Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

Post-Episode: s01e05 I'll Believe in Anything (Heated Rivalry), 2017 MLH Awards (Game Changers), The Kingfisher (Game Changers), Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady loves Scott Hunter, Homophobia, Coming Out, Loss of Parent(s), Protective Kip Grady, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-20 Updated: 2026-03-05 Words: 10,105 Chapters: 3/5

rough new prizes

Summary

You are not supposed to smoke when you have badly bruised ribs. You are not supposed to strain yourself by doing too much. You are not supposed to go right back to the exact same thing that hurt you and keep doing it until you can't take the pain any more or something snaps. These things are contraindicated.

The team doctor explained all this to Ilya wearily, with a look that said he already knew Ilya would do all these things. Oh, and one more thing— you are not supposed to lie down for a long time and not move, by the way, so don't do that either.

Unfortunately, these are the four main things that Ilya was planning on doing for probably the rest of his life after breaking up with Shane, so... that's just great. Good to know.

(or: "After the MLH awards, in June..." Ilya needs to talk to Scott Hunter. He goes to the Kingfisher.)

Notes

canon note: In this world the 2017 MLH awards take place in New York, not Vegas, for reasons. This is mainly tv show canon-based so there's no "Scott Hunter Night" as such.

Chapter 1

Some men are hotter off the ice, dressed up and looking sharp. Not Scott Hunter. He is always at his most beautiful driving forward into the attacking zone, hair a pelt of dark sweaty spikes, never afraid to see Ilya coming at him. Other guys flinch or brace. Their bodies do it for them, they can't help it. Hunter's nostrils flare and he locks his jaw around his mouthguard like a muzzled wolf and his savage, starving eyes go wild and lovely as he takes the hit, as the Americans would say, like a champ.

He is Most Valuable Player tonight. Shame about the fuck-ugly suit he wears to the MLH awards. Ilya cannot believe how awful it is, dull and dry. It wrings the color from his eyes and makes him look like one of the retired players who work in the front office, strangled by their boring ties, dying by inches.

He wonders how much thought Hunter put into his outfit tonight. Did he hesitate, think twice? Worry about coming across as some kind of trendy fashion-forward fag? Or is he clinging to hope that this stolid blue insurance-salesman drag will make people think: ah yes, nothing different at all. Really, the same boring old Scott Hunter as before.

But Ilya is being unfair. It doesn't matter what Scott Hunter wears, does it? Everyone who looks at him knows already. The whole world knows. He has crossed the Rubicon. It's been twenty-seven days and nights since Hunter drew his lover onto the ice and kissed him, victorious, triumphant. Eighteen thousand fans howled and cheered as Hunter ate him alive and drank his breath in front of the Stanley Cup, NBC, Commissioner Crowell and God.

And Ilya watched on the television and thought: what world is this? This is a new world.

You are not supposed to smoke when you have badly bruised ribs. You are not supposed to strain yourself by doing too much. You are not supposed to go right back to the exact same thing that hurt you and keep doing it until you can't take the pain any more or something snaps. These things are contraindicated.

The team doctor explained all this to Ilya wearily, with a look that said he already knew Ilya would do all these things. Oh, and one more thing— you are not supposed to lie down for a long time and not move, by the way, so don't do that either.

Unfortunately, these are the four main things that Ilya was planning on doing for probably the rest of his life after breaking up with Shane, so... that's just great. Good to know.

In the old world, twenty-eight days ago, Ilya had been slowly steeling himself. There was no future. They had been so stupid, so irresponsible. Ilya had fallen in love with Shane, which was awful. Even worse, he had the horrible, creeping suspicion that he had allowed Shane to fall a bit in love with him too. He should never have let it happen. Even if Shane wasn't quite there yet, in his funny little head— even if all he wanted was more of what they already had, their new understanding after Tampa— the problem was that if they just kept going the way they were going, he would have to get there eventually. It would almost be a funny thing to tease him about, Ilya thought sometimes. You got there, sweetheart, lover, my Shane. Eventually you did. Just a little slower than me, but that is nothing new, you have always been a little slower—

Fuck you, Shane would say, tender and fierce, I got there, didn't I? and his hand would tighten in Ilya's hair—

Twenty-eight days ago that had been just a daydream Ilya liked to torture himself with. It wasn't the plan. The plan was: after the last game of the Cup final, Ilya would go back to Russia. He would let the distance do most of the work. Blame time zones, jet lag, obligations. He would probably have to mute Jane's texts, only allow himself to check the thread at designated times so that he would remember not to respond immediately. They had already been texting less because of Shane's concussion, and calling even less than that because Shane was so paranoid about phone calls at his parents' summer house. So Shane might not realize immediately that Ilya was doing a slow fade, but he would get it eventually. Ilya wished Svetlana could come with him. She would help, if he explained it to her. She could take away his phone, keep him honest.

And then. Would Shane try to demand answers? Ilya was still working on how to say it. He would say it and then he would block Shane's number if he had to. That would be the hardest part, the worst. After that— well, their lives already did so much to keep them separated. All Ilya had to do was stop fighting the current. Let it take him further and further away and all the way out and gone.

Ilya had gone back to the hotel after Shane was taken away by the medics— not right away of course. After. After they'd made them finish the fucking game, do the debrief, talk to the the fucking press. After all that. Connors had silently respected Ilya's black mood and let him go straight into the shower and hog the bathroom for half an hour, forty minutes, maybe longer. Ilya stood there and let the water beat down on his face and take away the hot, terrified tears that seemed to have no end, but even the noise of the shower couldn't block the familiar sound of Marly's fist on the hallway door: bang, bang, bang. Stupid asshole never just knocked. Ilya heard Connors' bed creak as he got up. He shook, trembled. Turned the water off and grabbed a towel and went out to hear the news.

Marly looked relieved. He knew a guy who worked with the Metros, a guy he'd played with in juniors. They weren't like friends or anything but— Ilya took the phone from his hand. Last text at the top of the screen was Marly and the guy a couple months back saying Merry Christmas, then ninety minutes ago Marly saying "any news?" and the guy replying ten minutes ago, "didn't hear this from me but he's ok, just a busted collarbone" and Marly saying "thanks man" and getting "yeah I know you're a soft bitch marleau" in response.

