Preface
Castle of Glass
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at https://archiveofourown.org/works/77845401.
- Rating:
- Explicit
- Archive Warning:
- No Archive Warnings Apply
- Category:
- M/M
- Fandoms:
- Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
- Relationships:
- Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter
- Characters:
- Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Shane Hollander, Kip Grady
- Additional Tags:
- Hook-Up, Casual Sex, Falling In Love, Developing Relationship, Developing Friendships, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Grief, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Loneliness, Sexual Content, Pining, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Scott Hunter Needs a Hug (Game Changers), Suicidal Thoughts, Hockey Injuries, Parallels, Good Friend Ilya Rozanov, Eventual Memory Loss
- Language:
- English
- Stats:
- Published: 2026-01-17 Completed: 2026-03-04 Words: 22,399 Chapters: 7/7
Castle of Glass
Summary
Ilya googles Scott Hunter in his hotel room at night. He reads some interviews too.
Scott Hunter is an orphan. He lost his parents when he was twelve. A drunk driver killed them both.
Twelve.
Ilya’s stomach tightens into a knot. He can’t keep the memories away. They’re rising from the grave he tried to bury them in so many times. Mama.
~
Ilya, Scott, and the transformation of their relationship(s).
Chapter 1: Casual
Chapter Notes
Quick note about the plot: While Ilya and Scott do hook up in the first chapter, they still fall in love with their respective soulmates and develop a friendship over the course of this fic.
Trigger warnings: There's discussion of suicide, depression, and death/grief in this fic.
Scott Hunter tries to be friendly when they meet for the first time.
He smiles at Ilya and shakes his hand firmly. Talented, he calls Ilya. Daring and confident. Promises him a bright future.
Ilya smirks and says, "I will beat you at hockey soon. And you will see me take home all the prizes. Then you will not be so friendly, old man."
Scott Hunter frowns, his smile fading.
“Don’t be too cocky, rook,” he tells Ilya, then, with the sharp edge of a warning in his voice, and oh, there’s still fire in his eyes. Ilya likes to see it. He likes to feel a lick of fire when he plays.
Cocky. Ilya has to look up that word later. And he laughs. Cocky. He likes this word.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ilya asks when he meets Scott Hunter at the face-off line, and they glare at each other. “Do you not want to go home and take a nap? Or a bath? Is good for your old bones, yes?”
“Shut up, Rozanov,” Hunter says, his eyes narrowing. “I’m going to beat your over-confident ass today.”
Ilya smirks. He wins the face-off. But they lose the game.
One time, Hunter pushes him into the boards roughly, and Ilya laughs in delight, shoving back as hard as he can.
Scott Hunter is fun on the ice.
Just like Hollander, he’s less fun when he is dressed in a serious suit, holding a glass of champagne, talking and listening to boring people, acting like he cares what they are saying.
Still hot. Like Hollander. But boring. Like Hollander.
Ilya misses freckles and listens to his own boring people. His father, eyes cold like ice, his voice filled with disdain.
„He’s lazy. He won’t be successful if he doesn’t work harder. The boy has no discipline …“
Ilya just nods in agreement, pressing his lips together. He’s used to this. Used to never being enough. He wonders what Hollander and Hunter are listening to. Wonders if they are also fighting the urge to scream and prove that they are working day and night to be the best. Wonders if they are also thinking of someone who can’t be here tonight.
I wish she could see me now.
She would smile. And she would tell me how proud she is.
She would hug me, so I feel warm.
And she would say: I love you, Ilya. I love you.
Ilya googles Scott Hunter in his hotel room at night. He also reads some interviews.
Scott Hunter is an orphan. He lost his parents when he was twelve. A drunk driver killed them both.
Twelve.
Ilya’s stomach tightens into a knot. He can’t keep the memories away. They’re rising from the grave he tried to bury them in so many times. Mama.
Mama is lying on the floor. Ilya sees himself walking into the room, with a cold fist of fear curling around his heart. He sees her hair spread out like a halo around her ghostly pale face, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. The little bottle beside her lifeless hand. Empty.
Empty.
Twelve.
Ilya shakes himself.
Scott Hunter doesn’t have a family.
Scott Hunter doesn’t seem to have a partner.
Scott Hunter doesn’t seem to have anyone outside of hockey.
He only ever talks about hockey.
There is little to no information about his private life.
Ilya wonders if Hunter also sees his mother’s smiling face in front of him when he wins. Does he also yearn for her hug and her voice? Does he dream about his parents too, in a way that makes his chest glow but leaves a bitter taste in his throat when he wakes up?
Stop thinking, idiot, Ilya tells himself, reaching for a cigarette.
Even if Ilya weren’t just an asshole who bothers him on the ice, Hunter would never tell him about what’s going on inside his mind or his dreams. And Ilya would never tell anyone either.
Just another annoying similarity.
Hollander wins the shot accuracy competition at the All-Star game. The satisfied grin he throws at Ilya makes his eyes sparkle, and his stupid freckles are way too visible in the too bright light.
Ilya wants to kiss that grin off his face; he wants to slip his tongue between Hollander’s lips when they open in a moan. He wants to fuck Hollander’s throat again, wants to see his eyes fill with tears again. He wants to hear Hollander breathe his name.
He wants to put a finger on his stupid freckles and see if they form a constellation.
Scott Hunter is there, too. He pats Hollander’s back when he sits down and says something to him, probably congratulating him.
Hollander looks almost startled, ducking his head with a nervous smile as he glances at Hunter in barely hidden awe. Ilya scoffs.
He murmurs his room number to Hollander when he skates past.
“Scott Hunter is right next door,” Hollander hisses, wide-eyed and flushed an adorable shade of cherry red, as he stumbles inside.
Good, Ilya thinks.
He hopes Hunter can hear Hollander moan.
Ilya looks over the railing at the Vegas city lights stretching out in front of him endlessly.
His stomach tightens whenever he thinks about what just happened.
Hollander doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it that Ilya feels empty whenever he returns to that place full of people who look at him like he’s … nothing.
Hollander doesn’t get it. Hollander, with his family. His supportive family.
Hollander‘s Dad isn’t slowly forgetting that his mom already died. He doesn’t have a brother who constantly asks for money and nothing else.
Ilya hates going back to Russia.
But he can’t tell anyone. He has to keep on the mask and act like everything’s fine. What else is he supposed to do? He has a role to play. They all do.
And maybe, there’s some tiny, stupid part of him that hasn’t yet given up hope that his father will say he’s proud before he forgets that Ilya is a hockey star. Before he forgets he has a son.
“You won’t go after him?”
Ilya winces. The unexpected words cut through the rushing noise in his brain like a knife. He turns his head, seeing Scott Hunter standing there, a champagne glass in his hand and a calculating expression on his face.
“What?” Ilya asks. He doesn’t understand.
“Hollander just passed me, looking … distressed.”
Ilya isn’t sure if he knows what the word means. Is it like stressed? He shrugs and blows a cloud of smoke into the night air. “Okay. I’m not thinking I’m his Dad. Not like you.”
Hunter is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “It’s difficult, isn’t it? All this performing. And the … hiding.”
Ilya grunts. He snips the cigarette away and glances at Hunter, who looks so perfect and so in control with his black suit, his trimmed beard, and his gel-slick hair.
Ilya wants to ruin him a little and look at what lies underneath.
“Do you have a room?”
Ilya wastes no time taking off his clothes.
“And?” He asks, turning and spreading his arms with a smirk. “Best body you have ever seen naked in your long, long life, yes?”
Hunter scoffs. “You’re so fucking self-confident, you know?” He says, a disbelieving smile playing around his lips, as he starts to loosen his tie and unbutton his cuffs.
“I think you like it,” Ilya says and shrugs.
Hunter also likes it when Ilya pulls his hair, pushes him to the floor, and fucks his throat.
He’s fun to play with.
And he’s hot.
Two facts.
Another fact: This might never happen again. Maybe it should never happen again. It’s fine, Ilya thinks. He was curious. Curious about masks and what might be hiding underneath them. And now he knows.
But. It’s still not enough.
“Let me fuck you,” Ilya says, stroking his wet cock back to hardness. “I’ll make it good for you. Promise."
Hunter wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes on Ilya’s cock. He hesitates. But then, he says, “No,” and goes to take a shower.
Ilya watches his ass until the bathroom door closes, then he falls back on the bed with a sigh and closes his eyes.
Freckles. Freckles and a grin that makes brown eyes sparkle in the lights of the arena …
Soft lips, wrapped around Ilya’s fingers. Long lashes, fluttering. The whisper of his name as he runs his fingers through dark hair.
Ilya’s eyes snap open, and his throat tightens with dread.
He listens to the noise of rushing water and the thundering of his own wildly beating heart, and he knows:
I’m so fucked.
Ilya is still filled with adrenaline from the game when he goes to the address Scott Hunter texted him with a “If you’re interested”. The game he won.
Everything is going great.
Ilya is amazing at hockey. His father is losing himself in Russia. Alexei wants more money, always more. Hollander is going out with Rose Landry. The paparazzi pictures are all over the internet. She’s smiling, with her hand on his arm. And Hollander. Is smiling too. With his arm. Wrapped around her. They look happy.
Everything is going great.
And Hunter moans when Ilya pushes him against the wall, claiming his mouth like it’s some kind of trophy.
“Let me fuck you this time,” Ilya says, pouting, running his fingers down Hunter’s abs teasingly, until he can palm his erection. Firmly. “Come on. I won. It can be my prize, yes?”
Hunter snorts. “Is that what I am to you? A prize?”
But Ilya can see the moment he’s giving in, the moment arousal is winning.
“Alright,” Hunter says.
He goes on his hands and knees, sighing when Ilya runs his hand over the line of his spine, arching and pushing into it like a touch-starved cat.
Everything is going great.
Ilya loses himself in the heat of the moment. He’s good at this. He’s good at sex. At giving people pleasure. He’s good at sex. He’s good at hockey. Everyone knows that. Ilya knows it.
Hunter curses and pushes back against Ilya’s fingers greedily.
Yes. Ilya is good at this. He knows how to do this. He’s in control. And nothing about this situation is making him feel like he’s about to fall off a ledge. Like he’s balancing on the dangerously fine line between pleasure and pleasure with emotions. Nothing about this makes him feel like he’s about to destroy something so precious that he still doesn’t understand how it ended up in his hands. His useless hands. His stupid heart, which always, stupidly, goes back to beating for a certain smile.
Everything is going great.
Ilya pushes his cock in with a satisfied groan. He doesn’t move until Hunter starts to writhe, clearly getting impatient.
“Damnit,” he bites. “Move already, Rozanov.”
Ilya laughs.
“You need something? Get it then,” he says, slapping Hunter’s ass once, hard.
“Oh, fuck you,” Hunter says, annoyed, but he does move. He fucks himself on Ilya’s cock, shuddering and moaning.
Transfixed, Ilya watches the muscles moving in Hunter’s back.
He feels good. But it’s not enough. So he puts his hands on Hunter’s hips and starts to fuck him fast and hard.
“Jesus,” Hunter gasps, burying his face in the crook of his elbow, his moans muffled. His body is being pushed forward by the force of Ilya’s thrusts, and he reaches out with one hand, bracing himself against the headboard.
Ilya doesn’t stop. And he isn’t told to.
He chases his release, sweat rolling down his face and back, his heart thundering in his chest. When he filled the condom and the pleasant daze is about to turn back to annoying clarity, he pulls out and says, “Turn around.”
Hunter obeys and gasps, wide-eyed, as Ilya immediately bends down to swallow his cock.
“Fuck, Rozanov.”
It doesn’t take long, sadly, until he bucks his hips up and comes into Ilya's mouth with shaky moans.
“You’re horribly good at this,” Hunter tells him hoarsely, looking fucked out. His skin is flushed, and when he sits up with a tired groan, Ilya can see the red marks where he dug his fingers in. “It’s annoying.”
“I know,” Ilya says with a smirk. “Everyone tells me so.”
Hunter hums, unsurprised. He glances at Ilya. Clears his throat. “Does … anyone know?”
“About this?” Ilya raises his brow. “No. I’m not stupid, you know?"
“No. About you,” Hunter says. “About you liking men.”
I like women. I also like you.
Ilya’s chest tightens. He nods. “Yeah.”
