Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Ilya is a consent king, Drunk Scott Hunter, Making Out, The Casual Hookup That Wasn't, orphans bonding, Pre-Kip don't kill me, Author is bad at tags, So is author's beloved best friend, We're old like Scott Hunter

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-19 Words: 5,868 Chapters: 1/1

When Daylight Comes

Summary

Ilya knew it was unlikely Scott would do anything stupid tonight, but he also knew that he would never forgive himself if he turned out to be wrong. Getting him home safely was all he meant to do.

Ilya loved New York, even if New Yorkers didn’t love him.

If anything the boos of the crowd fueled him, fed some twisted part of him that loved the hate, that couldn’t get enough of the anger every time he scored. The glares from Scott Hunter as he slipped past him only added to the fire.

After his third goal, he couldn’t resist fanning the flames a little more.

“What’s wrong, past your bedtime old man?”

“Fuck off, Rozanov.” Scott spat, though Ilya couldn’t help but notice a slightly distracted quality to his voice. Where was the usual heat?

He put it out of his mind and was rewarded with a staggering win for the Raiders. All the more reason for them to party tonight. Not that Ilya needed an excuse.

The first bar they hit had far too many red jerseys and stony stares for them to stay, the second was far too mellow. The manic energy of the victory was starting to wear off as the effort of the game started to catch up to the team, and many drifted back to the hotel, or off to quiet corners to dance or flirt.

Ilya was too wound up for any of that, still high off of his hat trick. He knew if he wanted to get to sleep tonight, he would need to burn off some more energy and there was one surefire way to do that, he thought, ordering another vodka as he pulled out his phone. He had someone in New York, of course. He had someone in every city. Sometimes multiple someones. Picking up a stranger was never an issue either but he wanted familiarity tonight. They had been on the road too long and sometimes a familiar face beneath him or above him was the closest thing to home.

Before he could even pull up his contact list, a familiar voice at the other end of the bar caught his attention.

He was surprised to see Scott Hunter slam back a shot, especially given the collection of glasses gathered in front of him. As far as Ilya was aware, Scott wasn’t dry but was never a big drinker either. Was he taking the loss of tonight’s game that badly then?

Ever unable to resist a chance to chirp, he slid over to the stool beside the Admiral’s captain with a grin. “Couldn’t find a bar with enough fans to buy you drinks tonight?”

He waited for the usual ‘fuck off, Rozanov’, watchful for the shift of shoulder that would indicate Scott was going to choose violence tonight. Last time he did that it just caught Ilya’s visor, but seeing as how he wasn’t wearing one now, he should probably be ready to duck.

Instead Scott merely glanced at him with a look that seemed to be trying for angry, but missing the mark and landing on something else that made Ilya’s insides twist.

Annoyed at the lack of response he pushed further. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to ignore people?”

At this, Scott winced and curled into himself slightly, like a player rising from the ice, cradling bruised ribs.

Oh no. Ilya knew he fucked up, even if he didn’t know how. His mind skittered across the realization, unsure of how to regain control.

“Are you... okay?” He mentally kicked himself as he scanned the shot glasses and Scott’s withdrawn features. Obviously the answer was no. Was it his fault? Ilya’s mind was always ready to ask the question whether it made any sense or not, but he couldn’t help but wonder truly here if he contributed to this somehow.

“Go away.” Scott finally mumbled.

Ilya scanned the bar, searching for the familiar faces of other Admirals players but saw none. Damn, he would have liked to pass this problem off to one of them to deal with.

“Look, just because I beat you again isn’t any reason to get sloshed.” He tried again.

Scott snorted. “Not everything is about you, Rozanov.”

“Not everything is about you, Hollander.” Ilya remembered yelling that at Shane a few years ago. He also distinctly remembered Shane taking it as an insult, rather than hearing the hurt just beneath the surface. He remembered wishing Shane would ask, wishing he had an excuse to explain, to lance the wound that was his family and his homeland.

 “Then what is this about?”

Scott peered at him suspiciously, on high alert at the shift in Ilya’s tone. To be fair, Ilya wasn’t sure Scott had ever heard anything but press speeches and chirps from him before.

“What do you want, Rozanov?”