"This is news? I already knew you were a big soft bitch, Marly," Ilya had said, completely forgetting to fix his voice before he spoke. But Marly had just grabbed his phone back and cuffed him shakily upside the head and told him to put some fucking pants on, so probably it hadn't been too bad.

Under his John Varvatos jacket, under the thin silk of his shirt, Ilya's ribs are still a spongy mass of pain. He circulates at the MLH awards and he talks to people and he laughs, and the ache catches at him at unexpected moments. He reaches too quickly to shake someone's hand and it grinds in him like shards of glass. He stands very straight anyway, measuring each careful breath. He doesn't think anyone realizes how bad his ribs really are. He has a good poker face. Maybe he is being stupid. He is, definitely. No one would think anything if Ilya walked up and shook Scott Hunter's hand. If he said, quickly enough— yes, what you did changed things. Not just for fans. Others, too—

But if Ilya chokes. If someone interrupts them, if he misses his shot... no. This is too important for a drive-by. So he drifts through the party, in and out of the conversations and the shadows. There are eyes everywhere, or it feels like there are. Everyone watching to see who says what, who smiles and who is begrudging. Who shakes hands and who hugs and for how long. Maybe no one is watching and he is the paranoid one. He should have asked Svetlana to come tonight. She would have said, only if you buy me a new dress and some pretty shoes, and then dragged him someplace stupidly fancy and expensive, but she would have done it. And anyway, it's okay when Svetlana asks for things. They are friends, and Ilya owes her so much. He couldn't pay her back with a stack of Jimmy Choos that would reach to the moon.

But he didn't ask, so instead, he does what Sveta would do, if she were here. He smiles, and he keeps his ears open, and he listens. Late in the evening, Carter Vaughn comes by the bar where Ilya is lurking near Hunter. He says "Flying solo tonight after all?"

Hunter replies, calm and cool and low: "Yeah. All this seemed like a bit much, you know... Gonna hit the Kingfisher after, though."

Ilya stands very still for ninety seconds. Then he wanders off, pulling out his phone, and quickly googles. There is a bar in New York called the Kingfisher, and it has the little label that says LGBTQ+ friendly. Reviews are unclear on whether it's a gay bar that wants to be a hockey bar or the other way around, which sounds about right.

Ilya taps his phone against his thigh, thinking. Is he really doing this? He can feel his heart pounding, all the colors brighter. Adrenaline. He knows how to breathe through it, even when it hurts.

Scott Hunter has crossed the Rubicon. It didn't kill him. He didn't die. Now he is committed. Now the war begins. If he can do that, then Ilya can be a tenth that brave tonight, maybe. He can go to a fucking hockey bar and talk to Scott Hunter.

He orders another double vodka at the open bar first. His ribs are killing him.

New York is only about a third the size of Moscow. It's a nice city to walk in. The locals like to believe that they have some special quality that makes them too cool to bother famous people, and nobody minds if you walk fast. Everybody has somewhere they need to be.

The Kingfisher is actually not far from the ritzy hotel hosting the MLH Awards; half a mile, maybe. It's a hot, muggy night, low starless purple-twilight hovering over the rooftops. Ilya lights a cigarette as he walks, then carefully slips off his jacket, ignoring the twinge of strain from his ribs as he slings it over his shoulder. It's from Varvatos' spring collection, a slightly muted scarlet, soft textured goatskin that buttons all the way up to a high collar. One of the few colorful pieces in the show. Not quite Admirals red. People expect Ilya to wear this kind of thing. Nobody looked twice.

He checks his phone to make sure he's heading in the right direction. Looking at the map it strikes him as stranger still that the Kingfisher is also not too far from Madison Square Garden. Less than a mile as the crow flies. These places are on different planets, in different worlds.

Or maybe they used to be.

Ilya watched a bit of New York's Cup parade on YouTube. Lots of Admirals red and white in the crowd, of course, and so many, so many rainbows. Block after block of fans cheering for Hunter and the Admirals, perched high up on the fire trucks or walking along the parade route shaking hands and kissing babies. Half, maybe more than half the team in their stupidly badly-designed, ugly Pride jerseys. Hunter hoisting the cup to more cheers. Vaughn wearing a blanket-sized rainbow flag as a cape. And every crowd shot, every group of screaming fans had sometimes just one, but sometimes lots: the flag again, rainbow shirts, rainbow face-paint, rainbow everything.

Ilya has been walking for a while and more rainbows are starting to appear, stickers and signs and flyers. Of course, Ilya realizes. The Kingfisher is a gay bar in a gay neighborhood, like parts of the South End or Fenway-Kenmore in Boston. Of course. And it's June, which means Pride, so maybe there are more rainbows than usual, more events and happenings, more people spilling out from brightly-lit bars and clubs. Men walking together. Groups of friends, many obviously gay. The way they dress, the way they gesture and laugh. Couples hand in hand, arms around waists or thrown over shoulders, easy and comfortable. They don't care if anyone sees.

He starts to gets some second glances now, walking alone, jacket slung over his shoulder, his dark silk shirt starting to cling to his body in the heat. These are not "oh wow famous hockey superstar Ilya Rozanov" second glances, either. He nears a handful of men his age, sitting and chatting on the broad front steps of an apartment building, and as he passes one of the men whistles a compliment; another calls "Girl! Love your look!" and a third reaches for an unopened bottle of beer and holds it up, adding an inviting smile in hopes of tempting Ilya to join them.

Ilya locks his face into calm indifference and keeps walking.

He's starting to think this may have been a historically dumb impulse. There aren't two different worlds any more. Maybe there never were. He's already seen a couple of guys in Admirals t-shirts or sleeveless tanks, and then oh shit he gets jump-scared as a guy steps out to cross the street a block or two ahead, big and broad-shouldered in a crimson jersey, 21 on his back, C on his shoulder— but in the next second he can see it's not Hunter. Just a tall, dark, handsome man, wearing Hunter's jersey, his colors.