Hunter looks at him for a long moment. “You have feelings for him,” he says quietly.
“I don’t have feelings,” Ilya bursts. He gets up. Reaches for his clothes.
Scott Hunter smiles weakly. “No feelings? Sounds like a dream.”
Ilya scowls. “Everything was going great,” he remarks sullenly, pulling up his pants. “Then you make it weird. Well done, old man. This is how you thank me for amazing orgasm.”
Hunter shakes his head, still smiling. “Thank you. It was the last time. It can’t happen again.”
“Okay,” Ilya says angrily, gesturing. “Whatever.”
“I mean it,” Hunter says seriously. “Get your shit together, Rozanov. You’re an asshole. But not that much of an asshole.”
“Fuck you,” Ilya mutters. He leaves in a hurry.
Everything was going great.
Everything.
Great.
Another picture of them appears on his phone. Ilya wants to shatter it.
Chapter 2: Rage
“What has happened to Scott Hunter? He has zero, zero points. He’s in a fog. He’s barely skating …”
Scott runs. He runs and pants like he’s being chased, while angrily listening to Man in the Crease, the podcast picking apart his current performance.
Yes. Scott is playing horribly. He’s aware of that.
Articles, social media, and podcasts predict that he will retire soon. Say that he should retire soon.
Scott doesn’t want to retire. Not yet. Not ever.
He shudders and runs faster. Tries to outrun the irritation buzzing right underneath his skin and the ticking clock in his head.
Scott doesn’t know how much time he has actually left until he has to start thinking about what he’s going to do with the rest of his life. Doesn’t know how much time he has left win the cup with his team. He doesn’t know how to deal with the idea of not having a schedule and having so much time on his hands that he’s going to start to think.
Who is he going to be without hockey? What is he going to be without hockey?
Lonely, a mean voice in his head whispers. Lonely and useless.
Faster. Scott runs even faster. Until he can’t hear the words of the podcast anymore over the noise of his own blood rushing in his ears and his heart jackrabbiting in his aching chest.
But he can’t run away from his own thoughts forever. Eventually, Scott has to stop, bending over and trying to catch his breath, the world blurring in front of his eyes and sweat running down his back.
He can’t go on like this. He can’t continue playing this badly.
The last time they met on the ice, Ilya Rozanov told Scott he’s playing like a senile penguin that forgot how to move on snow.
Rozanov, with his smirks and his gleaming eyes and his irritating confidence. With his talented, strong hands, his warm, rough lips, and his big cock.
Scott doesn’t exactly regret the two times they had sex. They used each other. It’s fine. It was the way of having sex that Scott is very familiar with anyway, and it’s easier when it’s someone you know for sure won’t tell anyone.
And it had felt good. God, it had felt good. Like something Scott could get addicted to way too easily. Especially with how long he had to go without any kind of intimacy, without touching and being touched. He wakes up in a too-big bed, in a too-big apartment. It really is no wonder that he took the chance when it was offered.
But Scott can’t let himself get addicted to a jerk like Rozanov. Especially not, with whatever is going on between Rozanov and Hollander. Scott refuses to be in the middle of that kind of mess. He refuses to find himself between Rozanov’s mask of indifference and Shane Hollander’s sad puppy eye glances.
No, Scott can’t let himself get too involved with whatever is going on between these two. It’s not his business. But he does hope they find some way to deal with it. Because … He knows it’s lonely out there. In the hockey world. Where slurs are thrown around in locker rooms and in the audience and on the ice - and you have to act like you don’t hear it, like it doesn’t affect you, because you are part of that world. It’s the only world you've got, and if you lose it, there will be nothing else, and there are too many people in that life expecting you to be what they want you to be.
Yes, Scott knows he has to focus on his game. He has to be better. He has to get a grip. He has to focus on what is really important. His life is hockey. Hockey is his life. It’s been like this ever since he can remember. Ever since his parents handed him a pair of skates and a stick and smiled at him, calling him talented. Ever since someone dressed him in his first suit and put him in front of an open grave, telling him that he’s going to make his parents proud.
He has to be better. For them. For himself. For his team. For everybody who relies on him.
Scott catches his breath, looks up, stumbles into a smoothie bar, and everything changes in a matter of seconds.
The simple truth is: Kip Grady is too good to be a part of Scott Hunter’s world.
He’s too good.
He’s too kind.
He’s too smart.
He’s too much sunshine for Scott, who is watching from his corner, hidden away from the world, as Kip’s friends orbit him, laugh with him, love him, and celebrate him. And Scott knows, he can’t pull Kip into that corner with him. Kip deserves to be free.
He deserves sunshine. And so do you.
But that’s where Kip’s friend Elena was wrong. Scott doesn’t deserve sunshine. And he sure as hell doesn’t deserve someone like Kip.
So he leaves.
And drags himself back to his world.
Rozanov grins at him, all teeth and his crooked nose scrunched up. “You ready to lose, old man?” He asks. Confident. Cocky. His usual self.
And Scott can’t deal with this today. He’s bringing anger and an aching heart to this game, and he just wants it to be over so he can mourn in peace. “Shut up, Rozanov.”
Rozanov raises a brow. “That’s all you got? Sad.”
Scott snarls, his lips pulling back from his teeth. “I swear to God. If you don’t back off, I’m going to fucking punch you.”
Rozanov chuckles, winks at him, and skates away.
Scott plays horribly. They are about to lose. Kip probably hates him. What’s new?
Rozanov pouts when he skates closer to Scott again. “What happened? You were good for a while. Now you’re bad again. Is it because of me? I make you nervous?”
Scott grits his teeth, tightening the grip around his stick. “Shut up.”
Rozanov sighs in playful sadness. “Guess I have to entertain the audience alone today, yes? You’re too slow and old. They want to see young and fast today, I think.”
Scott pushes him. Hard. “I said shut up.”
Rozanov’s eyes widen, an expression of pure delight appearing on his face. “You’re strong for a fossil.”
Scott punches him in the face.
There’s blood.
The audience gasps.
And Rozanov is laughing.
And people are pulling Scott back, pulling him to the penalty box, when he lunges for the Russian, throwing insults at him over his shoulder, the constant buzz under his skin changing into white, hot rage that demands to be let out, that makes him see red and makes his blood boil.
And this, he thinks grimly, this is why Kip is too good for him, too.
Rozanov texts like he does everything. Out of nowhere. Bluntly. And always so damn bossy.
R: Where do you live? Send me your address.
Scott scoffs and shakes his head. Unbelievable. It’s just like Rozanov to completely ignore what happened earlier this day.
H: If you showed up at my apartment, I would probably punch you again.
R: Come on. I’m in New York. And I’m bored. Give me address.
H: I’m not fucking you.
R: Okay. You sure you don’t need it?
H: Get lost, Rozanov.
R: Relax. No fucking. I bring you something, yes? A gift.
Scott raises a doubtful brow. A gift? What the hell ... Scott isn’t sure he would like whatever kind of gift Ilya Rozanov has in mind. But he has to admit he’s curious now. He looks around, at the silent emptiness of his apartment that manages to scare him today, and swallows.
Whatever …
Ilya Rozanov enters and moves like he owns the apartment. Scott is not surprised at all. He watches as the Russian looks around - with the expression of someone who sees exactly what he expected - and finally blows a raspberry, gesturing at Scott’s neatly organized, clean shelves, “This place is very boring. But I’m not surprised.” His lips twitch in quiet amusement.
“Did you come here just to annoy me again?” Scott asks.
Rozanov shrugs and places the bottle he brought on Scott’s table. “Is best vodka you will ever drink,” he promises.
Scott fetches two glasses and raises a brow. “Are you sure? Let me taste it first.”
It is indeed the best vodka he ever had.
Rozanov looks at him with a knowing smirk. “Is good, yes?”
Scott puts his glass down, glancing at Rozanov. “Why are you here? I punched you today.”
“You did,” Rozanov says, grinning, touching his split lip. “Nice to see you still can fight. But that was on the ice. And I, uh, annoyed you. Is fine.”
Huh. That sounds almost apologetic. At least in Rozanov-speak. Scott is surprised.
But there’s more. Scott can sense it. It floats in the air between them. Something heavy.
Rozanov remains silent, though, his lips pressed together, forming a thin line. Maybe he doesn’t know how to say what he wants to say. Or maybe he can’t find the words. Scott waits. Gives him time. Finally, Rozanov runs two restless fingers over the wood of the table and asks, “You are not out. In closet, yes?”
Scott frowns. Well. That’s a surprising change in conversation topic. “Yes,” he says carefully.
“But you like men?”
“I do.” Scott thinks of Kip. Kip, with his beautiful eyes and smile. Kip, who laughs so freely and hugs easily. Warmly. His chest tightens. It still hurts as much as the day he turned away from the bar and Kip with his friends instead of entering it and joining them.
“Only men?” Rozanov asks.
Scott nods. “Only men.”
“Hm.” Rozanov chews his lip. Then says, “I like both. Women. And men.”
“Okay. So you’re bisexual,” Scott states.
“Yes. Bisexual.” Rozanov takes a sip of vodka, his expression thoughtful. “I like a man. Boring man. More boring than you.“
Scott almost starts to laugh. A man. “I know you do. Does he happen to like you back?”
“I think so,” Rozanov says in this suddenly so serious voice, tilting his head to the side in a way that makes him look surprisingly adorable. “I hope so. How do you know?”
“I’m not an expert,” Scott says bitterly. “All I’ve ever done are hook-ups. Like what we did. I took what I could get. Until … I like a man too.”
Rozanov raises a brow. “You … find someone?”
Someone who feels like sunshine.
Scott’s chest tightens. “Yes. But I … I had to let him go.”
“Is that why you are angry?” Rozanov asks, frowning. Oh. He’s fast. Too fast.
“It’s difficult,” Scott says tensely, avoiding the searching eyes, looking at his glass instead. At the liquid that reflects the lights from the ceiling. “It’s difficult to be happy with a man you like in hockey.”
Rozanov is silent. Then he says, barely audible, “Is difficult in Russia too.”
Of course.
Scott looks up, looks at Rozanov, who now has an expression on his face that seems almost … pained. Tinged with calm, controlled anger.
He doesn’t have anyone, Scott thinks then, with sudden clarity. He doesn’t have anyone to talk to about this. That’s why he’s here. And all I can offer him is more anger, more sadness, more silence. Fuck.
Get your shit together, Scott had told Rozanov the last time they were together. The last time they touched. But he didn’t think of how difficult that was going to be for the younger man.
Feeling a sting of guilt, Scott desperately searches for words in his own, anger-blurred mind. “Look,” he finally says, “I know it’s difficult. It always will be. But … if it’s real, I’m sure you’re going to notice, and you’re going to find a way to get through the difficult stuff together. You. And the man you like.”
Rozanov looks at him seriously, processing the words, then tilting his head. “You think so?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Rozanov chugs down the rest of his vodka. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pushes his chair back, about to get up. But then he hesitates, glances at Scott, and says, “Thank you. For time. And … maybe you can find a way too, yes? With the man you like.”
Surprise tugs at Scott’s heart. A little bit of warmth fills his chest at the words, spoken with serious honesty. “I hope so,” he says quietly.
Rozanov nods. “See you on the ice,” he says, and then his confident trademark smirk is back. “When I wipe it with you and your team again.”
“Dream on,” Scott tells him dryly. “Next time, I’m going to beat your cocky ass again.”
Rozanov winks and leaves.
Chapter 3: Happiness
Ilya’s father is getting worse.
He fades away in Russia. Withers like a dying flower in autumn, his memories falling like petals, one by one. He doesn’t recognise anyone or anything. His eyes are icy mirrors now, unseeing, only reflecting, as he sits frozen in his chair.
For several months, Ilya balances on the fine edge between the hope that all of this will be over soon and the realisation that now, he will never hear his father saying he’s proud, because his father doesn’t even remember he has a son who plays hockey. At the same time, Ilya is angry at himself for still longing for this kind of attention and validation.
He shouldn’t. Not anymore. He’s not a child. He hasn’t been a child ever since he touched Mama’s cold face and held her lifeless hand, waiting beside her until help that was no longer helpful would arrive.
And yet, it still stings when Ilya hears other players talking about visiting their parents. When he sees Hollander with his overbearing, but loving, parents. When he sees parents in the audience, smiling at their kids, eyes filled with the warm glow of pride.