Ilya wondered at the repeated use of his name, like Scott was trying to not lose track of who he was talking to. It was an unpleasant reminder of the way Ilya repeated or spelled out what they were doing for his father’s benefit when his eyes grew too glassy and uncertain. He pushed away the thought hastily and forced another grin. “Thought you said it wasn’t all about me, Hunter.”

“It’s just been a rough day, okay? Now will you go away?”

“Is that what you want?” Ilya found himself asking without thinking.

“Yes.” Said Scott’s mouth.

No. Said the sudden, panicked look in his eyes.

Years of reading his father and his brother’s body language, learning to know when a storm was coming, had prepared Ilya very well for hockey and honed his ability to predict what other players would do on the ice.

It served him well in other places too.

He pretended to make himself comfortable on the shitty barstool, an obvious display as shitty barstools were not meant to be pleasant seating, and was rewarded with an eye roll from Scott. 

“Fine.” Scott slapped a few bills down on the bar and rose, pulling on his jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere you aren’t.”

Ilya hastily threw a few bills down himself before trotting after Scott.

“Jesus, kid, what are you doing?”

“Making sure you get wherever it is you’re going safely.”

“I’m going home. And I’m a grown man with an awful lot of muscle on me in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Ilya looked him over appreciatively. “Hm. Yes, they are quite nice.” Was he imagining the sudden spark in Scott’s eyes at this once over? “But the bones underneath must be getting fragile in your advanced years, no?”

Scott huffed.

Ilya knew better than to openly stare at a hockey player’s face. At best it would be taken as bizarre and pushed away, at worst it could start a fight. Still, he kept sneaking glances at Scott’s features as they walked, trying to ascertain how bad things really were. He didn’t think Scott would do anything stupid tonight, but if Ilya let him go and then found out he was wrong, he knew he would never forgive himself.

It didn’t take long to make it to Scott’s apartment, since he kept up a brisk pace, intentionally moving just a little bit faster than Ilya could easily keep up with. Damn his longer legs. When did Scott get so tall? 

“This is an impressive nursing home.” Ilya commented in an attempt to break some of the tension.

“Fuck’s sake.” Scott muttered. “I’m home now, happy?”

“Yes.” Ilya answered honestly, knowing full well Scott expected him to leave now.

Instead he slipped inside the apartment the second the door was opened, not bothering to wait for Scott to enter. 

“Wow.” Ilya was genuinely impressed by the skyline. He found himself drifting to the floor to ceiling windows automatically, ignoring Scott’s small noise of discontent at him inviting himself further into the space. He didn’t live in the middle of the city in Boston, preferring more green space, but the glittering lights of New York made him wonder if he was missing out. “Doesn’t the light ever bother you?” He gestured out at it, glancing at Scott over his shoulder.

Scott shrugged, oddly stiff in his own doorway. “I kind of like it. It’s like...” He stopped himself, shaking his head as he moved to the open kitchen off to the side, rummaging around for something in the pantry.

“Like what?” Ilya pressed.

Scott didn’t stop his search, but even beneath his jacket, Ilya could see his shoulders tense. He didn’t turn around when he answered. “Like all of those lights are people who are awake right now too. Like I’m not alone here.”

Ilya joined him in the kitchen, noticing that one of the barstools at the island was well worn, while the other looked brand new. He took a seat on the newer looking one.

When Scott finally emerged from the pantry, he took one look at Ilya, seated, hands politely folded and sighed in resignation. “Want some?” He held up the whiskey bottle.

“No.” Ilya answered promptly. “Surely you have noticed the accent. I prefer vodka.”

“Oh, are you Swedish or something?” Scott asked innocently. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Ilya shouldn’t have been so pleased to hear Scott finally chirping back.

“Anyway, I don’t have vodka.”

“None?” Ilya immediately went from pleased to scandalized.

“None.” Scott imitated. “I don’t like vodka.”

“What do you do when people with taste visit?”

“No one else ever comes here.”

The answer was an unexpected gut punch. Ilya attempted to cover it with more humor. “I’m honored to be your first.”

Scott didn’t rise to the bait this time, adding ice to two glasses. “So it’s whiskey or water.”

Ilya groaned. “Whiskey then. I don’t think I can deal with you sober.”