Twenty-eight days ago Ilya was planning to walk away from Shane, slowly. He had no illusions that it would hurt less if he did it slow. Not for either of them. That wasn't why. It would be better that way because Shane is not stupid, and he knows Ilya— oh, how well he knows— and at some point during the summer he would realize he was being broken up with. And Ilya would hopefully still be thousands of miles away in Russia, and he wouldn't have to see Shane's face when it hit.

The next time Ilya looked into Shane's eyes, Shane would already know. He would be angry. Hurt, of course. He would call Ilya a coward and an asshole and a liar, and all that would be fair. And true. But Ilya wouldn't have to live with the memory of what Shane's face looked like when he broke his heart. He sincerely didn't know if he would be strong enough to stab Shane in the heart like that and not take it back. No, he wouldn't be strong enough. No way in hell. He would apologize, he would say, I'm sorry, I was afraid, I didn't mean it, I take it back. He would go on his knees and beg Shane to forget what he said and drag them back down into the pit again.

So it couldn't be done that way. It would have to be Ilya's way, the coward's way.

Maybe someday Shane would look back and in retrospect agree that Ilya had done what needed to be done, and that it had been the kindest thing to do. This way they didn't have to remember a horrible breakup, fighting, yelling, saying things they didn't mean. They could remember the good times— that impossible night in Tampa, or their stolen morning before Ilya had known his father passed. Even the brief moment in the hospital when Shane had been so happy, his eyes wide and bright. He had whispered, had wanted. Impossible things. A good memory, if there could ever be one, for the last time they ever saw each other.

Of course Ilya would face off with #24 Hollander half a dozen times a year for the rest of his life, or at least until hockey was over, which was really more or less the same thing in his head. But he would never be alone in a room with Shane, his lover, ever again. That couldn't happen in their world.

Or so he'd thought.

And now? In this new world. Maybe those things Shane was brave enough to ask for were not so impossible.

Maybe.

There's sweat glittering at Ilya's temples. He almost misses the Kingfisher. He doesn't walk past, but he gets closer than he means to before he realizes that he's found it, that he's here, standing in front of the bar from the pictures on Google. He wants another cigarette. Another drink for sure. A night full of bad ideas. Why not? His palms are fucking sweating.

He wants to text Shane so badly. Did you see that fucking suit? Did you see that tie? Like someone asked a small child to draw a tie. Send him the number of your stylist. But he can't say that, can't hint that he wants Shane to speak to Scott Hunter. Maybe Shane doesn't want to. Or maybe he already has, on his own. They are not a couple. These are not decisions they make together.

God, if he started texting Shane now he would never stop. Did you go to your cottage already or are you still sleeping in your childhood bedroom under your posters of Hull, Kariya, Gretzky? Are you up late talking to your parents? Are you telling them Hunter's speech touched a nerve? That you are that boy too, that man— lonely, exhausted, afraid?

What did you think, what are you thinking?

He'll never know unless he keeps his word and goes to Shane's cottage this summer. He doesn't know if he's brave enough to do that without talking to Scott Hunter first.

So, oh fuck, fuck—

Here goes nothing.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

It's been a month. There are days when Kip feels like Scott is a boxer and he's the guy who has to mop the blood off him and squirt water in his mouth and rub his shoulders in between rounds. Who's that, the coach, the manager? Whatever, Kip still isn't much of a sports guy, okay. The point is: Scott is on the other side of the ropes, ears ringing, vision tunneling, fighting to breathe. The lights are blazing, the crowd is roaring. Kip's bracing himself and Scott is spitting blood and all they can do is wait for the bell. One more round. Maybe one more after that.

"...and I also share it with you, Kip," Scott says on the TV, and Kip's heart leaps, and Elena squeezes him tight.

There's polite applause and a fanfare as Scott finishes his speech, telling Kip right through the screen, "I love you." Kip watches, pulse pounding like he's just run a marathon. He's so proud and so pleased, but he has to clutch at his own elbows instead of reaching for his drink, because he knows his hands would be shaking too hard to pick it up.

Elena grabs it for him as their little group gets up and moves into the small reserved party room in the back of the Kingfisher. Maria starts carefully unboxing all the food Scott ordered from all of Kip's favorite restaurants, and Kyle is bringing in more drinks, and Shawn is teasing Kip about whether he should start eating now or wait until Scott gets here, because, "Please, you know your Mister Man is going to kick that door open and throw you over his shoulder and carry you out while we all applaud, French Lieutenant's Woman style—"

"Sorry, what-style?" Elena says, giving Shawn a look. "He's going to take Kip's virginity in a haystack?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"What are you talking about? The French Lieutenant's Woman, with Meryl Streep—?"

"What?" Shawn says again, and Kip bursts into laughter.

"You mean An Officer and a Gentleman!"

"Okay, whatever, Letterboxd!" Shawn says, waving away his mistake as everyone laughs.

"Oh my god," Kip says, smiling. His mom loved that movie. Any time it was on TV she would sit down and watch, tunelessly singing along to the songs on the soundtrack. "I was really into that movie when I was a kid, actually. Well, just that one part of it. Remember, when Richard Gere is in his Navy uniform and comes back for whats-her-name and she's wearing, like, factory clothes and her hair is up under a cap? If you squint a little bit, it's almost like Richard Gere is kissing a cute boy."

"Aww, baby Kip had dreams," Maria says fondly, and then: "Wait! Kip, you did it! You grew up to be that cute factory boy! Getting swept up by an Admiral and everything! Oh my god, amazing! Kip is the new whats-her-name!"

"Oh no," Kip says, covering his face as everyone cheers Maria's discovery.

"That's got to be a meme by now, right?" Shawn says, and Elena shushes him.

"Debra Winger," Kyle says, reading from his phone, and it's so stupid but it's just too much, and Kip feels a spike of anxiety and his throat goes tight. He feels like an idiot. He can't have half a panic attack every time someone says "meme" or "hashtag" or "viral" and then pulls out a phone for the rest of his life.

Everything is fine. Kyle is going to put his phone away by the time Scott gets here. No one is going to suddenly start livestreaming and geotag their location. No one is going to suddenly open Twitter and start reading out whatever terrible takes on Scott's speech are already circulating. Kip is with friends, and he also hasn't worked at the Kingfisher for a long while now, so the wave of rubbernecking tourists wanting to see The Gay Bar Where Scott Hunter's Boyfriend Used To Work was small to begin with and has mostly died out, disappointed in the lack of— what, 24/7 drag queens and wild gay debauchery? So they're fine here. They'll be fine. Kip hopes they will be, anyway.