Ilya wonders if Scott Hunter feels the same.
Wonders if Scott Hunter also dreams about his mother.
Wonders if Scott Hunter has had enough concussions in his career to be scared of experiencing symptoms of CTE one day, like Ilya is scared of experiencing symptoms of depression and dementia because it grows in his family, because it’s genetic.
Ilya almost texts Hunter once. But he tells himself it would be too much for the kind of relationship they have. He also doesn’t text Hollander. He’s alone with this.
Alone with the nightmares that always find him when he’s here. When he’s … home.
Mama is singing in the kitchen. Quietly. Softly.
The sound of her voice and the smell of breakfast carry Ilya into the room, and Mama smiles at him. A real smile that even reaches her tired eyes.
Mama’s body is warm and soft when she pulls Ilya into a hug, and she smiles into his hair, kissing his head. Whispers "Solnyshko". My little sun.
Mama is sitting stiffly during dinner, her eyes staring straight ahead, her fingers gripping the fork so tightly that her knuckles are turning white. Ilya wants to reach out and put her hand on his, to ease the pressure. He wants to tell her something nice. Something that will distract her from the displeased glares of his father.
But he doesn’t dare to break the silence.
Mama is sitting in a chair by the window, staring outside with a blank expression on her paper-white face.
And Ilya wants to ask her: What are you seeing?
But he doesn’t dare to break the silence.
Mama is lying on the floor, her hair spread around her like a halo.
And Ilya wants to ask: Mama? Mama, what is wrong? Mama, why won’t you get up?
But he doesn’t dare to break the silence.
He just sits down beside her, taking her clammy hand. And he holds it, thinking: There is no more pressure now.
Ilya wakes up from these dreams with tears drying on his cheeks.
He stares at the empty space beside him and misses Hollander. Shane. Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, horrified at how much it hurts to just think about him.
This is a problem, Ilya thinks. I have a problem.
A problem with freckles, dark hair, brown eyes, a bright smile, gentle hands, and a cute scrunched nose. Freckles, always the freckles … Ilya wants to touch them now. Wants to see if they form constellations. Seeing those freckles makes him smile. Seeing Shane Hollander makes Ilya smile. Touching him makes him smile. Makes him feel warm. Makes him feel things he hasn’t ever felt before.
Fuck.
Ilya shudders and turns on his back, blinking up at the ceiling.
He doesn’t want to be here.
He doesn’t want to look into his father’s glass eyes.
And he doesn’t want to be alone.
Hollander looks good. Figuring things out looks good on him.
“We just weren’t, um, compatible,” he says about him and Rose Landry. Almost casually.
“Compatible” might be Ilya’s new favourite English word, especially paired with “not”.
Not compatible.
Hollander and Rose Landry. Not compatible.
They are not together.
Hollander and Rose Landry are not together.
Ilya has to put a hand over his mouth to hide the satisfied smile that spreads on his face. He can’t control it. Just like he can’t control the fact that he always thinks about Shane Hollander, that he always wants to touch Shane Hollander, that he wants to hold him through the night, making sure no one takes him away.
It’s a problem.
“I think I’m gay,” Hollander says next.
“I know you feel it too,” he tells Ilya in a hotel room, sitting on the bed, fidgeting nervously, and glancing at Ilya with his warm eyes.
And Ilya … Ilya is scared. Because he does feel it. And it’s a problem. Because … Something like this, something so precious, something so warm and happy ... how is Ilya supposed to handle it with his stupid, clumsy hands? They were not made for something like this. They were made to handle a hockey stick and push people. And his stupid, clumsy heart. It wasn’t made for something like this. It was made to be hardened glass. It was made to withstand, not to open and risk being shattered.
Ilya can’t do this.
“We can’t be more,” he tells Hollander.
But Hollander pushes. “Would you want to, if we could?”
Ilya grits his teeth. “We can’t.”
Please. Don’t do this, Hollander. Don’t tell me dreams like this one can be real. I am okay with what we have, as long as I can see you now and then. As long as you don’t disappear from my life completely, I can be content.
“I can’t keep pretending I don’t like you,” Hollander says quietly.
Ilya almost starts to laugh. “You don’t like me. Look. Let’s keep it simple. We meet. We fuck. We text. Let’s … Let’s keep doing that. It works, yes?”
Hollander looks … hurt.
Good, Ilya thinks. Simple is what they can have. They can’t have more. They can’t be more.
“Okay,” Hollander says, barely audible.
Ilya is used to breaking things. He is used to focusing on himself and getting better than everyone else because that's what he was told to do. He doesn’t know how to fix things and grow them into something beautiful.
R: I counted one fossil less on the ice today. Are you really still lying in your bed? Did the puck you caught with your stomach shatter your old bones?
That’s how you win games now? You don’t try to score goals anymore, you jump in front of pucks? Isn't it a little dramatic, yes?
Is your body always falling apart from a little bruise?
Hello. Are you still alive?
Or did you die of old age while I was typing this?
H: Oh my God. Shut up!
R: There you are. I’m bored. Let’s go out.
H: I’m still recovering, you fucking asshole.
R: Okay. I’m going to visit you at home then. Do you need something? What do old people need? Tissues? Balm? An oxygen mask? New bones?
Hunter doesn’t reply to the last message.
Ilya shrugs to himself. He already has Hunter’s address anyway. So he just goes to his boring apartment.
“I can’t remember inviting you,” Hunter says when he opens the door, glaring. And he looks really tired, with shadows under his eyes, his hair tousled, and his skin pale. He wears a hoodie that looks too big and sweatpants. He also holds himself slightly bent forward. Ilya wonders how much his stomach still hurts after catching that puck with it in the last game. It must have hurt like hell.
"It's late," Hunter points out. "What do you want?"
"Late?” Ilya asks, raising a brow. "Maybe for old people. It's not even fully dark. You really want to go to bed already?"
Hunter groans and rubs his temples. “Go away.”
“I brought the good vodka,” Ilya points out, raising the bottle in an offering gesture.
Hunter eyes it and sighs in defeat. “Fine. Come in. You always know how to get what you want anyway.”
Ilya steps into the apartment and frowns. Something is different. It’s not as clean as the last time he was here. Some take-away containers on the counter, dirty dishes in the sink, and plants that start to turn yellow at the edges of their leaves. He watches as Hunter limps into the kitchen and grimaces as he fetches two glasses from a cupboard. He must be bruised quite badly, Ilya thinks. And he must lack the energy to keep his space as neat as he usually does. Is this about hockey? Or about the man he had to let go?
Finally, Hunter slumps on the couch with a half-relieved, half-pained sound. “Well,” he says, glancing at Ilya. “Here’s your chance to make fun of me. Come on. Say what you want to say.”
“You look tired,” Ilya says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Wow. That’s all you got today?” Hunter asks, raising a brow. "Cheap."
Ilya shrugs. He pulls a chair in front of the couch and sits. “You’re hurt."
“Yeah.” Hunter takes a sip of vodka, and there’s something bitter in his voice. “True. I can’t believe I’m so visibly miserable that even Ilya Rozanov won’t tease me about it. Why are you here again, anyway? You could go out with your teammates. You could stay at your hotel and relax. We didn’t even play against each other, and yet, here you are. Did you just want to see me moping over the fact that I’m injured and lonely?”
“Lonely?” Ilya echoes.
Hunter grimaces, putting a hand over his eyes. “Fuck. Whatever. Forget what I said. It’s the meds. They make me pathetic.”
Ilya nods. He pours himself more vodka, chugs it down, and says, “My father is dying.”
Hunter swallows. “I’m sorry to hear that," he says seriously.
Ilya wasn’t even planning to reveal this piece of truth. But it felt surprisingly good to blurt it out. He shrugs. “He forgot that I exist. Because of his sickness. And I don’t want to go back there. But I have to. When he dies, I go back, and I bury him. Maybe after that, I won’t have to go back. Ever.”
Hunter nods. He listens. Just listens. It’s … nice, Ilya realises.
“I hate it there,” he adds. “Everyone there looks at me like I’m nothing. I’d rather be here. I’d rather be … with him.”
With his problem. His problem with freckles.
Hunter sips his vodka and hums. “I hope you can,” he says softly. “You two deserve to be happy.”
Happy.
Ilya allows himself to think about what would make him happy.
He thinks back to Florida, when he was sitting at the beach, watching the sunset with Hollander by his side, their fingers brushing against each other, their smiles finding each other. Happy. He felt happy then.
“What about you?” He asks Hunter. Then tilts his head and adds, “Old people can be happy too. I think.”
Hunter smiles weakly, his eyes filling with the pain Ilya knows so well now. The pain of longing. “Well. Thank you. I’m … working on it. I guess. We have been texting each other for the last few weeks. It’s not easy. But we realised we can’t stop thinking about each other. Can't stop talking to each other. So. Maybe there’s hope.”
Hope.
Ilya hopes Hollander can forgive him somehow.
He looks at his glass for a moment, wondering about this moment of comfortable silence he is able to share with Scott Hunter. Other people, he thinks, would be surprised to see them like this. They would think they’re enemies, probably. But they are not. Are they friends? It almost feels like it, Ilya thinks.
“What now?” He asks.
Hunter takes another sip of vodka, then says firmly, “I’m going to win the Cup.”
Ilya considers it. He has to admit the Admirals’ chances are high this season. Svetlana said so. Hollander too. “Hm. Maybe. Maybe it’s your last chance. With how old you are. Last chance to end in a history book before you die of old age.”
“My last chance to win the Cup. My last chance to be happy. Before I die. Sounds like a lot of pressure,” Hunter says dryly, leaning back with a groan, his hand resting on his stomach, where he must be bruised from his brave action.
“Maybe give up on one thing,” Ilya suggests with a grin. “Let the younger and more beautiful player win the Cup.”
Hunter snorts and rolls his eyes. “Get lost, Rozanov.”
But he doesn’t sound like he means it.
Ilya leans back with a smirk. Yes. He likes this. Whatever it is. It made him feel better.
Maybe they can both be happy someday. He would like that.
Ilya’s father dies.
Russia is cold and filled with a thousand scornful eyes. They never loved him. They never will. Nothing here matters.
In a tunnel in the dark, Ilya tells Shane Hollander that he loves him. In Russian.
It hurts, and he cries.
He cries for Mama, for Shane Hollander, for Svetlana, for himself, for every chance of happiness that was never taken because of hearts that are made of ice so thick, it takes ages to make them melt.
His is melting right now.
And this ... This is not a home.
Hollander is smiling. He looks back over his shoulder, looks at Ilya, and he’s smiling.
The moment burns itself into Ilya’s brain. He will replay it in front of his eyes again and again.
Hollander smiles.
And then he’s hit by Marlow’s massive body. He’s hit, and he goes down instantly.
Ilya’s heart falls into his stomach. He feels cold as he stops, as he watches, his blood rushing in his ears.
Hollander on the ice. Hollander is not moving. Hollander. Shane …
Ilya almost screams with the need to reach for him, to touch him, to make sure he’s okay.
But he can’t.
He can only watch and despair in silence.
H: Hey. I saw what happened to Shane. That looked like a nasty crash. Are you okay?
Ilya stares at the words, his stomach clenching.
This … is too nice. Too nice for Ilya. Ilya has never been this nice to Scott Hunter. And he is never sure how to react to words that aren’t meant to sting. How to react to a real question like this.
But it makes sense, of course. Scott Hunter is the only one - besides Svetlana - who is aware of what was and is going on between Ilya and Hollander. He is the only one who would suspect how worried Ilya is right now.
R: I am going to the hospital now.
Ilya hesitates. Then types:
R: Thank you. For caring.
H: Sure. I hope he’s going to recover quickly!
Hollander looks small in the hospital bed. Small and vulnerable.
But he smiles when he sees Ilya.
He smiles, and he wants Ilya close, reaching out for him pleadingly.
“Come to my cottage,” Hollander says. “Don’t go to Russia."
And Ilya’s heart aches. Oh, how it aches with need.
He brushes Hollander’s warm cheek with his knuckles, wishing he could slip into bed with him and hold him in his arms until he’s feeling better.
“It’s so private,” Hollander says, his words slurred from medication. “No one will know.”