“You don’t have to deal with me at all. You could, you know, leave.” Scott pointed out even as he poured a few fingers into each glass.

The whiskey wasn’t bad actually, Ilya had to privately admit. It was smoky and smooth on first sip, with a spicy burn down the throat that somehow still left behind a surprisingly sweet aftertaste. It suited Scott. 

Ilya waited for Scott to join him at the counter, but instead Scott remained standing, sipping his drink with a furrowed brow. He had a sneaking suspicion there was something Scott wanted to say and Ilya was patient, waiting for him to articulate his thoughts.

At last Scott set his glass down before him. “What do you plan to do when you retire?”

Ilya wasn’t sure what he had expected but it wasn’t that.

“I don’t know. I figure that won’t be for many years.”

Scott frowned at this response. “You don’t know that. You could get injured at any point and have to quit hockey.

“That is for less good players to worry about.”

“I’m serious.” Scott gave him an earnest look. “Cut the cocky bullshit for a minute, what do you actually think about doing apart from hockey?”

Ilya shifted uncomfortably. “I really don’t know. I guess I don’t let myself think about that because it feels like- like a distraction from what I’m doing now. If I think like that, it might make it happen, you know?”

Scott nodded. “I always thought that too.”

“Not anymore though? What is it you want to do then? Run a- what do you call it, those places for old people to play that game, the one with the name like the dog?”

Scott stared blankly at him for a moment before laughing. “A Bingo parlor?”

“Yes, that.”

“No, Rozanov, my dream is not to run a fucking Bingo parlor.”

Ilya tried to do the math, wondering suddenly if Scott was having a midlife crisis. “Do you want to buy a red sportscar and date a beautiful blonde woman half your age?”

“Let me guess, you’re about to volunteer your mother?”

Ilya winced involuntarily and inwardly winced again when he saw the recognition on Scott’s face.

“Sorry, that was too far. I should know better.”

Ilya blinked. “What do you mean?”

Scott gave him an incredulous look. “You haven’t heard?”

Shit. Was there some major news story recently Ilya had missed? Did Scott Hunter just lose his mother and Ilya had been giving him shit all night? “Heard what?” He asked with a growing sense of dread.

“My tragic backstory.” Scott scoffed. “They love to trot it out for charity events as a way of guilting people into donating to whatever cause I’m champion of at the time. You’ve been at some of those!”

Ilya shrugged, not wanting to explain that sometimes the lengthy English speeches ran together too much for him. “Those are boring, I do not listen.”

Scott shook his head. “My parents died when I was twelve.” He explained bluntly.

The ground was suddenly gone beneath him, and Ilya could feel himself falling into something deep and cold, the stomach-swooping sensation of the loss of anything solid to cling to.

“Hey, you okay?” Scott leaned over the island.

“Me too.” Ilya blurted.

“Huh?”

“I mean my mother died when I was twelve too. Not my father.” If only. Ilya thought, then immediately hated himself for it.

“Oh. Shit, I’m sorry.” Neither man looked at the other for a long time, too preoccupied suddenly with whiskey and memories.

“Do you mind if I ask... how?”

“Accident.” Ilya answered automatically, the words drilled into him by years of his father’s insistence, and Scott nodded in terrible understanding.

“Same. Car accident.”

Ilya thought of his mother’s hand, pale and cold, and decided he’d said enough about that for now.

“You never answered the question.” He backtracked. “What you want to do when you retire.”

Scott blew out a breath, the deliberate exhale of letting go over whatever memories he had been lost in as well. “I don’t know. Before I was drafted I had kind of thought of going into social work.”

Ilya wondered if there was a discreet way to pull his phone out to google translate, but Scott seemed to notice his confusion.

“Like people who help kids in situations like mine where they have lost their parents, or if they are in abusive homes, things like that.”

“Ah.” Ilya wasn’t sure what else he could say to that that wouldn’t lead them back down a darker conversation than he was up for at the moment.

“But it’s kind of hard to go be a social worker after being a famous hockey player.”

“Is lucky that you aren’t so good then.”

“Fuck you.”

Ilya tapped his toe on the footrest at the bottom of the stool. “Couldn’t you be a- I don’t know how you call it in English.” He stared at the near empty glass, realizing he must be getting a bit tipsy. “Someone who looks after those kids?”