He doesn't know why he can't relax. No, that's not true. He does know.

Scott had three minutes for his speech tonight. There were serious things he could have said; he kept it, honestly, pretty light. Said he loved hockey, loved his partner, and also subtly slipped in the gentlest possible hint of a suggestion that maybe, just maybe, hockey players could consider trying to say fewer slurs. And he's going to spend, at minimum, the next week and a half handling the nuclear fallout from that impossibly controversial take, and it's going to fucking suck.

For a while Kip tries to keep up with the various conversations happening between his friends, but he isn't really feeling it. He doesn't want to drag the mood of the room down, so eventually he just sits down by himself at the far corner of the table, staring at his phone's lock screen for cover. It's a picture Kip's dad took, Scott carefully guiding Kip around the Brookfield Place rink. It's not even a good picture, it's blurry, they're both wrapped up in scarves and hats. But it's a good memory. It was a good day.

Kip doesn't really need to go online and look, anyway. He already knows what people are going to say. Most of the articles and op-eds and think-pieces were probably written days ago— they just needed a few specific quotes from Scott's speech to be copy-pasted in before they could go live. Because hasn't everyone already made up their minds how they feel? On Kip's bad days it feels like nothing Scott could ever say or do is going to change anyone's mind or alter their opinion even one bit, whether it's "how strong, how brave, tell us more about your tragic gay suffering" or "gross, nobody wants to see that shit," also known as "just play hockey and don't shove politics in our faces," or "this changes nothing, because you're so good at sports that we can set aside the gay thing, how progressive of us to not care," or "oh, now the media cares about homophobia and toxic masculinity, now that it's hurting the feelings of a privileged cis white American man who gets paid eight million dollars a year to wear ice skates—"

But when people say these things, they're not talking about Scott. They're talking about some concept that they've decided Scott represents. A hashtag, #GoodForScottHunter. An abstract symbol they can assign any meaning they want. All the discourse and all the debates, they don't touch the actual man Kip loves with all his heart: the man who does hilarious, ultra-specific, only-for-Kip impressions of his favorite true-crime podcast girlies, the man who always wants one, just one little nibble of whatever Kip's eating and gets absolutely sweetly blissed-out when Kip hand-feeds it to him. The guy who likes to sneak up on Kip while his hair is drying and flick one lock out of place, tug it gently down over his forehead until it stays there, and then spend all morning in quiet, helpless adoration of what he calls Kip's Superman curl. The guy whose voice gets this hollow, foghorn quality when he's really, desperately sad and doing his absolute best to hold it in.

Scott is Kip's sweetie baby, the best dick he's ever had, his hero. The man who was strong enough to love Kip and let him go. Who decided, for himself, to put his head down and start doing the work. Who fought through years of fear and repression to finally claim for himself the kind of life that Kip could actually share. Kip loves him more than he ever thought he was capable of loving anyone. So he needs to get it together.

He really needs to not ruin tonight for Scott.

Eventually, Elena looks over and realizes that Kip is getting in his own head. She comes over to the far corner of the table and takes his phone out of his hand, placing it firmly face down on the table. He looks up at her and sighs, and she settles down next to him and reaches out. Kip hangs on, gratefully. "You're going to get through this," she says, holding his hand. "The both of you."

"I know," Kip says. "We will. I just—" Half of one wall of the Kingfisher's party room is made of assorted old vintage leadlight windows that let in light and color from the main bar while still allowing privacy. Kip can see the distorted shape of the front door from where he's sitting, and he gestures over helplessly. "This should be our moment, you know? Like Shawn said. My French Lieutenant's Woman moment," he says, and they both laugh.

"And yet, you're sitting here at your own party spiraling over whatever tomorrow's shitty Twitter takes are going to be."

"No, I know what they're going to be," Kip says bitterly. "Weird heavy-breathing speculation about our sex life. Calling me Scott's sugar baby, his trophy guy. Insinuations that there's something weird about Scott still being involved with the St. Thomas hockey program."

"Jesus," Elena hisses. "I think I missed that one. What the fuck."

"It's fucking disgusting," Kip says, and swallows hard with the effort of keeping his voice down. "I wish he didn't have to deal with any of it."

It wasn't supposed to be like this. They'd had a plan. After they were finally, officially back together, they'd talked it out, every part of it. Scott had been moving forward slowly but surely, coming out to his agent and his coach, his friends and their wives and girlfriends. Kip is in a group chat with Gloria Grey now. He was the first of all his non-hockey friends to know she was going to be the lead in Shonda Rhimes' latest project. And Scott finally met Kip's dad, and his friends. He texts with Elena more than Kip does, sometimes. The next step was publicly coming out, and they'd decided they'd do it this year. In the off-season. After playoffs. After we win the Cup— Kip knew not to say it, but as the season went on, he could hear Scott not saying it more and more, holding it carefully between his teeth like a bone that might splinter if he bit down too hard.

Obviously they were going to keep it low-key. Emphasize Scott's commitment to hockey and the Admirals, his dedication to being the best captain he could be. Make a stern request that the press and the fans be respectful of his privacy. "My partner isn't a public figure," Scott said on the phone to his agent when they asked if Kip wanted to be part of the Sports Illustrated interview photoshoot. He'd been looking across the kitchen counter at Kip, who'd been sitting at the dining table working on a conference proposal. He didn't hitch and stammer at all any more when he said my partner, he just looked— so fucking glad, and Kip had been so proud of him, so happy for them both.

They were so fucking delusional. They were out of their goddamn minds.

We can just be normal people, Scott had always said wistfully, and Kip had thought: sure, normal. Brunch, the dog park, strolling through Washington Square Park with lattes. Scott at Kip's side in a nice suit, turning on his charm at awkward departmental happy hour events. Darts and beer at the Kingfisher. Holy shit, they were dreaming. Kip feels like he's losing sight of what normal might even look like. He certainly can't see it from here.