Ilya bites his lip. A part of him wants to say yes. Another part of him still hesitates because it sounds too good. It sounds too real. It sounds … Like it would make him happy.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly, carefully holding Hollander’s hand until the door opens and he has to pretend his chest isn’t aching with the need to stay here, to never let go, to stare at Hollander’s face and make sure he’s alive.
Scott Hunter wins the Cup.
Ilya watches, crossing his arms over his chest and pretending to be irritated in front of Svetlana. But inside, he’s happy for Scott Hunter. Just a little, of course.
He watches, and he can’t help but notice that even during this wonderful moment of celebration, Scott Hunter is lonely as soon as he passes the Cup on.
The ice is being flooded by the families of other players.
No one is coming for Scott Hunter.
Maybe no one else notices this detail. But Ilya, who has tasted the same kind of loneliness, does. He watches, and he thinks of the way he used to imagine his mother in the audience, clapping and beaming at him. He imagined she would hug him after the game and tell him he did well. That she’s proud. Ilya knows his brother would call him pathetic for this fantasy. He knows his father would have scoffed and called him weak. But he doesn’t care. Not anymore.
He wonders if Scott Hunter is imagining his parents would be there right now, to celebrate him.
Ilya watches. And frowns when he sees Hunter skating away from the crowd of people on the ice. Instead, he’s looking at the audience. Waving. Waving at … someone.
Oh.
Ilya’s eyes widen in surprise as the camera turns, and a guy is getting up and walking down the stairs.
Is this Hunter’s man? What is he doing? What is the plan?
Ilya watches, transfixed, only briefly distracted by Hollander texting him, just as confused.
Jane: What is he doing?
Lily: I have no idea.
Ilya watches. And in front of his disbelieving eyes, Scott Hunter kisses a man, his man, on the lips. In front of everyone.
Ilya’s lips part, and a disbelieving gasp escapes him. He stares at the screen, frozen, his heart pounding in his chest. He can't believe this is happening.
Scott Hunter is kissing his man right there on the ice, on live television, watched by everyone. Seen by everyone. And he’s not stopping. He’s kissing his man like they’re alone down there. Like nothing else matters.
Nothing but them. Nothing but their happiness.
Jane: What the hell???
Ilya jumps up, Hunter’s words echoing in his head. You two deserve to be happy. You deserve. To be happy. Happy.
He calls Hollander. The second he picks up, Ilya blurts, “I’m coming to the cottage.”
Chapter 4: Beginnings
Scott and clubs have a long, complicated relationship.
In the past, they were like a means to an end. He used them to disappear in an anonymous crowd. He moved like a shadow between other shadows, a mass of people who had no idea who he was.
Somewhere in the depths of pulsating music, flashing lights, and dark corners, Scott would find someone eager to touch, eager to use and be used - for a moment. For a moment, he would get to feel what might be possible in another life.
But now, now he’s here with his boyfriend and his friends, the light shining on them, showing them out, free, together. They are here to celebrate that Scott won “most valuable player” at the MLH Awards.
Kip’s warm hand is resting on Scott’s thigh, their shoulders are brushing against each other, they smile at each other, and it’s still a little surreal. Sometimes Scott feels like he’s walking through a dream he once had. A dream he might wake up from only to find himself back in his big, empty, silent apartment. Alone again. But that doesn’t happen. This is real. As real as it gets.
When he pushes past moving, talking, laughing people to get to the bathroom, Scott glimpses a familiar face in the crowd.
“Rozanov,” he says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
Rozanov shrugs, a drink in his hand, and a familiar, amused expression on his face. “I wanted to see what Scott Hunter Night is about. It’s not so bad. A little boring. A little old people flavoured," he raises his drink with a smirk.
Scott shakes his head in mild disbelief. “Did you really come to Las Vegas just to make fun of me?”
“Maybe,” Rozanov says, grinning happily. But then, his expression shifts back into something more serious. “What you did. It’s good. It might be good for … other people, too.”
Scott knows what he means. Knows who he is referring to.
“I hope so,” he says honestly.
Rozanov nods. He studies Scott closely. Points out, “A lot of people like what you did, I think. But many won’t like it.”
“Yeah. I’m not naive. I know some fans are already burning their jerseys. I know there are hashtags. I deleted social media apps from my phone,” Scott says, seriously. “I already was chronically offline anyway. But now? Even more so. What I do know is that real people love and support what I do. I know there are real people, real hockey players, inspired by what happened, by what we did and showed the world. That’s what really matters to me."
“Good.” Rozanov sips his drink and nods tersely, his eyes wandering around. He mutters, “It matters to me too.”
And because Scott knows the meaning behind these words, his heart aches. Rozanov is one of the hockey players who has to hide. He has to invent stories and find opportunities to be with the man he’s in love with. He has to play a role, has to wear a mask. And Scott feels for him. For them. Feels sadness. Pain. Hope.
“I’m here with some guys from my team. And with Kip. My boyfriend. You, uh, you can stay and hang out with us. If you want to,” he offers gently.
Rozanov seems to hesitate for a moment, his eyes flickering to the table where Carter is wildly gesticulating while telling a story, and everyone is laughing. He scrunches his nose. But finally, he says, “Okay”, his body relaxing visibly. There’s even a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and Scott is happy to see it.
He is tired of pretending he doesn’t enjoy Rozanov’s company.
The morning is still newborn. The sky just started to brighten up. Kip is still asleep. His lips are slightly parted, his breaths even. His face is relaxed and beautiful.
Scott lies on his side, propped up on one elbow with his hand supporting his head, watching his boyfriend with an absent smile.
No alarm today. And Scott used to dread mornings like this. He used to make plans for free days, just so that he wouldn’t have time to think. Time to feel.
But now, he could do this forever. He could stay in bed the whole day, simply watching Kip and feeling the warmth his body radiates.
Can he really wake up to this every day for the rest of his life? Can this really be his life? It seems surreal. Scott feels the sudden urge to wrap his arms around Kip and keep the world out, which is always loud, demanding, and intrusive.
Actions have consequences. And just as expected, Scott’s actions led to a broad spectrum of reactions.
He knows that some people are always going to choose to hate because they are miserable. Because they need an outlet for the irritation that always buzzes under their skin. The internet is just the right place for these people. They can stay anonymous. Can hide behind a little profile picture that doesn’t show their real face. Can hide behind a false name, a made-up identity. They can make hating Scott for his sexuality their entire personality. Just because they want to.
These people are always going to be there. Just like Kip, Scott tries to focus on the good things. Tries to focus on the support. Because it’s there. Visible. Colourful. Loud.
A growing number of pride flags in the audience. Stickers. Pins. Shirts with slogans. Shirts carrying his name, sometimes even his face.
And of course, there are the letter-like emails Scott keeps receiving. Snippets from them floating around in his head like pieces of wood he can hold on to when he feels like drowning in an ocean of doubt, rejection, and fear that someday, someone might be hateful, angry enough, to let actions speak instead of words and hashtags.
Dear Mr. Hunter, I wanted to thank you for what you did. It moved me to tears. And it gave me the courage to come out to my parents.
Dear Scott, what you did was very brave. I held my boyfriend’s hand in public for the first time yesterday.
Dear Mr. Hunter, thank you for showing the world that we all just want to share a beautiful moment with the person we love. Love is love!
Scott has a whole folder for these letters. They lift him up when he feels down. Especially when he reads them together with Kip.
Things are going to be okay, Scott thinks. Of course, there are a lot of extra things he’s doing now. More interviews. Talkshows. Podcasts. He’s being invited as someone who speaks for the queer community. And it’s important. Scott loves to do it.
Even if that means that sometimes, he has to drag his exhausted body home, feeling like a truck hit him, and he can do nothing but fall into bed, allowing himself be held by Kip.
Things are going to be okay. They are together now. They are together, and they can be happy. Right?
Right.
But there is a part of Scott’s mind that is not so easily convinced.
Kip is doing things like breathing. They seem so simple when he does them. Easy. Effortless.
He makes pasta salad. He makes smoothies. He invites Scott to dinner with his Dad. He takes Scott to the Kingfisher so he can meet Kip’s friends. He comes to Scott’s games, waving and smiling.
Scott stumbles through things clumsily. There is a first time for everything. And he can’t help but overanalyse Kip’s reactions.
For so many years, he was used to sticking to the same rules and structures. To a schedule that kept him occupied enough to distract him from his thoughts. And now. Now there are endless possibilities, but there are also endless ways this could go wrong, right? Scott could mess this up. He could mess their relationship up.
Because … Scott doesn’t know how any of this works. He doesn’t know how having a boyfriend works, because he never had one before.
Maybe he’s not doing enough. Or maybe he’s doing too much? Maybe he should do this one specific thing more. Or less? Or maybe -
“Scott. Babe. You’re breathing too fast.”
Oh.
Scott didn’t even notice he was close to hyperventilating.
But Kip is there, hugging him, calming Scott down with his wonderful, solid warmth, telling him, “You’re thinking too much. I can almost hear them. Your thoughts. And they’re lying to you. Everything is fine. You’re doing amazing. I love you. You love me. We are fine, okay? We are fine.”
And Scott rests his forehead on Kip’s shoulder, then, closing his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly.
They are fine. Of course they are. Kip won’t leave. And even if they argue, it doesn’t mean the end of the world. And if Kip needs a little longer to come home, it doesn’t mean he will never come home; it means he’s stuck in traffic or something rational, logical like that. Of course. Scott knows that. Theoretically.
But his mind still obsesses over imaginary storms way too often.
“Maybe you, uh, should talk to someone, Scott,” Kip says one night, when they’re cuddling in bed.
Scott frowns. “I’m talking to someone. I'm talking to you."
Kip hesitates. His fingers start a gentle trail over Scott’s arm. “Yeah. And I’m glad you do. I love talking to you, love listening to you. Always. But … I think it might be good if you also talk to someone who is not part of this relationship, you know? Someone who looks at things from the outside.”
“You think I should see a shrink?” Scott says, stunned.
Something inside him instantly revolts against the mere idea. Because … You go to a shrink if you’re broken, right? If you need fixing. Scott is not broken. He’s just a little stressed. A little anxious. A little scared that the life he has now could find a horrible end somehow.
Life is volatile. It can change every moment, every second. And people … People are fragile.
They leave. They get injured. They die. They die because they’re sick. Or they die because someone decided to drive drunk.
Oh.
Kip is right.
The next morning, Scott makes a list of possible therapist offices he can call.
Not long after that, he bawls his eyes out in his first-ever session. But he feels … lighter, somehow. There are so many things he buried somewhere in his mind and then dragged around for so many years. The loss of his parents. The years of trying to be perfect. To be what everyone around him wanted him to be. And the loneliness.
Things are not fine, Scott realises.
But things are getting better.
He’s working on it.
On himself.
For himself. For Kip. For their relationship. For everyone who relies on him. And for people who might start to work on themselves because they see Scott doing it.
Scott focuses on this part of his life, which he has started to call the “take one step at a time” era, for quite some time.
People tell him he looks happy. Content.
And he is.
Not always. But that’s not the point.
“You’re smiling,” Ilya Rozanov says when they’re meeting at the face-off. “You will not be smiling soon. When I score 5 goals and send you home crying bitter, bitter fossil tears.”
Scott scoffs. “Please. You will land on your cocky ass today, Rozanov.”
He’s right.
Kind of.
But Ilya Rozanov doesn’t land on his ass.
He lands on his head instead.
And Scott doesn’t laugh. He stares at Rozanov, who is not getting up for the first time ever, with stunned concern tightening his throat.
“Mama! I did it! I won the Cup!”
“I know. I know you did, Solnyshko. Look at you. All grown up.”
Mama cups Ilya’s face, smiling at him, her eyes bright and full of life.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says, kissing his forehead.
Ilya holds her hands, and he never wants to let go. She’s warm. She’s like the sun.
But she is drifting. She’s drifting away from him, her body slowly fading.
No.
“Please, Mama. Please. Stay!”
She just smiles at him, sadly, while she vanishes.
Ilya screams.
And.
He comes to, blinking up at a white ceiling and feeling like he’s wrapped in cotton.
What happened?
Confused, Ilya looks around, taking in his surroundings. His memories return to him slowly. The game. The hit. The pain and the nausea. He was injured. He’s at the hospital. And he feels absolutely horrible.
