond particularly well to that level of sincerity, especially given the lack of details around his family life – even after his father’s death had been announced by the media. Instead, he’d decided to throw in a light chirp and remove some of the apologies as a middle ground solution.
________________

Or, Scott planned to reach out to Rozanov over the summer about his father. But now -- at the Opening Banquet for the 2017-2018 NHL Season -- is as good of a time as any.

Notes

Hi, all! Thanks for clicking on my fic, I hope you enjoy it! A few notes up top:

This is kind of a mesh of the book and the show, meaning that Scott's parents both did die in a wreck and he has no fucking clue about Shane and Ilya. Frankly, he's still not convinced that Ilya's even bi despite what happened at Scott Hunter Night.

This is set at an event that almost certainly doesn't exist, but I felt like more time passing was unrealistic, so I invented one.

Please note that while Shane/Ilya is definitely here, this is from Scott's POV and -- as noted -- he doesn't know shit.

He meant to have this conversation months ago, if he’s honest.

Truly, he’d planned on reaching out. Had tweaked his usual Instagram message, the one that both offers condolences and community. Scott didn’t figure that Rozanov would respond particularly well to that level of sincerity, especially given the lack of details around his family life – even after his father’s death had been announced by the media. Instead, he’d decided to throw in a light chirp and remove some of the apologies as a middle ground solution.

The plan was to send the message over Instagram after the finals, maybe briefly connect about it at the award ceremony or an afterparty. Casual enough that Rozanov could get away, but formal enough that the space would be there if he wanted it.

And then Scott looked out to the crowd and saw Kip, and every rational thought went out the window. As did most of his free time for the summer.

Suddenly, every magazine and newspaper and “LGBT-friendly” brand needed to get ahold of him immediately. So his text to Rozanov fell to the wayside, as did the conversation he’d hoped they could have. Instead, he was gifted a small puzzle in the form of Rozanov’s incredible comfortable dancing with men during Scott Hunter Night before promptly forgetting anything he’d ever learned about the Russian, replacing them with talking points and quotable lines about a community he was wholly unfamiliar with.

But after the requests died down, and the interviews were published, and the photos were taken, Scott’s mind drifted back to the message he never sent.

At that point, it seemed odd to send the message. His father died sometime in February, and he’s only now getting his bearings in August. It seemed almost cruel to bring the memory back over text, especially when he imagined Rozanov had been dealing with the fallout for the entire summer.

Which is why Scott finds himself fidgeting with his cufflinks on the roof of the swanky hotel the NHL booked for the 2017-2018 opening banquet.

His feet drag on the rooftop as he makes his way over, determined to not startle Rozanov as he approaches.

“Surprised to see you at one of these,” Scott calls out gently, lifting his beer in a salute when Rozanov turns.

“Да, first time for everything. Is past your bedtime, no?”

Scott bites back a retort, allowing the buzz of his beer to carry away any sting. “First time for everything, Rozanov.”

Rozanov gives a smirk back, wholly different from the ones Scott is used to on the ice. He seems… settled. Happy, in a way he’s never known him to be. The Rozanov of Scott’s nightmares is a menace to everyone on earth. Here, standing in front of him, he’s… a guy.

A pause lands between them as Scott wrestles down the urge to compare the image of the man in front of him with the terror he’ll be facing in October. Rozanov’s eyebrow raises, and Scott realizes he’s taken too long to get to the point.

For a moment, he considers backing out. He looks happy. Peaceful. It would be a crime to disturb that peace. He should’ve sent the Instagram message. At least that way, he wouldn’t feel the boulder sitting quite so firmly on his chest.

But he’s here now, and he has no reputation for doing things the easy way – at least not anymore. “I planned on saying something in June, but we didn’t really get a chance to talk.”

Rozanov’s shoulders bunch slightly, and the look on his face shifts from unguarded to uncomfortable in the blink of an eye. Fuck, Scott thinks. I’m already fucking this up.

“You had something to say in June?” Rozanov says, sending Scott reeling for a moment. All of a sudden, they seem to be having very different conversations, and he has no idea what topic Rozanov has decided they’re speaking about.

Before he manages to lose more ground, Scott clarifies. “I just… I heard about your father.”

Rozanov blinks owlishly at him for a moment before his shoulders relax, the unguarded look returning with a touch of amusement. “Yes, you, TMZ, probably Michelle Obama. Is not secret, Hunter.”