It won't be forever. Give it six months, give it a year. Right now, though— fuck, it's hard. Kip was so paranoid about getting followed or tweeted about on his way here that he took Scott's car service instead of the subway and had the driver drop him off a couple blocks away. He kept his head down, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He would have worn sunglasses, too, if sunglasses at night wouldn't have just made him look even more like a famous person trying not to get papped. He circled around and texted Kyle when he was close and Kyle opened the back door and let him sneak inside. It slammed loudly behind him when it closed and Kip jumped a mile.

Yes, he sees the irony.

It's worth it. It is. The hassle, the noise, the heat, the fact that no matter what Kip does with the rest of his life, the first line of his obituary is probably going to include a hashtag and it's probably going to be #KissCamKip despite the fact that they weren't even on the fucking kiss cam. But you know what? Fine. It's fine. It's worth it. For so many reasons.

Scott said once, too many people depend on me for too much— and that's true. Truer now than it's ever been. Before the C was ever stitched to his jersey, Scott was a leader. When he walks into a room people sense it— the lack of fake machismo and brittle authoritarian dominance, none of that macho power-move bullshit. Just Scott being steady and strong. Quiet and vulnerable and honest. Certain and sure.

Despite Kip's pessimism about changing the narrative... people respond to Scott. They follow his lead. He has the chance to make real change in the world. That burden weighs heavy. It's not that he wants to be the Gay Ambassador of Sports; he really doesn't. Nothing makes him wince harder than some straight reporter framing a quote: listen up, Scott Hunter is officially speaking as the Spokesman For The Gays! He still doesn't feel equipped enough, educated enough. One dramatic gesture doesn't mean he's entitled to speak for an entire community. He's just a guy, still learning his own history, still learning the right words.

What Scott can do, though— what he feels like he can do, what he wants to do, is be a trailblazer. Proof of concept. Other people being uncomfortable with Scott isn't his problem. Toxic fans won't drive him out of the game he loves. He can plant the flag and stand under it and say come at me and not be moved. That's what Scott is going to do for the people he was talking about tonight.

And Kip knows that Scott didn't want to push it too far in a three-minute speech at an awards show, but no, it's not just about the young fans. There's an eighteen year old goalie from Minnesota who was thinking about quitting hockey, and isn't now. Players from the AHL, from the MHL, from the MHWL and from European leagues have reached out and let Scott know what it means to them to see what he's doing. To know they're not alone. An out trans woman who plays for a Swiss league wrote to Scott, offering words of support. A retired defenseman from Finland said wish I could have seen what you did in 2001. Scott reads every message he has time for. He writes back as much as he can.

"One more season," he'd said to Kip, jaw set. "Maybe two."

And Kip said, "Okay."

He thinks he can hold on for that long. Well, he has to. So he's going to.

There's no other choice.

It's been a month. There are days when Kip feels like Scott is a boxer and he's the guy who has to mop the blood off him and squirt water in his mouth and rub his shoulders in between rounds. Who's that, the coach, the manager? Whatever, Kip still isn't much of a sports guy, okay. The point is: Scott is on the other side of the ropes, ears ringing, vision tunneling, fighting to breathe. The lights are blazing, the crowd is roaring. Kip's bracing himself and Scott is spitting blood and all they can do is wait for the bell. One more round. Maybe one more after that.

They're in this together. Kip just has to hang on. There's an upside: Scott's name is etched into a plaque on the Stanley Cup, and that's permanent, that's forever. All the bigots and homophobes can just eat shit and die mad about it. But it's also true that Scott is going to have to play away games in twenty-nine different cities next year, and not every city is going to be San Francisco or Montreal. Not every team is going to be the Admirals.

It's going to hurt Scott like hell the first time he gets called a slur by a fellow player during a game. When it's some asshole deliberately targeting Scott for who he is, not just thoughtlessly throwing around the generic 'worst thing that one hockey player can call another.'

Kip knows Scott thinks he's ready for it. He's not sure a person can ever really be ready for a thing like that.

Personally, Kip has gotten into exactly one physical fight in his entire life, in high school, which he lost, and he is still not a great ice skater, but— put him in, Coach. Hand him a stick. He'll go out there and he'll fucking break it over somebody's face if he has to.

He sighs heavily, drumming his fingers on the table. Of course he knows he can't really do that. And he knows Scott will have his teammates, and a lot of them are great guys. But. He's not sure they'll really understand. The start of next season is six weeks away and it already hurts so much to know that Scott is going to be alone out there on the ice.

"Whoa, who's that Euro-hottie? Looks like a hockey boy. Kip, do you know him?" Shawn says, suddenly glancing past Kip out through the windows.

Kip blinks out of his reverie and looks.

Oh, shit. Fuck. What the fuck.

"That's Ilya Rozanov," he says, and pushes through the crowd of his friends and out into the bar.

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

"I have sat before the dense coal fire and watched it all aglow, full of its tormented flaming life; and I have seen it wane at last, down, down, to dumbest dust. Old man of oceans! of all this fiery life of thine, what will at length remain but one little heap of ashes!"

"Aye," cried Stubb, "but sea-coal ashes—mind ye that, Mr. Starbuck—sea-coal, not your common charcoal. Well, well! I heard Ahab mutter, 'Here some one thrusts these cards into these old hands of mine; swears that I must play them, and no others.' And damn me, Ahab, but thou actest right; live in the game, and die in it!"

Moby Dick, Chapter 118: The Quadrant — Herman Melville

Late in the evening, Scott sees the big, blocky shape of Bradley Martinson approaching, raising a hand in a jovial wave. He's six years retired from the Admirals now, his beard more salt than pepper. Scott looked up to Marty when he was a rookie; Marty was never the captain or an alternate, but he was one of the team's unofficial leaders. He set a good tone. In most things. He's smiling as he approaches, and his meaty hand clamps down on Scott's shoulder and he gives him a hard squeeze just like he used to, solid and familiar.

"Congrats, Scotty," Marty says. "You deserve it."

"Thanks, Marty," Scott replies. "It means a lot. I appreciate you showing up."

