Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

MLH Awards, Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Missing Scene, Homophobia, POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Coming Out, Scott Hunter Needs a Hug (Game Changers), Minor Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)-centric

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of scott hunter fics

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-05 Words: 1,921 Chapters: 1/1

the creature

Summary

Pretty much the first thing Scott figured out about hockey is how much men who don’t play it love the high of it. Execs love to push the guys to skate harder, faster, get the adrenaline so high they can feel it from the box. Or, well, that was the first thing he figured out about hockey after he ended up in a billet in Albany after his parents died. His parents had taught him a hell of a lot before the car crash, but sometimes the thing he played as a kid feels like a different sport altogether.

OR: Scott Hunter at the MLH awards

Notes

i have NOT read Game Changers so i have no idea if this is book-compliant, but the idea of ilya cracking his usual "old man" jokes in the context of intense homophobia was just so compelling to me. also i watched a 2025 stanley cup highlight reel and was immediately taken by all these men in suits slapping the players on the shoulders like they were the ones playing the game and it gave me brainworms. as per usual feel free to hit me up over on tunglr @agoodsoldier

specific homophobia warning:

there are implications from an exec that because scott is gay he may act inappropriately toward children. this is never explicitly stated but the theme throughout the work is scott's body even as a kid and in general the approach towards athletes' bodies.

Pretty much the first thing Scott figured out about hockey is how much men who don’t play it love the high of it. Execs love to push the guys to skate harder, faster, get the adrenaline so high they can feel it from the box. Or, well, that was the first thing he figured out about hockey after he ended up in a billet in Albany after his parents died. His parents had taught him a hell of a lot before the car crash, but sometimes the thing he played as a kid feels like a different sport altogether.

At the MLH awards, everyone claps like he’s a guest on Oprah. He’s a specimen. Someone cheers when he mentions, obliquely, the kiss. 

This is the thing he’s never told anyone, not even Kip. The thing he’s never told anyone is that he knew exactly what would happen if he came out. He knew every man in the locker room, every man in the conference room, would take it as an invitation.

Scott shifts on his feet under the spotlight nervously. He’s done a lot of public speaking, but never as himself. “I’ve never really shared anything about my private life. But from what I’ve seen over the past few weeks, it’s maybe important that I do a bit.” Someone clears their throat awkwardly.

In a brutal, sudden flash, Scott realizes that none of it means anything. The Cup, the MLH, the champagne, the puck. The only thing that matters is the people it matters for, which is a stupid thing to think, and kind of corny, but true. So Scott wraps it up, says I love you to Kip on live television, and goes to get a goddamn drink.

Backstage, the Admirals manager Peters slaps Scott on the shoulder the same way he’s slapped him every time they’ve come in from a Cup game, as if Peters was the one plowing through his own body for an hour and a half. “Good speech, kid,” Peters says.

In 2005, Peters told Scott that he appreciated he didn’t skate like a fucking pansy. After 12 years, Scott remembers.

“Thanks,” Scott says. “Excuse me.”

Technically, he’s supposed to go back to his reserved seat in the audience to watch the rest of the show, but he can’t make himself do that. He ends up at the bar in the lobby, which is entirely empty since the whole audience is still inside the theater. “Just a lager,” he says. The bartender nods at him.

Before he can make conversation, though, the president of the St. Thomas Scholarship Board approaches him. “Mr. Lyons,” Scott says.

“Hunter.” Lyons pulls Scott over to stand at a small table. “Great speech out there. I respect what you’re doing for the sport.”

Scott blinks, pleasantly surprised. “Thanks, Mr. Lyons.” He’d always thought he was kind of an old-fashioned guy. He never said anything, not like the hockey guys, but he had that vibe. Goes to show you can never judge a book by its cover.

Lyons smiles briefly. He says, “Now look, Scott. St. Thomas has been happy to have you as one of our ambassadors. We’re so proud of all the work you’ve done.”

Before Scott can reply, Lyons continues, “You’ll always have a home at St. Thomas. But I wanted to let you know that some of the board are concerned about your advocacy.”

Scott swallows. “I see.”

“St. Thomas is a hockey scholarship for children, Scott. Minors. I’m sure you can see why pushing a gay agenda in the MLH might cause a conflict of interest.”

Jesus. Jesus. The whole room feels like a labyrinth. Scott doesn’t know how to get out. He’s never known how to get out. Every muscle hurts from being held at the ready. This, exactly this, was what he feared. He was gay when he was twelve, full of the same terror even if he didn’t know it then. Did you know that, John Lyons? Did you know you gave the St. Thomas scholarship to a gay kid?

Scott’s never quit fighting, but he doesn’t know if he can say it. He just doesn’t know how.

“You could fight us on this,” Lyons says softly. Whatever kindness Scott thought he saw in him is gone, narrowed down to a thin sliver of hatred. “I would understand. But is that what you want for St. Thomas? To be dragged into a gay scandal, to spend millions on litigation? Let’s keep it focused on the kids.”

Scott exhales. A few people, maybe 5 or 6, wander into the lobby, and Scott knows the rest of the audience will be coming in soon. There’s nothing for him here. “All right,” he says, conceding. He hates himself for it, letting this asshole beat him, letting himself be pushed into the corner, but it’s how it is. It’s just how it is. “All right.”