A nurse enters the room eventually, smiling at Ilya. Telling him he has a concussion and they will keep him here for observation.
Ilya just nods. He has a hard time forming English sentences in the fog of the medication they give him.
After drinking some water and trying not to puke from the movement, he manages to unlock his phone to a ton of frantic messages. Shane …
Jane: Hey. Are you awake yet? I’m on my way!
Ilya smiles. Of course he is. Stupid. He shouldn’t waste so much time just to visit Ilya at the hospital. This is nothing. Just a little concussion, Ilya thinks, while his heart flutters.
Lily: I will be fine.
Jane: I have to see you. I have to make sure you are okay. Are you in pain?
Lily: No
Jane: Good. Fuck. Seeing this. It was so scary. Was this how you felt when I got hurt?
Ilya’s smile fades. He can still feel the aftershocks of that day.
Lily: Yes.
Jane: I can’t believe I’m not there. I feel like I’m going crazy. I’m going to be there soon, okay? Just tell me if you need anything. Tell me if you need to talk. Text me whenever, whatever, okay?!
Lily: I will. Thank you. I love you.
Jane: I love you too.
Ilya has to close his eyes for a moment. The bright light from the screen is giving him a headache. White dots are dancing in his vision.
A light rap on the doorframe makes Ilya perk up, and he opens his eyes again, seeing Scott Hunter looking into the room.
Ilya blinks in stunned surprise.
“Hey. I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” Hunter says, slowly walking into the room, hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket.
Ilya gathers himself and smirks. “You came to see if I’m still alive? If I still can win the Cup this year? Don’t worry. I will still kick your dinosaur ass.”
Hunter rolls his eyes. “It’s nice to see you won’t let a concussion stop you from being yourself.”
He sits on the chair beside the bed and raises a brow. “Is this your first concussion?”
Ilya shrugs. “I think so.”
“We all get our bell rung eventually,” Hunter sighs, smiling weakly. “More than once, usually. And with the years, the blows keep coming. You’ll see.”
“I’m still young and beautiful, though,” Ilya points out.
“You are,” Hunter says and laughs. “You want to know what happened on the ice while you were knocked out?”
He talks for a while. And Ilya thinks that this is … nice. Usually, he visits Hunter when he’s in New York. This time it’s the other way round. There is no vodka, though, this time. A shame.
“Thank you. For coming,” Ilya says seriously, when Hunter gets up to leave.
“Sure,” Hunter looks at him attentively. “I hope you will feel better soon. I texted Shane, by the way. Told him some details so he won’t freak out. I hope that’s okay.”
Ilya nods, his throat tightening. “It’s okay.”
Hunter smiles at him. “I’m sure he will be here soon,” he says softly. And then he leaves. One of the few people who knows exactly what it means to Ilya that Shane is coming. And Ilya thinks: It’s fine. It’s good that he knows.
He leans back against the pillows with a sigh. And waits.
Time passes fast. Like it always does. The years go by, and some things change while others stay the same.
Ilya goes to see a therapist after feeling quite depressed. Still hiding, waiting, playing a role for so many years, even though they are together now, even though they are boyfriends now … It’s exhausting. And Ilya found himself in dark places. Dark places in his head. Connected to nightmares about Mama and his father. Therapy helps.
The Irina Foundation and the camps help as well. It feels good to do something. Something important.
Ilya watches Shane explaining hockey tricks to children with a fond smile. It’s cute. The kids get bored after a while and start to shift, throwing jealous, impatient glances at the group that is currently exercising on the ice, observed by Scott Hunter’s attentive eyes. It’s not surprising, Ilya thinks. After all, Shane is very boring.
“Having fun?” Ilya asks Hunter, leaning on his hockey stick with a smirk.
“Yeah,” Hunter says, smiling, his eyes following the kids who are moving on the ice like clumsy marshmallows with tiny skates and sticks. “I never worked with kids before. I love it.”
“Hm. If they like training with Grandpa, we might consider inviting you again,” Ilya says.
“Hey now,” Hunter says, raising a brow. “I’m not that much older than you guys.”
“I think you just forgot your actual year of birth,” Ilya says, scrunching his nose. “It happens to the elderly all the time. Are you and Kip joining us tonight? Korean barbecue.”
“Of course,” Hunter says.
And Ilya likes this. But he thinks he would like it more if Shane would hold his hand in public like Kip holds Scott Hunter’s.
H: I’m so sorry this happened. This isn’t how it should be. You should get to choose if, when, and how to come out publicly. You shouldn't be seen kissing in the background of a cameo video that was filmed for some random person.
R: Thanks. It happened. We’ll manage. We might have to kill Hayden a little. Don’t tell Shane. But I think it’s kind of funny.
H: Sure you do. Don’t hesitate to tell me if you need anything, okay? And if that’s okay, I will visit you two soon. To discuss some things.
R: We will not do a threesome or foursome.
H: ???
That wasn’t what I wanted to discuss with you.
R: Of course.
H: I’m being serious!
R: Me too. You and Kip are hot. Old. But hot. Still no though.
H: Oh my God. We will talk later, okay?
R: You are so boring, Hunter.
Things are not fine.
But they are getting better.
Especially after the first few storms passed them by.
There’s a lot of support. A lot of love. And that’s what matters. Ilya can deal with the rest. With the assholes.
Scott visits them to discuss an alliance of some sort. Queer hockey players, working together. Ilya likes it. He also likes that he and Scott hugged and officially agreed that they’re friends. Which they already were, really. At least off the ice. Labels. They’re not always important. But Ilya wants to try to be more open. Wants to tell people what he really feels. He can do that. With the people he's close with, he can do that. They like the real him. Not the version he was supposed to be, when it came to his father.
Things are getting better.
He loves Shane. Shane loves him. They love Anya, their dog. They love hockey. And they love long, lazy mornings in bed, with Ilya rocking into Shane nice and slow, swallowing his little moans with deep, hungry kisses.
Life is good.
Life is full of love.
Life is … always changing.
And you have to be ready for it.
One afternoon, Ilya is lying on the couch with his phone, scratching Anya between her ears and hearing Shane taking a phone call. He can’t hear what’s being talked about. The words are muffled.
But when Shane comes into the room, his phone in his hand, he looks … worried.
Ilya frowns. “What’s going on?”
Shane swallows. „Scott has been hospitalized.“
Chapter 5: Endings
Chapter Summary
TW for suicidal thoughts / implied planned suicide in the future, mentions of depression, (no character death in the story or graphic details).
Scott dropped a glass. It shattered on the floor.
He stares at the shards, transfixed, and knows something is very, very wrong.
Inside, he feels like this glass. Cracked. Broken. Beyond repair.
His mind stubbornly refuses to stop worrying about the most stupid things, no matter how often he tries to calm it down. No matter how often Kip tells him everything is fine.
And his body aches in places that have never ached before, after a game, after practice, even after a run.
He’s getting old. For professional hockey standards, at least. Eventually, Scott knows, he will be too old to keep up with his team. He will have to retire from hockey. And once he retires … What is he going to do? Who is he going to be when he can't do the one thing he’s always been good at?
He is already pretty useless like this. Not able to stop feeling bad for himself.
And Scott thinks he should have seen this coming.
Lately, he’s been having a lot of bad days. More bad days than usual.
Grey days.
Days on which he can’t see the sun. Only dark clouds, wandering to even darker places in his mind.
The longer Scott thinks about it, the longer he stares at the shards, the louder his thoughts become. Until they’re a storm and there is no place to hide from them. There is no shelter from yourself and your worst fears.
Look at you. You’re useless. Pathetic.
What does Kip even want from you?
Maybe he’s only staying out of pity.
Maybe he thinks about what he could have had if it weren’t for you.
You make his life more difficult. He’s so good. So kind. So compassionate. He deserves someone better. Someone who doesn’t carry around a load of old baggage. Someone who is right in the head.
Maybe it should have been you who died back then, not your parents.
Scott curls up on the floor with a sob, both his hands buried in his hair, holding on to them, so that he can’t reach for the shards on the carpet. Because right now, he wants to. He really wants to. It’s not the first time the thought crosses his mind. But it’s the first time the thought is a heavy rainstorm instead of a trickle. And it’s beating down on him mercilessly, relentlessly.
Pathetic.
“Scott?”
Useless.
Kip. Scott didn’t even hear the door open. Didn’t even notice his husband was back. He closes his eyes and hates himself.
Broken.
“Scott, what’s going on? Talk to me, babe.”
Broken. Broken. Broken.
Kip is crouching in front of him now, his body blocking out the sight of the shards on the floor. Finally.
Scott forces himself to take a deep breath. Fights to find some coherent thoughts in the middle of the storm in his mind.
“You have to drive me to the hospital,” he tells Kip, surprised at how calm his voice sounds. Inside, he is not calm at all. He is a boat, lost on a storm-wrecked ocean, floating in a void.
“And please call or text my therapist. Tell her I’m having an, an emergency. So that she knows, uh, in case the hospital needs information from her. Or something. I don’t know.”
Kip doesn’t ask. He just says, “Okay. Alright.”
Scott still has his fingers buried in his hair, gripping so tightly that they are tense and tingling. He can’t imagine letting go. But Kip puts his hands on Scott’s, gently, and says, “You can let go now. I got them. I got you.”
So Scott slowly lets go, allows Kip to rub life back into his numb, cramping hands.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, blinking against the tears in his eyes.
Kip shakes his head. “You have nothing to apologise for. And you don’t have to talk right now. Just follow my lead, okay?”
Kip doesn’t let go of Scott’s hands. He leads them out of the apartment, down the stairs, and Scott follows. He follows.
“Ilya?"
Scott sounds surprised, his eyes widening when he sees Ilya standing in the doorway. “You don’t have to be here,” he adds, shifting into a seated position. And Ilya translates the words to: You don’t have to see me like this. Not after what you went through with your mother.
“But I am here now,” he says calmly. I choose to be here. Ilya enters the room and sits in the only chair in front of the bed. A chair that is bolted to the floor, he notices. It makes sense. He had to get rid of his shoelaces at the reception.
Scott smiles at him. Joylessly. Tiredly. There are dark shadows under his reddened eyes. He gestures around. “There’s a first time for everything, I guess. First time in a psych ward. First time taking medication that’s supposed to keep me from wanting to die. And you know what the worst thing about this is? Even if no one can confirm it - not before I die, of course - we all know what this is, don’t we?”
“Yes,” Ilya says quietly. It’s the thing all hockey players tend to joke about but are secretly scared of. This invisible thing that starts to grow after you hit your head too often. This shadow that takes root in your mind and starts to consume it bit by bit. Until you start to forget. Until you might even forget yourself.
CTE. Ilya has looked up the symptoms himself often enough. Stared at the words “depression” and "suicidal tendencies" until they blurred in front of his eyes.
“It’s ironic,” Scott says bitterly. “I joked to Kip about this before we started to date. Said I didn’t even have that many concussions. Well. Now here I am. Dealing with the real thing instead of the joke. Maybe it’s karma.”
“No,” Ilya says, frowning. “You can’t think like that. You don’t deserve this.”
Scott blinks at him in stunned surprise. “Wow. Did you just say something nice to me? You don’t have to, you know? To be honest, I would prefer it if you keep doing what you always do. It might make me feel less … fragile.”
“Oh. Don’t worry, I won’t stop,” Ilya says bluntly. “I am here because I wanted to remind you that you can’t die.”
He pulls out a list and hands it to Scott. Paper is okay here. A papercut won’t kill you.
“You can’t die,” Ilya repeats while Scott looks at the notes on the paper. “Because you already confirmed you are going to coach at the next summer camp. And we also have to meet up soon to discuss the details of the next charity events.”
Scott swallows. “I don’t think I’m going to be much fun,” he mutters, avoiding Ilya’s eyes.
“So? You were always boring. We all know. No one will be surprised,” Ilya says, shrugging. “Show up and do things in your boring way. It’s better than not doing them at all. That would be stupid."
Scott blurts out a disbelieving laugh. “Are you really bullying me into staying alive right now?”
Ilya looks at him seriously. “If I need to. Yes.”
He gets up and adds, “Come to the cottage. You and Kip. Stay. For a few weeks. It’s very relaxing.”