"Oh, I wanted to be here. What a season! One for the history books," Marty says. He squeezes Scott's shoulder once more and lets go. They talk about the season for a bit, sticking strictly to hockey, and all the time Scott is bracing for whatever Marty actually came over here to say. Because if he just wanted to say congratulations on bringing the Cup back to New York, well, it could have been an email, or a tweet. He didn't have to fly all the way in from fucking Denver to to it.

Eventually Marty says, "But, Scotty, I wanted to say... Listen. Back in the day..." There's an apologetic twist to his smile, and Scott nods. He remembers it all a lot better than Marty does, probably. The locker room taunts, the shitty jokes. To Scott it was a thousand stinging papercuts. To Marty it's probably just a blur of background noise.

Scott shakes his head, raising a hand to wave away the halting apology. "Honestly, it's— fine. It's a new day now. Like I said, I appreciate the support. As far as I'm concerned, that's all that matters."

"Yeah?" Marty says, searching Scott's face.

Of course it's not all that matters. But at least Marty has one up on all the guys who seem to think that Scott just suddenly turned gay the second they learned about it. Some people have actually thought back on what it means that Scott was like this the whole time. Some of them are coaches, recruiters, captains. One small step forward. Scott takes a breath and tries to look like he means it when he says, "Yeah. Really."

"Well. Okay, then. Just let me know if there's anything me and Julia can ever do for you, okay?" Marty offers, and Scott nods. There's a brief, awkward silence, and then Marty chuckles, eyes crinkling. "I guess this is right about when I usually ask if you're ever going to settle down..."

"With some nice girl. Yeah," Scott says, and even laughs, because it's funny— now. Marty's right, though. For a while it felt like every conversation Scott ever had that wasn't about hockey eventually circled around to his love life or lack thereof. When are you going to get yourself a girl, Scott? You can't put it off forever. All those fish in the sea. When are you going to get serious about somebody?

Was it just what Kip refers to as society's punishingly rigid heteronormative expectations, or was Scott just so fucking obviously, desperately lonely? Six of one, half dozen of the other, he supposes.

"Yeah, well. You got that handled now," Marty says, relaxing a bit as he sees Scott's going to take the joke the right way. He glances around. "So is— he's not here? Your— partner?"

"Not tonight. Seemed like a lot, with the press and all," Scott says. "Game Seven aside, we really are trying to keep it low-key," he adds, smiling ruefully, and Marty laughs again.

Eventually Marty heads out and Scott watches him go, swallowing hard. He really didn't believe Marty would have pulled strings to get tickets to the MLH awards just to call him a cocksucker to his face. But it's still stressful every time. These days, when Scott hasn't seen a guy lately, he can't just act like nothing has changed. Everything has changed. It's a price he would've gladly paid if someone had presented it to him like that beforehand. He has no regrets. It's just hard. He just wasn't quite ready for it, the way things would change. The way he can't take any relationship he's ever had for granted, any more.

And he's thinking about his parents again.

There's no way to know whether Scott's mom and dad would have been accepting. Of course he prefers to think they would have been. Who does it hurt if Scott personally chooses to believe they would have been open-minded, loved him as he was?

But of course it's equally likely that his path might have been even harder. He might have felt more pressure to date, tried harder to find some nice Catholic girl who would look past all the things she would've needed to look past. He might have married young like his parents did. There's absolutely a version of Scott's life where he has a wife and a couple of kids at home when the isolation of living a lie finally cracks him and he meets some sweet, darling man and goes head over heels, desperate, promising: baby, I'll leave her, I swear I will. It's complicated, you know that. I just need more time. Saying whatever he has to say in order to keep his head above water for just one more breath of necessary air before he goes under again.

In this life too, Scott's made mistakes. He's hurt people. But at least, thank god, he was always clear-eyed enough to know that he could never get married. He was never going to kneel before an altar with a woman and make those promises and have a snowball's chance in hell of keeping them. And despite what a lot of his past and even present teammates would argue, Scott could also never delude himself into believing that what his wife didn't know— or pretended not to know— wouldn't hurt her.

Things are different now, of course. But for years, even after gay marriage was legal in New York, the best hypothetical scenario Scott could possibly imagine was somehow discovering a similarly closeted gay woman, equally committed to never coming out. A figure skater who still had a shot or two left at Olympic gold, something like that. They'd be good friends, both want kids, see other people on the side. But it was always just an idle daydream— a symptom of how desperately hungry Scott was to come home to a home and not just a collection of empty rooms. Hosting holiday dinners, teaching the kids to skate, staying up late with his platonic lesbian life partner wrapping Christmas presents and tucking them under the tree... just an utterly mindless fantasy in so many ways. Scott barely had functional gaydar when it came to men, let alone closeted lesbians. And anyway, what athlete would throw away her career and demolish her body having a houseful of Scott's kids when the whole point of staying in the closet was staying in the game?

Because that was the whole point, wasn't it— to live in the game, and die in it? That was the whole point of everything, the reasoning and the sole motivation behind every choice Scott had made for the last two decades. Do what you have to do, give whatever it takes, sacrifice whatever you have to, but stay in the fucking game.

Scott doesn't usually stay very long at these kinds of events. Tonight he lingers. Everyone who has something to say, anyone who wants to say something— they should get the opportunity to come up and say it to his face.

Finally he's able to get away, and can head home to change clothes. As expected, Kip has already laid out an outfit on the bed, a pair of newer jeans tailored to his current measurements and a dark orange cashmere sweater. Scott hangs up his suit and changes, then checks himself out in the bathroom mirror. Well, first things first. He rakes his fingers back and forth through his hair, ruining all the hard work that the nice hair and makeup gal put into making him look like a cable news anchor. Checks again.

He feels a little exposed in just the soft, slinky cashmere sweater. Scott has worn this shirt mostly in the winter, layered safely over a t-shirt or under a jacket, a big scarf looped around his neck. On its own... the cashmere is thin and it clings. The neckline isn't that dramatic, but it dips low enough to reveal the hollow at the base of Scott's throat and show off hints of his collarbones.