“A foster parent?” Scott supplied and Ilya snapped his fingers.

“Yes. That. Or you could adopt. I don’t know. I don’t know how it works here.” Ilya had the passing thought that he should look into how it worked in the US and Canada, then quickly buried that thought before he could examine it too closely.

Scott uncorked the whiskey and topped them both off, before gesturing at the living room. “They don’t really look for people like me to be foster parents. An unmarried rich dude asking for access to kids just looks suspicious.”

Ilya followed him to the sofa, sprawling in the opposite corner. “Yes, why isn’t there a Mrs. Hunter?”

“Why isn’t there a Mrs. Rozanov?” Scott shot back.

Ilya shrugged. “There is no one I would want to be Mrs. Rozanov.”

“You don’t want to get married?”

The question was leaving him with a slightly queasy feeling, so Ilya pushed it down with all the other things he didn’t want to think about. “We are not talking about me.”

Ilya wondered if it was just the whiskey that brought the creeping flush to Scott’s neck and cheeks. “There isn’t anyone I want to be a Mrs. Hunter.”

“Is cheating.” Ilya shook his head disapprovingly. “Using my words.”

“Yeah well it’s true. There just aren’t any women I’m interested in.” Scott replied, then took a hefty swig as if trying to swallow the words back down.

A thought occurred to Ilya that he knew better than to say out loud. 

Scott suddenly became very preoccupied with tracing the etched crystal of his glass, running a finger over the grooves as though he were trying to memorize its pattern.

Ilya hadn’t come here thinking he was doing anything other than making sure Scott was okay. Strangely it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder why Scott hadn’t just pushed him right back out the door. Call it a side effect of knowing he was witty and charming perhaps.

That confidence had served him well over the years and afforded him the luxury of sitting back and letting others come to him. He was by no means passive. Ilya was more than willing to pursue something, or someone, he wanted, but only with some kind of sign that it would be well received. It was safest that way, he found, especially when it came to male partners. 

It wasn’t like Scott wasn’t handsome, Ilya reflected, taking advantage of the man’s distraction to study him. He had thought that before, but the low lighting softened his features into something younger and more vulnerable than he would have expected. It was, unfortunately, doing it for Ilya, who was beginning to realize he might just have a thing for men with that slightly kicked puppy look about them.

And truthfully, he did want to see him smile. He wanted to know what Scott would look like lost in pleasure, what kinds of sounds he might make. Did he like it rough or would he be relatively gentle? He was never much of a fighter on the ice, but maybe sex brought out a wilder side of him, who knew?

A sign then, that was all Ilya needed. Some sort of green light and he would find out what exactly it would take to undo Scott Hunter.

At the moment, Scott didn’t seem interested in giving any kind of sign though, still absorbed in his glass. That wouldn’t do at all. So Ilya changed the subject, pulling them back to safer ground with a question about his early hockey days, and if they used stones or dinosaur eggs as pucks back then. That at least got a laugh out of Scott and brought his warm brown eyes back up to meet Ilya’s.

They talked, they drank, at some point Scott put some music on, a low rumble in the background. Nothing particularly sensual, just filler sound, Ilya noticed. Not something meant to encourage bodies to move together chasing the rhythm. Not the sign he was waiting for.

The whiskey bottle was quite low by the time he noticed the slight sway of Scott’s arm. An overenthusiastic gesture as he described a trip to Mt Fuji nearly sloshed half the whiskey over the rim and onto the sofa. Considering the tidiness of the place, Ilya suspected a stain would bother Scott, so set aside his own glass before reaching forward to gently remove Scott’s. Okay so the brush of their fingers may have been deliberate as well, who could blame him.

For a heart-stopping moment, he thought Scott might. The man froze mid-sentence, watching Ilya set aside the glass on the coffee table, then staring at his own fingers for a moment as if trying to complete a particularly tricky calculation. 

By the time his gaze returned to Ilya, Scott’s features had shifted into something darker, and more determined, and Ilya thought Ah, a sign at last.

Then Scott’s hands were on his collar, the fabric crushed in his grip as he pulled Ilya forward to claim his mouth. As signs went, there couldn’t be a much clearer one than that, Ilya supposed.