“Thank you, Ilya," Scott says quietly, holding on to the piece of paper. Tightly.
Ilya nods. He decided long ago that he’s not going to find someone else on the floor, with an empty bottle of pills.
“Alright,” Kip says, looking at the line of full pill bottles on the kitchen counter with a concentrated expression on his face. “We made the schedule for when you have to take what. We set the alarm clocks. Nothing can go wrong. We just need to monitor if there are any serious side effects. You’re going to tell me, okay?”
Scott nods. He nervously scratches his arm, feeling useless again. Of course, he’s glad to be back at home. Back with Kip. But … He doesn’t want to be a burden.
But Kip already arranged everything. When he has to be at work, George Grady is going to come over. Or Shawn. Or Elena. Scott won’t be alone. At least until they are sure the medication is doing what it is supposed to do.
“Maybe I should just go back to the hospital,” Scott says.
“Do you feel like you have to?” Kip asks.
Scott shrugs. “I don’t know. I feel like you’re already doing too much. I don’t want you to have to worry about me the whole day. You didn’t sign up for this. None of you did. I … I don’t want to drag you down with me.”
Kip shakes his head, steps closer to Scott, reaching out to put his hands on Scott’s arm, and looks him in the eyes. “I absolutely signed up for this,” he says firmly. “Because I love you. I love you on good days and on bad days. We will get through this. You have your medication now, and if it gets bad, we can always call your therapist or go to the hospital, alright? We do have a support system. It will be fine. But I need you to be honest with me, Scott. You need to tell me what you feel. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Scott breathes, tears gathering in his eyes. God. He loves Kip so much. “I can. I … I want to.”
Kip smiles at him, pulling him into a hug. And Scott hides his face in the crook of Kip’s neck, closing his eyes, and trying to forget about all future worries. Trying to live in the moment.
“Well. Fuck.” Carter swallows heavily, turning his head to the side in shock, blankly staring out of the window of the restaurant, his jaw working.
“I wanted you to know about it first,” Scott tells him. This time, he wants to be completely honest. He still feels guilty for keeping secrets from Carter for so many years. Now, Carter deserves to know that Scott decided to retire.
“And you’re sure?” Carter asks, looking back at Scott, his voice filled with hope. “I mean, you have medication for the mental health stuff, right? And you’re seeing a therapist. You can still play hockey.”
Scott smiles weakly. “Come on, man. We both know time is working against me. In more than one way now. I don’t want to be too slow to keep up with the rooks. I don’t want to be taken out by another injury. Let me do it like this. On my terms. Upright and confident. I’m already a spokesperson. I can be a spokesperson for mental health, too. We all know it’s not being talked about enough.”
“I’m going to really fucking miss you,” Carter says quietly. “It was already hard to let Eric go. But you … Fuck. What am I going to do without you?”
“Easy. You’re going to be the Captain,” Scott says, smiling, putting his hand on Carter’s arm. “You’re going to be great at it. And I will still be there. Just not on the ice.”
“Alright,” Carter says, sighing, wiping a tear away. “We had a great run, man.”
Scott nods. “Yeah. I won’t forget any of it.”
Hopefully.
Ilya: You retired from hockey.
Scott: Yes. Are you surprised?
Ilya: Not about this. I’m surprised your dinosaur bones kept you moving this long.
Scott: I do have a good bone structure.
Ilya: I am going to miss kicking your ass on the ice.
Scott: I am going to miss wiping that cocky grin off your face.
Ilya: That never happened. Lies. Will you still come to teach at the camp?
Scott: Yes. I didn't forget. I will be there.
Ilya. Good. I am counting on it. Will you come to the cottage? You and Kip?
Scott: Yes.
Ilya: Good. Let's see if you are as bad at video games as you are at actual hockey. Or maybe: New career, yes?
Scott: Asshole.
Ilya: Always. You love it.
Scott: Maybe.
“I love you,” Kip whispers in the dark, cupping Scott’s face with his warm hand. “I love you. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Scott sighs, his hands stroking Kip’s back, fingers finding and trailing down the bumps of his spine, while Kip fucks into him slowly, deeply, lovingly. “I love you so much.”
If he could freeze a moment and keep it with him forever, this would be one of them.
He would carry it around his heart. Like a lucky charm.
And he would look at it whenever his mind starts to brew up storms.
He would listen to the words of love whispered between sounds of pleasure. In this moment, that’s only meant for them.
Interviewer: Scott, you retired from professional hockey a few weeks ago. That’s a pretty big change, I can imagine. How did you settle into your new life? What is it looking like?
Scott Hunter: Yes, I retired from hockey. But that doesn’t mean I’m finished with hockey. Or that hockey is finished with me. I still intend to teach at the camps Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander created for children. For our young talents. And of course, I am going to continue to speak for and with queer hockey players.
There’s still a lot to do.
Players don’t feel comfortable coming out. For many reasons. There’s still a lot of institutionalized and casual homophobia both in the league and in the audience. I know that from personal experience. We are going to continue to support queer players and their families. We will fight to create a safe space for them. A space in which they feel encouraged to be themselves.
Interviewer: You also said you want to talk more about mental health in general.
Scott Hunter: That’s right. As most people should know by now, I suffered a great loss in my childhood. I lost both my parents at the age of twelve, and I never really processed that loss. I also suffered from being in the closet for so long, having to listen to players and fans casually throwing homophobic terms around while I was present. I had to hide behind a mask of indifference, out of fear of exposing myself and being hated by the only family I had. I dealt with loneliness and anxiety for many years. And for a long time, I felt like I had to keep all of this to myself. I felt like I had to be perfect. Otherwise, I would lose everything. But my husband and my friends taught me that it's more important to be yourself and to be honest, especially about important things like this.
I am going to therapy now, and I realised that mental health is something most people don’t really talk about, even though it’s so important. There's still a lot of stigma around it. Now, with the fact that I’m dealing with depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts due to the early stages of CTE, which is also not really talked about by anyone in the league, I want to be open. I want to show people who experience something similar that they are not alone.
Fortunately, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander already created the Irina Foundation, which raises money and awareness for organisations that provide support for those suffering from mental illness. They're doing remarkable work, and we are going to work together closely to support players who experience mental health issues.
Interviewer: Amazing. I am looking forward to seeing what you are working on in the future! Thank you for opening up about these important, sensitive topics, Scott. I’m sure many people reading this will be impressed and hopefully feel inspired to talk about mental health more.
Scott Hunter: I hope so. I'm also planning to write a book. But that's still in the planning stage. We'll see.
It’s a bright day. The lake in front of the cottage reflects the blue sky and the wandering clouds. The sun makes the surface sparkle like diamonds.
Ilya and Scott sit side by side in the grass, watching as Shane and Kip throw a ball for Anya, who is jumping between them, her tongue lolling and her tail wagging wildly, barking in excitement.
“This is beautiful,” Scott says quietly, squinting up at the sky and taking a deep breath of the forest around them. “I almost forgot how healing and peaceful nature can be.”
Ilya hums in agreement. He glances at Scott, who looks … better. Better than back at the hospital, at least. “You feeling okay?” He asks.
Scott shrugs. “The ton of medication I’m taking helps a lot. But … Not always. There are bad days. And I know it will only get worse from here. I’m sure you know about the symptoms. Right now, it’s mostly the mental health stuff. Depression. Anxiety. Mood swings.
A week ago, I started punching the wall, and I didn’t even really know why. But … I’m dealing with it. I hope for a few more years of mostly being okay. But I know I might start to forget things. I might start to lose control over my body. I try not to think about it too much, you know? It’s too scary. Especially when I imagine forgetting things about Kip. I can’t deal with that.”
Ilya nods.
He hesitates. Something unspoken lingers between them. Something … heavier.
“You won’t wait until this happens,” Ilya says. A realisation. One that stirs up images resting deep in his mind, deep in his heart. Mama and her long hair spread around her. Mama and that little, empty bottle of pills beside her that Ilya hates so much.
“No. I don’t think I will. At least right now, I can’t imagine I will,” Scott confirms. He looks at Kip with so much adoration, so much love in his eyes, that Ilya almost has to look away because he feels like he’s intruding.
“If I forget him,” Scott says quietly, “or if I lose him, there will be no home. No life. There will be nothing left for me in this world.”
And Ilya doesn’t necessarily agree, but he understands. Even if it hurts, he understands. Especially when he looks at Shane’s smile that makes his heart flutter. Losing this part of his world ... It seems impossible.
“But there is still time,” he points out.
Scott smiles. “Yes. There’s still time. Time for … memories.”
They look at each other for a silent moment. And Ilya feels grateful. He remembers. He remembers all the times Scott showed up for him. All the times they talked without judging each other. All the times, they unconsciously uncovered parallels that made them bond. Loss. Loneliness. Wearing masks. Trying to be a version of themselves that other people would like and admire.
And: Finding someone, a person, who became their whole world, after they were willing to be brave enough to open up. To be vulnerable. To accept and give love.
Ilya remembers all the times he imagined what life would have been like if he had an older brother like Scott.
“мой Дружище. moy druzhishche,” he says gently.
“What does this mean?” Scott asks, tilting his head.
Ilya runs his fingers through the cool grass. “It means my good friend.”
Scott swallows. “My good friend,” he echoes, his voice heavy with emotion. “I feel the same.”
They hug, then.
And Ilya is not ready to let go. What they all have right now is a good thing. They are fighting for a good cause. They are fighting for people who are lonely. People who need friends. People who want to be loved. People who want to be themselves.
People like Ryan, Fabian, Troy, Harris, Kyle, Eric, Scott, Ilya, Shane.
It’s good. It’s a good family.
And Ilya wants them to keep going for many more years. He hopes there is still time. Time to make each other smile.
Time to collect happy memories to make the sad ones more bearable.
Like little rafts on the ocean. Like anchors in a storm.
"Let's play a video game," Ilya decides and grins. "I'm going to fucking kill you."
"Never," Scott says dryly and laughs.
Life is still pretty good.
Chapter 6: Company
Chapter Notes
This story wasn't done with me.
Ilya leans in the door frame of their bedroom, scooping cookie dough ice cream directly out of the box and watching his husband doing his very cute, very sexy hyperfocus-thing.
Shane is sitting in their bed, propped up by a few pillows, frowning at the screen of his laptop, which throws bright lights on his face, reflected by his glasses. Anya is pressed against Shane's side, her head on her paws, lazily wagging her tail and blinking at Ilya one-eyed as if she wants to ask him: Why have you not joined us yet?
Soon, he thinks. The floor starts to feel cold under his bare feet. He rubs his toes against each other absently. Let me just look for another moment, until he notices me and stops being so cutely obsessed.
Ilya knows exactly what Shane is so focused on. Each time he thinks of it, of this next stage of their life they’re apparently about to enter, his heart fills with a combination of happy excitement and dread.
Shane is busy researching the adoption process. He wants children. At least two, maybe more. In his beautiful, smart brain, he’s making plans. He’s making lists of what they have to take care of. Lists of institutions they have to visit. Lists of people they have to talk to. Many lists.
Ilya wants kids, too.
He knows he does. Ilya always loves to spend time with the kids at the camps. Loves the idea of a little kid running through their house laughing, playing with Anya, dancing through a room, eating ice cream, and falling asleep on the couch after eating ice cream. He loves the concept of giving this child, who doesn’t have a face yet, a good life. A good future. Especially if that child didn’t have a lot of luck at the beginning of their life.
But he also sees how the kids at the camps get picked up by their parents, by their smiling fathers and their smiling mothers, and that makes him remember his own childhood, his own youth, which has been cold, silent pressure ever since he found his mother’s lifeless body on the floor. He remembers his father’s icy eyes, looking down at him, glaring at him, asking him why he isn’t trying harder.
I don’t want to be like him.
Ilya swallows and shifts his weight. Suddenly, the cookie-dough ice cream doesn’t taste that sweet anymore.
Anya whines quietly, and Shane glances up at Ilya. “It’s like I can hear you think,” he says calmly, putting his laptop and glasses away. “What’s going on?”
Ilya has two options now. He could say: It’s nothing. He could just go to Shane and cuddle and let the cuddling lead to more. Or he could say the truth.
Tell him. You promised yourself and him to be more honest. Communication is important. And this is the man you love, the man who loves you. He won’t look at you strangely. He won’t sigh. He won’t call you weak or tell you to get a grip. He will understand.