Kip picked it out, though. This is what he wants Scott to wear. He still won't let Scott spoil him as much as he wants to, but one of the compromises they've managed to work out is pretty good; Scott's allowed to take Kip shopping and get him something nice just as long as Kip gets to pick out something for Scott too, something he has to promise he's going to wear or use. So really they both get something out of it when Kip gently bullies Scott into stepping outside his former (and honestly still semi-current) comfort zone of Just Give Me Whatever Looks Least Gay, Please.

On a whim, Scott reaches over for a small square bottle on Kip's side of the sink, a nice cologne that was Kip's birthday present from Elena last year. He uncaps the bottle, thinking: why not? It's a special night.

He does it like he's seen Kip do it, covering the open mouth of the bottle with his wrist, tipping the bottle to the side and back again, then gently tapping his wrists together. He tugs the neckline of the sweater to the side briefly so that he can brush his wet wrist against the hollow over his collarbone. Then he smiles into the mirror, putting his shoulders back and cocking his hip, hooking a thumb into the front pocket of his jeans.

He has a sudden flash of memory: how old was Scott, twenty or twenty-one? That gently handsy photographer for the GAP ad, the one who kept trying to guide him into a contrapposto sort of pose... not that Scott knew art jargon at the time. He just didn't like feeling off-balance. The guy kept trying to get him to look down the lens and Scott kept flinching away. It wasn't being photographed. He was used to that, by then. It was the creepy-crawly, thrilling knowledge that he was being perceived by a man who found him attractive. Who had seemed to know something about Scott just from being in the room with him. When the ad eventually came out Scott was hunched over like The Thinker, crouched in over himself, elbows on his knees, staring into the lights above the lens.

He looks at himself in the mirror now, battered and rangy, dark circles under his eyes that never really go away, and remembers his first time in a gay club. So scared he could barely feel his hands, heart pounding like he was dying. Ordering a drink in halting Italian, pounding it, ordering another. Not knowing what to do, what was going to happen. Needing it to happen now. Instinctively tipping himself back into that pose that had made the GAP photographer blink: head tilted sleepily to the side, throat exposed, hip cocked. Maybe it worked, or more probably Scott could have stood around any which way and the combination of his lean, jacked twenty-two year old body, dimpled chin and wet, scared eyes would've made something happen.

Scott is thirty-four now and if he's going to be perfectly fair, he still cleans up pretty good. They're a month out from Game Seven. The accumulated injuries from a rough playoff run are slowly healing. Even the worst bruises have faded. He's getting enough sleep. Food tastes good again. This summer, this time that they have before Scott's next season and Kip's next semester— this is probably about as good as it's ever going to get.

He texts his driver that he's heading down again. Pauses in the living room on the way out. Way up in the highest kitchen cabinet, tucked inside a chipped coffee mug shoved to the back corner of the shelf, there's a small black velvet box. Scott bought the ring over a year ago, knowing he wasn't ready. They weren't ready. He still couldn't stop himself from buying it. He just wanted to have it close.

When he's in a better place, he'll ask. But he has to stop jumping at shadows, first. That's the goal. Stop prickling into hypervigilance every time Kip's in a distant, thoughtful mood, stop panicking at every brief lull in their sex life, every conflict between their schedules that makes Kip unhappy, every spiral of anxiety that Kip doesn't want to immediately dissect and analyze so that Scott can jump in and try to fix it. Every problem he instinctively tries to downplay like he thinks he's still not that important to Scott— no, no, I'm being stupid, it's nothing, just— never mind. Forget it.

He wants to marry Kip so fucking bad. But it can't just be about his fear, the endless maw of need in him that demands he lock Kip down, throw roadblocks in the way of his going. When he proposes, he wants them to be in a good place. Steadier, more stable. He's trying to trust that it will come, in time. He knows the destination. He just can't see it from here. And these next few years are going to be rough. If Kip needs an out, then Scott wants him to have an easy out. Truly.

Scott doesn't want to be the drowning man who starts panicking and thrashing, the guy who clutches on too tight when someone reaches out a hand. Who holds on too hard, won't let go, and ends up dragging his rescuer down along with him. Deep down under to the place where neither one of them can breathe.

In the car on the way to the Kingfisher, Scott takes some deep breaths, braces himself, and starts checking his notifications. Nothing too bad, tonight. Congratulations, nice speech, congratulations, etcetera. He scrolls through the texts, finding one from George that must've been sent the moment his speech ended and they cut to commercial.

Look at you, Scotty. I've said it a lot, I know, but I'm so proud of you. I hope you take a second to be proud of yourself too.

It hits low and deep, tweaking those nerves again. Then Scott snorts as a new text pops up, followed by another from the same contact almost immediately:

Great speech, Hunter. Congrats on the amazing season. See you in October.

oh this is Shane Hollander btw

Too funny. Classic. He's had Hollander's number in his phone for years, part of some All-Stars bar crawl group chat from way back in the day. But sure, "this is Shane Hollander btw." Just in case Scott might confuse him with all those other Hollanders that he's going to see in October. He chuckles, types: Thanks, Hollander. Hope you're doing well. See you then.

A text from Elena arrives: If you're going to be late you better be fashionable!

Scott winces. He knows what that means: Kip is getting freaked out. He's glad they decided not to make their public debut tonight, in front of cameras and reporters, live feeds and live tweets. He's even more glad that Kip has Elena and his friends. That he could be with them instead.

He replies to Elena. Be there soon.

The city slides by in streaks of light, dimmed by the tinted window glass. Scott leans his arm against the car door and leans his head against his arm so that he can breathe in Kip's cologne, warm and golden on his wrist like rich, sweet cognac.

He thinks about Kip. He thinks about what's coming. And what's past.

He thinks of Kip's mother.

When Kip was a sophomore in high school, his mother was diagnosed with cancer. A little over two and a half years later, Kip and George buried her. There is an ugly, vile sliver of Scott’s heart that can't be anything but envious of how it all went down. After all, Kip got to see it coming. He got to say goodbye.