It was a sloppy kiss, teeth accidentally knocking together, tongues bumping into one another like strangers trying to avoid each other only to collide in a hallway, but the raw desire could not be mistaken. Scott’s tug on his collar said that he wanted him closer, and Ilya was more than willing to oblige. He shifted to gently push Scott back against the cushions behind him, surprised at the older man’s easy compliance. Ilya realized he had been expecting more of a fight for dominance from his fellow captain.

Instead the only pushback Scott gave was to shove Ilya’s jacket off. The moment it was gone, he was pulling Ilya down again, encouraging Ilya to cover him. It was making it difficult to get any other clothes off, so Ilya settled for slowing down the kisses, forcing them into something a little less urgent and a little more exploratory. This seemed to be working for Scott, as his shoulders were dropping back into the cushions, easing some of the tension he had been carrying all night. He liked taking his time, Ilya mentally noted.

That being said, he did want more, and hands eventually found their way between their bodies to start unbuttoning shirts. Scott seemed to falter somewhat as Ilya tugged his shirt from where it was tucked into his jeans to unbutton the rest and it occurred to Ilya that he was self-conscious. Ridiculous, considering what he looked like, and what Scott had to know he looked like.

“Is your first time with another man?” Ilya wondered aloud.

Scott snorted. “No. Not with another man.” Still there was that hesitation.

“With a hockey player.” Ilya guessed.

“Obviously.” Scott fiddled with the bottom of Ilya’s shirt like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to do more with it. “I mean do you go around banging hockey players?”

“No.” Ilya pushed the memory of a different pair of trusting brown eyes down. Shane aside, it wasn’t like he made a habit of hooking up with men in general, especially not ones he knew through work.

“Well there you go.”

Ilya shook his head and sat up to remove his shirt the rest of the way, tossing it aside. When he reached for Scott’s belt buckle, Scott stopped him. Ilya looked up at him with a raised eyebrow and Scott gave him a sheepish look back.

“Do you mind if we, ah, move to the bedroom?”

Ilya had no objections and wanted to encourage more of this asking for what he actually wanted, so he readily agreed. “Good idea. More comfortable.” He extricated himself, giving Scott room to stand.

Only then did Ilya notice his slight sway, and the small stumble as Scott tried to navigate around the coffee table. That wasn’t good, he thought. Hockey players spent their days balancing on literal knives’ edges. Balance was never a problem for them. Maybe Scott was further gone than he thought. 

When Scott noticed Ilya wasn’t following, he paused himself. “You good?”

Ilya nodded as he stood, well aware that his own tolerance was perhaps higher than it had any right to be.

“I mean if you don’t want,” Scott trailed off, taking a step back.

“No.” Ilya smoothly joined him and slid his hands around Scott’s waist, enjoying the skin just above his jeans. “I want.” He recaptured Scott’s mouth and nudged him backward, walking them back toward a doorway he hoped led to the bedroom.

Scott laughed when they hit the bed, not his warm, restrained huff of a laugh, but something slightly hysterical and uncontrolled that reminded Ilya uncomfortably of the time he had burst out laughing during a funeral service as a kid. It wasn’t because anything was funny, it was just the unfortunate way that too many feelings had found their way out of him at once.

Luckily the laugh died quickly before he could think too much about it and Ilya ducked his head to begin trailing kisses down Scott’s chest and belly, intent on doing something about that bulge below. Scott’s moan of appreciation was much more to his taste.

“God Roz, I want you want you to fuck me.”

Ilya chuckled. “Really? Is what you want?”

“Don’t be an asshole about it and make me beg.” Ilya hummed in amusement, debating doing exactly that but Scott gripped his arm in warning. “It’s hard enough asking you even now.” He gasped as Ilya nipped at his hip.

Even now. Ilya silently repeated. Even now with half a bottle of whiskey in your veins and the cover of night to hide beneath. When daylight comes, will you still want this? Ilya suddenly wondered. The question shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.

“As long as you won’t regret it tomorrow.” Ilya could feel the tightness in his own voice as he tried to keep his tone light and joking.

Scott huffed. “I won’t. Assuming I even remember this tomorrow.”