Scott files away the speed at which Rozanov can transform in the blink of an eye; now isn’t the time to unpack that, and he’ll certainly need help from Kip to properly do so. Instead, he takes a deep breath, knowing that what he’s about to say would earn him a broken jaw from less forgiving players.

“No one’s heard about your mother.”

Ilya’s steely glare turns to him, and it takes all of his years of hockey to not turn tail and run back inside. “What do you know about my mother?”

Scott puts his hands up, hoping that it’s not just an American gesture of meaning no harm. Or that Rozanov’s been in Boston for long enough to figure it out. “Nothing. You’ve never spoken about her, and no one’s ever written anything.”

Rozanov nods, but his eyes – anger and desperation and grief thinly veiled behind a cold, calculating gaze – remain on his. “Да.”

Scott takes another step forward, hands gripping the railing as he comes to stand level with Rozanov, sighing in relief when he doesn’t step away. “I know I talk about mine all the time,” he says slowly. “It’s not a secret. It never was a secret, I guess. Everyone at the school I went to knew that I was there on some sort of orphan scholarship.”

An unfeeling chuckle forces its way out of Rozanov’s mouth, and Scott takes that as his cue to continue. “So I give speeches at galas and raise money for charities using the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. But I have other friends. Who have lost their parents, at different ages. And they make a different choice.”

“We are not friends,” Rozanov says quickly, firmly. He doesn’t speak to the choices he’s made. Doesn’t speak to the choices he’s had to make.

“Of course not,” Scott says placatingly.

A beat of silence stretches to two, doubling and doubling again until the thin tether of whatever peace Scott has managed to broker comes close to snapping. Rozanov turns away from Scott, pointedly focused on the skyline of Las Vegas. Scott chooses to avert his eyes; it’s not much in the way of privacy, but it’s the best he can do for now.

“Hollander and I… we are starting charity. The Irina Foundation, announcing next year. Running hockey camps, donating money,” Rozanov says, voice thick.

“That sounds…” Scott starts before trailing off. What he started to say was as close to media-trained as a conversation can get; Good, he hears himself finish, as though that means anything at all, as though Rozanov isn’t sharing the first thing Scott’s ever gotten from him. He pursued Rozanov onto the rooftop; the least he can do is be honest.

“I bet that’ll help a lot of kids,” he tries again. “And a lot of charities. The rivalry will help with that, too.” Rozanov tenses, though Scott isn’t entirely sure why. He continues anyway. “Do you know what charities you’re looking at?”

For the first time since Scott began this poorly planned conversation, Rozanov turns his head to look Scott dead-on. “Suicide prevention.”

Well.

Say what you want about Scott’s gaydar; his “Dead Parents”-dar is exceptional.

“It’s a heavy subject,” Scott says, far more comfortable navigating this kind of coded language – especially with hockey players. He’s used to a guy or two reminiscing on his couch; hell, he’s been that guy with other players. But it took time to get there, dancing around their grief as though they’re being filmed. As though it isn’t always within reach.

Rozanov nods absently before fully tipping his head back. If he weren’t so familiar with the move, he could almost pretend the stars were just that beautiful.

The pause that sits between them is lighter than before, but he doesn’t want to pull away yet. This pocket of space is always the hardest to exist in, and Rozanov needs to know that he’s here. That there’s more than just loneliness at the bottom of his grief.

“I have been thinking about saying something. When we announce,” Rozanov shares to the night sky, and Scott nods along before he catches his tone of voice. It’s not prideful or loving or anything resembling the certainty he’s known for; it’s cautious. Probing. Wanting.

Scott Hunter has spent his entire adult life talking about his parents’ death. The tragedy he experienced, the community he gained, the sport he dominated. He knows what to say, knows the script by heart.

But it took him a long time to get comfortable with something so personal. And it certainly helped that everyone already knew. If he follows through, the first real thing Rozanov ever shares with the media about himself will be his mother’s suicide. Hell of a way to jump in, Roz, Scott can’t help but think.

“Have you mentioned it to Hollander?” Scott asks, watching as Rozanov’s brow furrows in response.

“Is a mental health charity named for my mother, yes? I think he knows.”

Scott rolls his eyes, more at himself than Rozanov, before clarifying. “No, does he know you’re thinking about saying something? He might be able to help you make a decision.”

This time, Rozanov just shrugs, keeping his eyes trained on the lights before them. “Hollander is… boring, yes? Boring Canadian with boring cars and boring chirps. Boring mother and boring father.”