But Scott knows how it cost him. For those two and a half years, George was stretched thin, run off his feet, trying to do ten things at once: holding down a job, running the household, caring for his sick wife, wrestling with the insurance companies trying to deny her the care she needed— and Kip watched his generous, tender-hearted, endlessly giving father running himself ragged, and pre-emptively decided that he wasn't going to add to that list of problems. That it would be selfish and unfair to ask for special consideration when George had so much else on his plate. He didn't need it. Kip would keep his room clean and his grades up. He'd be quiet and dependable. He'd demonstrate every day how well he could cope. His mother would never have to worry about how Kip would manage. Kip wouldn't crash out, start doing drugs or drinking, drop out of school and ruin his future. He would be hard-working. Well-behaved. Easy. No one would have to worry about him. No one would have to be concerned with his needs at all.

Over the years, Scott has gotten pieces of this story from Kip and George, but it was Elena who had been at Kip's side the whole time, Elena who had just enough distance to see the whole picture, but was close enough to Kip to see the kind of damage he was doing to himself. So it was Elena who had to spell it out to Scott in black and white. He really should have seen it before, but— Kip is so goddamn good at hiding sometimes, it even impresses Scott. It's his tried and true coping mechanism; it's every other goddamn thing out of his mouth when he's stressed. Sorry, I'm sorry. I'll shut up. It's nothing. It's okay, it's really okay, don't worry about me. I'm just having a weird day. I'm being dumb. It's nothing. Don't listen to me. The way he still sometimes asks Are you sure? or insists you don't need to, you don't have to when Scott tries to make an effort or wants to give him something nice. The way he always instinctively says it's fine when it clearly isn't.

And that's what it cost; that was the price of his mother's long goodbye.

To this day nothing makes Scott sicker than watching Kip interact with his dad and his core group of friends— to see, time and again, all the different ways they constantly and gently bully Kip into taking up space, reaching for what he wants, fighting for his goals— and to know that's exactly what Scott demanded Kip deny himself, their first time around. His family. Their love. Their support.

He's so fucking grateful that Kip will have them around for what's coming.

Kip has seen Scott come home, during the season: limping, lip split, knuckles bruised, teeth loose. Not quite concussed, technically. With a handful of broken taped-up fingers tucked against his chest. Kip's brought Scott ice for the bath and reached in and splayed his hand gently over dark blooming bruises and livid welts. Seen the pain scrawled across Scott's arms and ribs and thighs and ankles and face.

These next two seasons— they may make the last two look like a long weekend at a luxury spa. Scott doesn't know how to break that news. Not yet. Kip is still locked in on the discourse, the media cycle, the noise. But in October, Scott will be back on the ice. And he's going to take a lot of hits that have nothing to do with hockey being a violent game.

He doesn't know how bad it will get. It won't be every player in the MLH who'll want to take him out because they think a cocksucker captain gives the whole league a bad name. But it won't take that many to start the ball rolling, and the cold truth is that Scott has exactly zero trust in the league to shut it down once it gets started. First it'll be just a few bad hits. Then a few refs looking the other way. Then maybe worse— he'll start getting called out for embellishing, trying to get a penalty called on the other guy. The same sports commentators who've spent years praising Scott's toughness, saying nobody takes a stick in the ribs like Hunter, will suddenly get skeptical. Hunter is being a little, well, theatrical tonight, isn't he? He's been playing that card a lot lately. Too bad. He used to be the kind of guy who could take hard playoff hockey; now he'd rather take a dive.

Scott will have enforcers, but they aren't his personal bodyguards. It'll be up to him to absorb the hits, protect his head. He's always been good at that, like he's always been good at keeping his temper when someone boards him and spits an insult into his ear. That's going to be different in October too. Hey Hunter, they're saying you go down easy, is it true?

It won't be every player, every game, every ref. But if the league doesn't put a stop to it, if guys start to realize it's open season, if the tide starts to swell—

Scott closes his eyes and takes a moment to make a silent apology to the soul of Margaret Grady. I never knew you, Mrs. Grady, but I know you loved Kip very much. I know it was hard for him to watch you suffer. I'm sorry history has to repeat itself, and I'm sorry he can't do anything about it. I'm sorry all he can do now is stand by and watch it happen to me.

 

Without being asked, Scott's driver pulls over and idles at the curb. One street up and a block and a half short of the Kingfisher. Scott opens his eyes, thanks him and climbs out into the humid night.

For a long time, arriving like this was about the anonymity. Scott would text Kip or Kyle and they'd let him in the back. He'd tuck himself against the wall: furthest booth, darkest corner, shielded from view by Kip and his friends. It was nice, but he never got to be the one to go up to the bar and order another round, happily singing out Thank you Kyle. He's looking forward to doing it now. It's going to be fun.

He turns the corner, hastening his steps. He could have gotten dropped off in front of the bar, if he'd wanted to. But he doesn't want to arrive like a celebrity guest making a very special entrance. Scott wants to walk in like a regular guy going to his neighborhood bar, breathing in the familiar air, the smell of cigarettes and old pizza boxes and fryer grease.

He's close, close enough to hear the faint pulse of music through the front windows, when the Kingfisher's front door slams open with a bang, and Kip's voice drowns out some slow Sam Smith ballad. He's furious, shouting at the absolute top of his voice: "—walk in here and fuckin' run your mouth about Scott! You piece of shit!"

Scott stops dead and stares as Ilya Rozanov stumbles backwards, thin dress shirt stuck to his back with sweat. He's clutching his ribs and his face is sallow and drawn even under the warm pink light from the bar. Kip is surging forward, and his hands thump hard against Rozanov's chest as he gives him a rough, straight-armed shove. Rozanov's heel hits the slightly raised lip of the door as he staggers back and he almost fully eats shit, but he manages to get his back foot under him and rebalance, catching himself in a wobbly half-kneeling crouch. He sucks in air through clenched teeth, his lips drawn back in a snarl as he glares up at Kip, eyes gleaming with rage and pain.

"That all you got? Fuckin' weak!" Kip spits, chest heaving, and Shawn leans over Kip's shoulder, hand braced on his bicep so he can chirp at Rozanov too: "Oh, Vida works out! Vida works out, baby!"

Rozanov narrows his eyes, not breaking eye contact. Kip's hands curl into trembling fists.

"What the fuck!?" Scott finally manages to grit out, and if he weren't so furious he might almost find it funny, the way Kip and Rozanov simultaneously whip their heads around to stare; their oddly identical, weirdly guilty looks.