“I’m scared,” Ilya admits, letting his walls fall down. “I know you’re looking at adoption again. And I’m scared I will be a bad father. And that’s why I haven’t looked at it so much. Not as much as you. I think. But,” he adds quickly. “I do want it too.”
Shane’s eyes soften. “Come here,” he says, opening his arms.
Ilya places the ice cream box on the night table and climbs into bed, ending up lying almost on top of Shane, his head right where Shane’s heart beats in a calm, steady rhythm. He closes his eyes, feeling the warmth, his fingers trailing over to Anya, brushing her fur, and she licks his hand.
“You will be amazing,” Shane tells him. “You’re always amazing with kids. Think of the kids at the camps. They're crazy about you. I could get jealous sometimes."
"You are jealous," Ilya grins, then adds more seriously, "They are not mine. They are kids I see for a few hours. This. This is different. This will be forever." He swallows, his mouth dry. “I grew up without a mother. I grew up with a bad father. How can I know what a child needs?“
Ilya still shudders when he calls his father “bad”. It’s a new development and still manages to give him a sting of phantom guilt. You’re not supposed to talk about him like that. He was your father. You have to respect him, a voice inside his head tells him sternly.
But then, there’s all the other voices. His therapist’s for example.
And they tell Ilya that it is not normal to be called weak and pathetic by a father. They tell him a father shouldn’t make you feel like crying all the time. He shouldn’t make you feel small. He shouldn’t push or hit you when you show emotions or fail at something. A father should love you, no matter if you are the best at hockey or not.
And you are allowed to be angry, the voices tell him. You are allowed to be angry. But don’t let the past, don’t let your father, keep you from building a happy life. A life filled with love that you give and that you receive.
Ilya is trying. It takes time. But he’s trying. He is also trying to not constantly be scared of maybe being depressed one day, or forgetting things, as his father did. He doesn’t know what will happen. He can only live now.
“Ilya,” Shane says, running his fingers through Ilya’s hair. “You’re not him. You will never be him. Hey, do you really think I’m going to be a perfect father just because I grew up with parents who loved and supported me? I know I will make mistakes. We will both make them. But it’s okay. As long as we love this child, as long as we want what’s best for them, everything will be okay.”
“Yeah?” Ilya asks quietly, swallowing around a lump of emotion in his throat. “You really think so?”
“Yes,” Shane says, and Ilya can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you know what I see when I imagine you as a father?”
“What do you see?” Ilya asks.
“I see you spoiling them rotten. I see you allowing them ice cream before dinner. I see you driving to McDonald's. I see you letting them put a ton of Nutella on their toast. And I see myself being the one who has to play evil parent and say it’s enough,” Shane says, chuckling.
Oh.
Ilya grins. “Hm. I can see it too. I can see you being the boring father and me being the fun father.”
“Of course,” Shane says dryly. “And sometimes, we will fight. Because we won’t always agree. But that’s normal, right? We will complement each other. Find a way to make it work. Like always.”
“Like always,” Ilya agrees. He feels better now. He feels like this can work.
“Tell me,” he says, placing his hand on Shane’s chest, over his heart. “Tell me about adoption process.”
And Shane does. He starts a never-ending infodump. Ilya listens, smiling, his eyes closed.
It will be okay.
Ilya: Shane wants me to feel old.
Scott: Why?
Ilya: He wants me to be a father.
Scott: That’s nice. You would be a great Dad.
Ilya: Everyone says that.
Scott: Because it’s true.
Ilya: I will be fun for the kids. I know. But I will be so boring to everyone else. A boring husband. With a boring house and dog. A boring huge car to fit all of them inside.
Scott: Boring in a happy way.
Ilya: Yes. I hope so. I didn’t have many examples to learn from. When growing up.
Scott: Don’t overthink it, Ilya. Don’t think about what could go wrong. There are so many things that could go right. And I think you would be really happy. With a kid.
Ilya: Now you sound like Shane. Or like that ugly little green guy.
Scott: The green guy?
Ilya: From Star Wars.
Scott: Oh. Yoda.
Ilya: Ancient Gay Yoda.
Scott: Well. It’s not the worst nickname you ever gave me.
Ilya: Is he your twin?
Scott: Careful you must be. Or no sweet treats for you the next time we will see each other.
Ilya: No!
Scott: Be nice.
Ilya: You are evil. You are all very, very evil.
Scott is touched whenever the fans react to him being in the arena, standing up for him, clapping, and cheering. It’s been years since he retired, and they still won’t stop doing it. It’s nice. A little overwhelming. But nice.
It still feels strange, though, to sit in the audience with Kip and watch his team play without him. Carter is doing an amazing job. Scott is proud of him. So proud. He’s proud of all of them. By now, there are players he doesn’t know. Young players, who blush and smile shyly when he talks to them.
And when he hears the crowd going wild, a part of Scott is still craving to be down there, on the ice, in the middle of the action, the thrill, the celebration. He still craves the high after scoring a goal.
But he and everyone else know that this part of his life is over. And it’s not like Scott is bored.
He doesn’t have time to be bored. Which was the goal, of course. To keep his mind busy enough so he wouldn’t constantly think of the past. Or the future. Both options are scary.
Scott tries his best to always have a full schedule. To have routines. And when he doesn’t have anything else to do, he runs until his lungs are screaming and he feels dizzy, not able to form a thought.
Kip and Scott’s friends are helping. They created a cycle of activities, and they don’t feel like chores. Scott enjoys all of them a lot.
He goes to “book club” with Shawn and Maria, picking apart horrible lines, crying about emotional scenes, and sighing about romantic moments.
He goes to lunch with Carter and Eric.
He helps out at the Kingfisher, talking to Kyle and organising special events for young queer people.
He visits Kip at the museum, where he’s working now - Kip’s dream job. He cried when he got it. Scott cried too. - and goes to galleries with him, listening to Kip as he talks about artists and creations effortlessly, the rhythm of his calm voice a pleasant tune Scott can relax to.
He goes to therapy, working through layers of repressed trauma.
Yes. Scott's life is full.
He doesn’t have time to be scared. But sometimes, he feels a wave of dread or anxiety, and he knows he can’t run away forever. He knows he has to be ready for whatever the future might bring. Knows that he might still be at the beginning stage of a condition that might very well kill him in some way.
The medication he’s taking is not a cure. But at least, he has adjusted to them well, not feeling drowsy or dizzy anymore. He didn’t gain or lose a lot of weight. He can sleep. His libido is mostly intact. Really. It could be worse.
It might get worse.
But Scott tries not to live in constant panic. For himself. For Kip. He tries his best. And he hopes.
Please. At least a few more years. A few good years.
Please.
Kip has to go to a conference for his job. He will be away for three days. Only three days.
I can do it, Scott thinks.
When he had to play in other cities, he had to be away from home for much longer. Three days. It’s nothing, really.
But then he wakes up from nightmares. Nightmares in which he searches for Kip and can’t find him in the dark. Nightmares in which Kip dies, and Scott has to watch his funeral. Nightmares in which he suddenly forgets Kip’s face. And he wakes up, gasping, silently screaming into the pillow, which is wet from his tears and his cold sweat.
Scott almost calls Kip. But it’s so late. And he doesn’t want Kip to worry. It’s not fair.
He tries to calm himself down and go back to sleep.
But anxiety won’t let him.
This could be real one day, his mind tells him, meanly. Kip could die. He could leave you. You could forget him. And then you will be alone again. Completely alone.
No, wait, Scott thinks, desperately. Kip is okay. He is okay right now. And … I won’t be alone.
He finds himself reaching for his phone. Searching through his contacts.
Scott: Hey. I’m sorry. Are you awake?
Ilya: Yes. Are you okay?
Scott shakily runs a hand over his face. His skin is clammy from fear. This is stupid. He shouldn’t …
His phone vibrates in his hand. Ilya is calling.
Scott swallows. He squeezes his eyes shut. And takes the call.
“Scott?”
“Hey. I’m sorry. I … It’s late.”
“It’s okay. What’s going on? Tell me.”
Scott exhales shakily. “Kip is away for a few days. And I had some nightmares. It’s stupid, really. But … They scared me. They scared me so much.”
“Okay,” Ilya says calmly. “What were they about?”
“He was gone,” Scott breathes, blinking tears away. “He was dead. Or he disappeared. Or I forgot him.”
“Hm. The worst,” Ilya says. “What helps?”
Scott hesitates. “I don’t know. I … I already took my meds. They don’t help much today, it seems.”
“I can talk. About the camps,” Ilya suggests. “Shane talks to me when … when things are not so good. It helps. I can try.”
“Okay,” Scott wipes the tears from his eyes.
Ilya talks. And Scott listens. Time passes. And with every minute, he seems to get calmer.
Eventually, after a while, Ilya says, “Better?”
“Yeah. Thank you, Ilya. Thank you,” Scott breathes. “I’m sorry.”
“No sorry,” Ilya says sternly. “We told you. Call if you need something. Call again. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Scott agrees, smiling.
He is not alone. He has many friends. And Kip is okay. He will be back soon. Everything will be okay.
For now.
Scott puts his phone away and tries to go back to sleep.
“What are you up to, Scott?” His therapist, Judy, asks him one Wednesday afternoon.
So, so much. Scott leans forward on his armchair, folds his hands, and starts to tell her.
He will have to write a lot of emails. And there’s an interview with a mental health magazine coming up. And then he will go to dinner with some ex-hockey players experiencing both physical and mental health issues from their professional careers. And he will talk to NHL officials again, asking them when they will do more to make queer players feel more included. He will offer them some things they could do together.
And of course, there’s his book, which is progressing very slowly, with the help of Kip, who reads what he wrote and then makes suggestions. Scott didn’t think writing a book would be so difficult. Sometimes he doesn’t even know how to start. He types a word. Deletes it. Writes another word. Deletes it again. It’s exhausting. But he still likes it. It feels like a challenge. He really wants to finish the book this year.
Judy listens calmly, without interrupting Scott. Finally, when he stops, she clears her throat. “Scott, I’m happy you are making so many plans and doing what you love. But when will you take a break? Or maybe go on vacation? It would be good for you to relax. To release some stress.”
Scott hesitates. Like always, he has two options. He could say that he is not stressed.
Or he could say the truth. That he’s only keeping himself so busy because he is scared of what might happen inside his mind once he allows himself to breathe.
In the end, he decides to open up. He promised himself and Kip to be honest.
“I guess I’m trying to be busy enough that I won’t remember what’s happening in my mind,” he admits. “Or … What might still happen. I feel like if I could prepare myself, it would be easier to deal with this. With … my condition. But I don’t know how bad it is going to be. I don’t even know if I am going to get worse. It’s just this invisible monster of what ifs in front of me and it makes me nervous.”
If he were certain he wouldn’t get worse, he could stop worrying. He could relax a little more. He could allow himself to take breaks. He could deal better with being without Kip for a few days.
But he can’t be certain. There’s always the what if. There’s always the possibility that the CTE moves to the next stage. What if he wakes up one day, with a trembling hand, or a leg that won’t carry him any longer? What if he wakes up and forgets pieces of his life, of himself?
What if he starts to forget who Kip is? His face blurring? What if words suddenly won't make any sense anymore? What will it feel like? Will Scott even notice? Or will he fade without really being aware of it, until he only consists of feelings, incoherent thoughts, and vague memories?
“Scott?”
Judy’s voice sounds like it’s coming through a fog.
Oh.
Scott blinks, pushing himself out of his thoughts.
Judy is looking at him attentively, a small smile on her face.
He feels embarrassed. “I did it again, huh. The disassociation thing.”
“Yes,” Judy confirms. “I can understand that you feel nervous about the future. But you have to remember that if there’s no way of knowing what will happen, there’s also no way to know what exactly to worry about. You only have the present. And this present can still give you a lot of happy moments, right?”
Scott nods guiltily. He wants to enjoy his life with Kip. He doesn’t want to spend every moment of it worrying about what might be.
“I want you to plan at least two weeks of vacation in the next two months, alright?” Judy says sternly. “Maybe you could go on a road trip with Kip. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere nice. I know this will be a challenge for you. Try not to worry too much. Try to let things happen to you. I know it’s scary to think about having a lot of time to think and feel. But I’m sure it will feel good for your body and your mind to be somewhere else and make some new, enjoyable experiences.”