While most of what he says feels like a typical on-ice insult, those last few words are utterly devoid of emotion. They’re said without mocking, without any of the usual chirp energy he’s seen Rozanov deal like a well-worn deck of cards. If anything, Scott wonders if he hears a hint of jealousy before that’s replaced by the silence of the rooftop.

Hollander’s a good guy, Scott knows. Quiet, keeps to himself. Apparently, he’s pretty selfless, too, if he can get past his differences with Rozanov to start something that clearly means so much to the kid. Pragmatic, if they’re spending a year developing the plan for it.

But no matter how good and selfless and pragmatic someone can be, it doesn’t stand in for the kind of experience Scott has. For the kind of experience they both have.

“It’s a tough decision,” Scott finally lands on. “I wouldn’t make it lightly. On the one hand, it’s always nice talking about my parents. They’re with me always, but talking about my mom lacing up my skates or my dad running drills with me during the summer… It makes me feel like they’re still next to me.” Rozanov nods, pushing Scott to keep going. “On the other hand…”

It’s a nightmare, Scott thinks but doesn’t say. All of his memories of his parents are kept in glass containers, clearly labeled, defined. He doesn’t have much space to store the time Scott helped his mom make her famous potato soup. Or the day his dad took off of work to go to the aquarium with him. Or the time he broke his arm climbing on the roof, and his parents took away the damn TV that gave him the idea to begin with.

Those memories only live with Scott, or sometimes the few hockey players he knows he can call when he needs a break. Eventually with Kip, when he’s ready. But everyone who comes up to him to tell him how proud they would be – they have no idea about all of the little moments that made up the earliest part of his life. They can’t, not really. He doesn’t know where those pieces fit between talking about drunk driving or hockey scholarships.

“... it’s hard to keep them separate once you start,” he settles on. “They’re always with you, but they become more public, too. People feel like they know them, when all they know is that something happened to you.”

Rozanov pulls in a deep breath, eyes still on the skyline, and Scott takes that as a sign to leave. He’s had a much deeper conversation than he thought he’d get away with, and he steps away from the guardrail feeling lighter. Stronger. Like the Captain he knows himself to be.

A few feet out, he pauses. It’s not a necessary addition. But it still feels right, to let Rozanov know that he’s not totally alone out here. That, even without Scott, there’s a community that will grieve with him and laugh with him and understand how those go hand in hand without asking impossible questions.

“There’s not really a group chat for hockey players who have lost both of their parents, especially so young,” Scott says haltingly. He watches Rozanov’s shoulders rise and fall as if he’s not even there, but he knows better. He knows he has Roz’s full attention.

“For some of us, it’s an identity. For others, it’s a past life. However you deal with it, it’s a shitty fucking club with shitty fucking membership requirements.”

He watches from behind Rozanov’s head as his hand moves up to his face, stopping around where his nose would be. Touching his nose is the only tic he’s ever seen from the kid, so he figures his patience is running short.

“Ilya?” Scott says quietly into the night. He watches the light of the moon catch on a droplet of water, sliding down Rozanov’s thumb onto the concrete next to him. “I’m really sorry you had to join the club.”

After a moment, Rozanov nods, and Scott finally allows himself to fully leave. He makes sure his footsteps are loud enough to show that he’s truly gone, to allow Rozanov a chance to pull himself back together.

Maybe this wasn’t the right time to welcome the newest inductee, but as he makes his way back down to the ballroom – nodding at Hollander as the two trade places – to find Kip, Scott finds that he’s not as worried about the timing as he used to be. He’s always been the poster child of NHL orphans, so collecting another hardly seems novel at this point. Adding Rozanov into any group – official or otherwise – felt daunting, but now that he has… it’s nice. Normal, even.

Given that this is probably their only area of overlap, he’s not expecting much. But, for what it was, it could’ve been a lot worse.

He grins to himself despite his best efforts. He was so worried about how this would go, but he shouldn’t have been; it’s not like any of the NHL orphans are strangers to untimely events or conversations. He just hopes that, however painful the events that draw them together can be, Rozanov can find some peace in being less alone. Can enjoy the freedom of their fucked up companionship.

Scott slips his hand into Kip’s and squeezes, his worries washing away. He’s done enough work on one club for the evening – and enough daydreaming about another to last a lifetime. Now, he’s content to take whatever drink Kip hands him – raising the glass and his eyes to the ceiling in a brief toast to potato soup and aquariums and broken arms – and enjoy the opening banquet firmly planted next to the love of his life.