Ilya froze, one hand on the button of Scott’s jeans, the other reached above his head to stretch over one of his pecs. He raised his head to meet Scott’s questioning gaze before letting go of him and sitting up.

“What, what’s wrong?” Scott raised himself to his elbows with a frown.

Ilya grabbed Scott’s chin, forcing him to look him in the eye, thrilled despite himself by the way it made the older man gasp slightly. “If I’m going to fuck a hot guy,” he leaned in to whisper against Scott’s ear, loving the way he held his breath in rapt attention. “I want him to remember it the next day.”

Scott swallowed hard. “Then make me.”

Ilya smiled against his jaw. “No.”

“No?” Scott stared at him uncomprehending as Ilya pulled back.

“No.” Ilya repeated then felt a stab of guilt as panic filled Scott’s eyes. His breathing became all too labored and Ilya knew exactly what sort of horrible half-formed scenarios must be playing out in his head, the fear that he had misread this situation, that Ilya was going to tell everyone, that he would be humiliated, shamed...

“Hey.” Ilya tightened his grip on Scott’s chin, forcing him back to the present moment. “You are too drunk right now. That's all I mean, okay?”

Scott didn't respond but his breathing at least slowed somewhat. His jaw worked beneath Ilya's fingertips a few times, causing the beard to scratch at his hands, but no words came out.

Ilya sighed and let him go. “I can't stand whiskey dick, huh?”

At this Scott's face reddened. “I haven't- We haven’t even-”

Ilya patted his cheek affectionately. “This is why you should keep good vodka on hand, yes?” 

“Fuck you!”

“Not tonight.” Ilya winked. 

Scott sat up as Ilya climbed off the bed, chewing on his lower lip. “Does that mean... some other time?”

Ilya paused, studying his swollen lips, disheveled hair and lean torso. It wasn’t just loneliness that had brought Ilya here tonight, but a degree of interest in Scott himself and that hadn’t immediately evaporated. He didn’t miss the slightly unfocused gaze however, nor did he ever want to be something someone regretted. 

“We’ll see.” He gave a deliberately mysterious grin to hide the ache growing somewhere in his chest.

He meant to just walk away, find his shirt and leave but the way Scott drew his arms in close, curling into himself, broke something in him.

“You are handsome man.” Ilya rubbed at his neck, uncomfortable with the honesty. It made him realize there was a hint of beard burn across his cheek. “I think you will find nice guy. Maybe someone who likes, what is word? Silver foxes.”

“Screw you, my hair hasn’t started to go gray yet.”

“Hm. Soon though, yes?”

Scott rolled his eyes and Ilya took that as a dismissal, trotting to the kitchen to fill a glass with water. He started to return, then on second thought, went back to rummage through the cabinets until he found a large mixing bowl.

Scott had already lain back down by the time he popped back into the bedroom, and he was clearly surprised to see Ilya back.

“You should drink.” Ilya put the water on the nightstand closest to Scott. “And this,” He held up the bowl. “This is just in case.”

“In case I suddenly get the urge to bake cupcakes in the middle of the night?” Scott wrinkled his nose. “I won’t be sick.”

“Good.” Ilya nodded and set the bowl beside him on the bed anyway. “Then you will not need.”

Scott shook his head and yawned as he rolled onto his stomach. “Hey Roz-nov.” Scott slurred.

“Mm?”

He mumbled something incomprehensible into the pillow and Ilya leaned down with a frown. “What was that?”

“I know a good immigration lawyer. If you ever want to, you know, have citizenship somewhere else. Just sayin’.” He opened one eye and gave Ilya such an earnest look despite being squashed against a pillow that Ilya had to draw back quickly before Scott could see the unexpected sheen of his own eyes.

“That’s...” His throat closed over, choking out the rest.

Fortunately Scott’s eyes had drifted shut again. “Will get you ‘er card. Next time. Game. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Ilya took a breath. “You can tape it to the puck since it will be mostly mine anyway.”

“FkoffRoz.” 

Scott seemed to be asleep already, so Ilya carefully closed the door and retrieved his shirt and jacket. He stared out the enormous windows as he redid the buttons. It really was a nice place, and he saw what Scott meant about feeling a little less alone seeing all the lights out there. It was a nice luxury, staring out at it for a while, until he realized he could see his own reflection in the glass and realized he didn’t want to meet his own eye right now.