Scott leaves him there and goes to get another drink.

An hour later, Scott is pretty sick of people talking at him. He escapes to a secluded hallway on the way to the bathroom, leaning against the wall. Execs touch him the same as they always have, palm on shoulder, but it feels— different. They’re more curious, maybe. Want to know if Scott’s bones are the same as they were before. Scott is kind of tired of anyone looking at him at all.

Everyone here is annoying, glad you don’t have to deal with them, he texts Kip. And then, a second later, Still wish you were here.

Kip texts him back immediately, even though it’s past midnight back in New York. Love you. WIsh I was there with you too.

Scott looks at the message for so long that the screen goes black. He thumbs over the phone case, feeling the give of it under his hand. Every day he wonders how he got so lucky, and figures he has a lot left to fight for. What is the St. Thomas scholarship board when he has a whole life ahead of him, for the first time since he was a kid?

And then Rozanov, of all people, sets up shop across from him, leaning against the other wall.

Scott looks up. Rozanov looks him up and down, appraising, and in that moment, Scott hates him. Hates him for looking at him, looking at his body, hates him for seeing a truth that he never got to know before, hates him for disturbing his privacy, hates him for his safety.

“I was looking for you,” Rozanov says. “They miss you in there.”

Of course they do. Scott is the goddamn MVP. He just has to remember this is a good thing. The MLH gave an openly gay hockey player—the first, the only openly gay hockey player—the biggest award an individual player can win during their career. Everyone wants a piece.

“Well. You found me,” Scott says, when Rozanov doesn’t say anything else.

Scott looks back at Rozanov. Rozanov looks good, obviously. He’s wearing some kind of insane tuxedo that makes him look like James Bond.

“Your boyfriend is cute,” Rozanov says, and the anger in Scott rises again. How dare he, how the fuck dare he even think about mentioning Kip— “Too young for you, of course.”

And that— that hits. There’s nothing left in his chest, all the air punctured out, because this is the reason he got kicked off the St. Thomas board even if no one will say it. No one wants to put kids in a room with a gay man, as if it wasn’t straight men who looked at Scott all through his adolescence, as if it wasn’t straight men who slapped his stomach and his ass in the locker room, as if it wasn’t straight men who made jokes about opponents sucking dick and taking it up the ass. As if it wasn’t straight men who loved to see Scott Hunter panting and sweating and gasping on the ice.

“All right,” Scott says, the way he said it to Lyons. “You’ve had your fun.” He’s not sure where else he can go in this hotel lobby that’s as private as this hallway, but he could just leave. 45 minutes of socializing and 15 minutes spent in a random hallway are enough, right? He’s spent enough time here.

“Wait,” Rozanov rushes to say, “wait, is not— is only joke.”

“Yeah, I get it. It’s just a joke.”

“No, I—” Scott can barely look at him, but the sound of Rozanov’s voice, Jesus, he really means it. “It is only a hockey joke. I did not mean anything about your relationship.”

“Okay.” Scott sighs. “What do you want, Rozanov?”

Rozanov doesn’t say anything. The silence is cutting. Scott looks up, and sees Rozanov, really looks at him. 

There is a terror in him that Scott thinks he just might recognize.

“What you did,” Rozanov says quietly. “It was very brave.”

Lots of guys have said that to him. Vaughn was the first, right off the ice, but a few other guys went up to him, either after the game or here, tonight. But Rozanov is the first one who says it like it means something different.

Scott swallows. He says, very seriously, “Thank you.”

That would be enough for Scott. He already knows what this is, but Rozanov, it turns out, is a generous guy. Rozanov says to him, “You changed things.” He looks over both shoulders in a way Scott is intimately familiar with. Oh Christ it hurts to look at him. Even softer, leaning forward, Rozanov continues, “For me. It changed things for me. I am grateful.”

Scott knew him when he was a rookie. Scott can acknowledge he’s at the end of his career, but Rozanov has, fuck, at least ten years left in him, minimum. After two months with Kip, staring down the barrel of three years felt like hell.

Ten years. Another decade of silence. And here Rozanov is, telling him it meant something to him, even in the face of that. “That means a lot,” Scott says shakily, and then he finds he can’t say anything at all, choked up as he is.

Rozanov says, “You understand why some others cannot be as brave as you, yes?”

“Yes. Of course.” For any number of reasons. Russia’s gay propaganda law, sure, but also the ten years stretching ahead of Rozanov on the ice. Also the Raiders locker room. Also the MLH visa that lets Rozanov stay in the US.

Rozanov nods at that, and that seems to be it. There’s a weightlessness inside of Scott. He’s not the only one. He never was the only one.

“If Raiders say anything to you, you will tell me.”

Scott laughs. “I don’t need anyone fighting my battles for me.”

“You are an old man,” Rozanov says. “You need all the help you can get.”

“Is that what happened when we knocked you out of the playoffs?” Scott says, goodnaturedly enough. “You helping me?”

Rozanov scoffs, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Good night, Hunter,” he says, and leaves Scott there.

Scott can see the shape of it now, the creature of the MLH, the monster he thought he knew all the way through—but all he knew were its feet, only its skin, nothing about the muscle and scale of it. Now there’s a new fight, new players. Lyons, he thinks, you have no fucking idea what you’re in for.