It wasn’t until he was nearly out the door that he noticed Scott’s cell phone lying on the kitchen counter. With a small spark of inspiration, he picked it up, took a guess at the passcode (Scott’s first jersey number when he was drafted and his current number), and was amused to find he was right.

A small whooshing sound was followed by the vibration in his own pocket and he replaced the phone, grinning as he made his way out the door and back out into the city.

–

It was a rushed tumble of limbs the next morning when Scott awoke, making it to the bathroom just in time. He wasn’t sure how long he lay on the cool tile of the floor, willing the sun to give him some peace and stop trying to stab his eyes out but eventually he managed to drag himself back to the bedroom, intending to peel off his sweat-soaked jeans and climb back into bed. His foot bumped against something cold and he peered down at the edge of his bed where for some reason a metal mixing bowl was sticking out from just beneath the tangled bedsheets hanging over the side.

He retrieved the bowl with a confused frown and moved to set it on the nightstand, noticing a glass of water within easy reach. Collapsing onto the bed, he downed the water, grateful to his past self who he assumed must have left it there.

When he awoke again, curled beneath the sheets with a slowly fading headache, he stretched and sighed, catching sight again of the mixing bowl.

Did he leave that there too last night? He had never done that before. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he had drunk to the point of being sick.

That wasn’t true actually, he suddenly recalled that the last time he had over-indulged in alcohol like that was on that trip to Ibiza. The first time he had decided to try hooking up with a man.

A cold, sinking feeling suddenly washed over him. 

Scott had never invited a man back to his place before. Or hooked up with a man in his own city at all for that matter. He was always too terrified that someone would recognize them and tongues would wag, or that the man would brag about banging the New York Admirals’ captain. The bed was empty when he woke up but...

Nauseous from both dehydration and fear, he crept out of the bedroom, tiptoeing around his own apartment wondering if there was someone else there still. He saw no other shoes by the door or clothes strewn around the room besides his own shirt next to the sofa, but then his gaze landed on the coffee table.

Two glasses.

Maybe it was Vaughn or Bennet. He told himself, willing himself to take even, measured breaths. Maybe we were commiserating about how shitty yesterday’s game went and we just went a little overboard.

Except... except Bennet didn’t drink and Vaughn had left the arena to go straight to his girlfriend’s house.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

As if in a trance, he slowly made his way to the kitchen with the glasses, intending to tidy up a bit first but as soon as he caught sight of his phone, he grabbed it with trembling hands, intending to pull up the internet, afraid he might see photos of himself plastered all over social media.

Instead the first thing he saw upon unlocking it was some unread text messages. One from Bennet asking if they were still on for the movie they planned to see later, one a badly mistyped message from Vaughn about how lucky he was to have Gloria (evidently he had also indulged), and some from... someone else.

He pulled that chat up confused, reading through.

Best Hockey Player In The World: You should let me know you survived the night, if you are not too old to know how to send a text.

Was that... No. Surely not.

Best Hockey Player In The World: If you are, then send a pigeon. Or whatever they did back in your day. 

Best Hockey Player In The World: Also, you really should change your password.

Best Hockey Player In The World: See you next Thursday! Try not to drink so much when we beat you this time! 😉

Well. One fear was alleviated.

Of course, now Scott had a whole other thing to worry about. Rozanov was insufferable in person, how was he going to deal with the guy having his number?

His thumb hovered over the block number button, but then he glanced up and through the open door to his bedroom at the metal bowl and empty water glass on the nightstand. He stared for a long moment, and then, with a sigh, changed the contact name and started typing.

Scott: I know how to text, asshole.

Rozanov: 😮

Rozanov: You should have people over more. Is selfish to keep that view all to yourself. But buy better liquor first.

This was followed by several links to various alcohol vendors with pages of expensive vodka. Scott sighed as the phone kept buzzing, already regretting not blocking the guy.

Then he raised his head and looked out over the city. Maybe Rozanov had a point though. Maybe he should start letting people in a little more. The idea of a friendly face in his own space was actually suddenly appealing.

He would think about it.