“Alright,” Scott says quietly. He can try. No. He wants to try.
Scott: My therapist wants me to go on a road trip.
Ilya: Fuck. You win this time. My therapist wants me to write a letter to my parents. Where will you go?
Scott: I don’t know yet.
Ilya: Well. Plan it so you and Kip will visit us. I have a surprise.
Scott: Aye, Captain.
“I think we have everything,” Kip says, satisfied, looking at their bags in the car, with his hands on his hips.
“I guess,” Scott says quietly, his throat tightening. He fidgets with the hem of his sweater. The little bottles with his meds roll around in the pockets.
Of course, Kip notices. He puts a hand on Scott’s arm. “Hey. Are you okay?”
Scott nods. “Just a little nervous. I’m not sure if I’m the best kind of company for a road trip.”
Kip laughs. “Please. I wouldn’t want anyone else with me. I will give you the ultimate road trip experience my Dad gave me back when I was a kid. We will eat a lot of really greasy fast food. We will stop to watch the stars. You will listen to me singing along to country songs really badly. And I will watch you sleep and drool all over yourself while I drive. I really can’t imagine anything better.”
“Okay,” Scott says, finally feeling excited. That does sound nice. His heart flutters. He leans in for a kiss, and Kip gives him one, smiling into it.
“You are here!” Shane hugs Kip and Scott happily. He looks good, Scott thinks. Happy. He wonders how far he and Ilya are in their adoption progress.
Anya happily rubs herself against Scott’s legs, licking his hand, then goes on to do the same with Kip, her tail wagging.
Ilya approaches them with a grin and - Scott’s eyes widen in surprise - a second dog in his arms.
It’s a chocolate-brown puppy. His ears look comically big for his little head. His pink tongue is lolling, and his tiny tail is wagging wildly, as he squirms in Ilya’s grip, excitedly barking at Kip and Scott.
“Took you forever,” Ilya says, raising a brow. “Did you have old people sex in a motel and pass out for days?”
Before any of them can answer, Ilya hands the puppy to Scott. “Here. This is my surprise.”
Startled, Scott accepts the warm bundle of fur, looking down at him, then glancing back at Ilya in shock. “What? Wait. What are you doing?!”
“Is it not obvious? I am giving you a puppy,” Ilya says dryly.
Scott blinks, momentarily frozen while the puppy is licking his chin enthusiastically. “Ilya,” he says slowly. “You … You can’t just give me a puppy.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Why not. Don’t be boring.”
“But …” Scott glances at Kip and Shane, who are silently watching the scene unfold, smiling.
Ilya smirks. “Don’t look at Kip. He knows. I told him.”
“It’s been difficult to keep it to myself,” Kip admits sheepishly.
“So you’re okay with this?” Scott asks, baffled. “But … But we haven’t talked about it. We haven’t made a plan.”
“Here is your boring plan,” Ilya says, showing Scott a bag. “Leash. Treats. Papers. Toys. That’s all you need to plan for puppy.”
Scott hesitates. He never had a pet before. What if he is going to mess this up?
But then he looks down at the puppy, who blinks up at him with his huge, wet, brown eyes, happily panting in his arms, soft and warm. So warm. Love fills him. And he instantly knows that this little creature belongs to him.
Ilya watches him with a knowing smile. “He will make you happy, yes? Keep you company,” he says quietly. "Will cheer you up. For many years."
And Scott understands then. Remembers the talk they once had here. Remembers their late-night phone call. Tears fill his eyes.
Judy‘s words echo in his head.
Try to let things happen to you.
“Thank you,” he breathes, blinking at Ilya, pressing the puppy closer to his chest. “Thank you.”
Ilya nods. “Let’s eat,” he then says, simply, turning around and walking to the cottage. “There’s much to talk about, I think.”
Chapter 7: Memory Book
Chapter Notes
Tw: suicidal thoughts, implied planned suicide
The world truly is beautiful, Scott thinks, transfixed as the sky turns into all shades of red over the ocean. The waves are rushing to shore in an unhurried, gentle rhythm.
The sand is still warm and Scott‘s bare feet are sinking into it slightly, while he’s leaning against Kip, with his head resting on his husband’s shoulder. Kip has an arm wrapped around Scott, watching the ocean too, breathing evenly.
Apollo obviously loves the beach. He’s digging in the sand with his little paws and his nose, his tail wagging wildly. From time to time, he runs towards a retreating wave, barking happily, only to run backwards again when the water comes back to him. He’s adorable. It seems like the puppy could stay here forever.
Scott could, too.
He could sit here with Kip, watching the sunset forever. He realises he’s been missing out. He was so scared of having time to breathe and think, that he accidentally narrowed his - their - world down to New York. But there’s so much out there he hasn’t seen yet. And Kip has never been to Europe.
“We should travel more,” Scott says. For the first time in months, he dares to dream. This trip was a good idea, he realises. For so many reasons. “We should see more places together. I want to show you Greece. I know you would love it there. The art. The statues. The temples.”
Kip hums. “We can do that. I’d love to go to Greece with you."
They look at each other, smiling, and Scott leans in for a kiss. Kip's lips taste salty.
Apollo looks back at them and barks, waddling towards them, almost stumbling over his ears. He’s clearly eager to join the love.
Scott smiles when the puppy cuddles up to him, melting into the petting he’s receiving. Soon, Apollo is yawning and clearly about to fall asleep, a heap of happily exhausted dark fur nudged between their bodies. Scott takes some pictures of the puppy with his phone and has a feeling that soon, his gallery will only consist of pictures of Kip and Apollo.
“I had an idea. We should create a memory book,” Kip says thoughtfully, as he’s watching Scott taking puppy pictures from all possible angles. “A book with pictures and notes of our life. A book we can look at later. To remember.”
To remember.
Scott’s throat tightens. He nods. “That’s such a lovely idea. Let’s do that.”
Tomorrow, they will drive to their next destination. They will find something nice to eat, and they will take a walk with Apollo, watching as the puppy discovers everything for the first time, wide-eyed and excited like a child. They will sleep in and have breakfast together. They will talk. And remember. And dream.
They will live.
How is it going? Judy texts Scott when they're on the road again.
He smiles and sends her a picture: Apollo, napping in his lap, snoring lightly, while they’re driving along the coast.
Judy texts back: Aw ❤️ I support this new development. Please know and remember my office is definitely puppy-welcoming. Enjoy your trip!
Thank you. I will, Scott sends. And he really means it. He leans back, turning his head to look at Kip, who is driving, wearing his glasses, his curls getting longer, and Scott just takes the sight in, wishing he could store every memory of this trip in his mind forever.
5 years later.
“Almost done,” Hope says, the tip of her tongue visible between her lips and her brows furrowed, as she focuses on her task.
“Take your time,” Scott says calmly, holding his hand perfectly still. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He watches as Hope finishes painting the most difficult nail, his pinky, in dark green. The colour he chose from her extensive collection.
She exhales when she’s done, backing away and eyeing her work with a critical expression.
“Looks amazing,” Scott assures her, holding his hand in front of his eyes and admiring her work. “Who did your braids, by the way? They look lovely.”
“Papa,” Hope says, brightening up and giggling.
“Of course,” Scott says. He can imagine it so well. Ilya braiding his daughter’s hair. The picture makes him smile.
“Can we go play with Anya and Apollo now?” Hope asks, bright-eyed and eager.
“Sure we can,” Scott says, and she cheers, starting to put away her makeup set.
Outside, it’s sunny. The water of the lake is sparkling. It’s peaceful.
Kip and Ilya are still out to get groceries for dinner. Shane is sitting on the stairs to the cottage, wearing glasses, and taking an important phone call, his brows furrowed in concentration as he listens.
In the meadow, Anya and Apollo play with Hope, who throws a tennis ball for them, cheering when the dogs manage to catch it and bring it back to her, their tails wagging.
Scott sits in the grass that feels warm from the sun, and watches them. He doesn’t know why, but he has a feeling this is the last time he will feel so … whole. So content. So at peace. Surrounded by friends. By family.
It keeps nagging at him. Follows him around. Like a shadow growing in the background.
Scott doesn’t tell Kip, but when they’re back home, he makes an appointment to update his will.
Ilya is a father now. Sometimes, it seems a little surreal to him. He mouths the words to himself, in wonder. You are a father now. You are a father.
A father of a little girl. Hope.
Their daughter is beautiful. She’s perfect. Every time Hope smiles, Ilya smiles too. Every time she cries, he wants to destroy the reason for her tears. Every time she wants something, he finds it extremely hard to resist. And for what? Why should he? Ilya wants his daughter to be happy all the time.
Of course, Shane’s teasing predictions turned into reality.
Ilya looks into Hope’s eyes and can’t find it in himself to forbid her anything.
It’s Shane instead, who sometimes shakes his head, puts his hands on his hips, and says, his tone stern in a way Ilya rarely manages, “No.”
And it’s Ilya, who pouts together with Hope. But he secretly knows Shane is right. They can’t always say yes. He can’t always give his daughter what she craves. Even though he wants to.
In the beginning, Hope had been terribly shy.
She pressed a pillow to her chest when Shane and Ilya approached her with a smile. She didn’t let go of it at night, when she curled up in her bed at their house, not saying anything, just staring at the walls.
When Ilya found her drawing a perfectly realistic picture of a raven, and he told her how talented she is, Hope startled and looked up at him, wide-eyed and … disbelieving. Did no one tell her before? Ilya wondered then. Did no one appreciate her talent?
I will. I will always tell her, Ilya thought then, shuddering as he remembered his own father, never happy, never satisfied, always demanding: do better, do more, don’t be lazy, you are not good enough yet.
Ilya won’t be like that. He will tell his daughter how amazing she is and he will hang her pictures up and watch her being perfect.
After a while, Hope started to relax. She seemed to start to believe them when they told her she could stay forever. That she was their daughter now.
The first time Hope called Ilya Papa, his heart filled with so much love that it felt like he was flooded, like the love would burst out of his chest. He hugged her then, almost crying. Papa. He is a Papa now. And Shane is a Daddy.
They are a family now. And it’s a good life they have.
Ilya loves it when Hope comes to games with David and Yuna and cheers for them, her hands packed into little gloves that make them look like marshmallows, but sometimes, he can feel his lower back aching.
Maybe, he thinks, he is going to retire from hockey soon. It’s not so much fun anymore. He can do other things. He could spend more time at home with Hope. Shane can continue playing hockey. He loves it. Has always loved it. And he’s only getting better. Never worse. His body is still cooperating with everything, too.
Yes. Shane is supposed to be a hockey player. And after being a hockey player, he is supposed to be someone who teaches others how to play hockey. Ilya knows that. Shane knows that. Everyone knows.
Scott has said that too. Scott …
Ilya is worried about Scott. They’re texting less now. Scott says he’s tired. And that he has a lot to do.
But Ilya knows that Scott has passed most of his tasks over to other people, like Carter and Eric. He’s doing less and less now, rarely appearing in magazines for interviews or in talkshows. It seems like he’s slowly retreating. And that worries Ilya.
He feels the urge to ask Kip. But it doesn’t feel right to talk about Scott without Scott.
So in the end, Ilya just decides to visit Scott and give Shane some alone-father-time with Hope.
When Ilya tells Kip that he is coming to visit, Kip happily meets up with Elena, so that Ilya can talk to Scott alone. Maybe Ilya will manage what Kip clearly fails to do … Make Scott open up about the obvious.
Elena studies him attentively, and Kip realises he has been too silent for too long, staring at the little marshmallows that float in his hot chocolate. They are sitting on Elena’s couch at her apartment. Outside, it’s snowing gently. “How are you doing?” Elena asks.
“Fine,” Kip says, quickly. Automatically. “I’m fine.”
Elena tilts her head and raises a doubtful eyebrow.
She’s always been good at reading him like a book. Kip sighs. He can feel the moment something snaps.
“Actually,” he admits quietly. “I’m not fine at all.”
And then, in front of Elena’s kind, worried eyes, Kip bursts into tears.
“Oh, baby,” Elena breathes. She puts their mugs away, then opens her arms. “Come here.”
Kip sinks into the embrace, grateful, as Elena wraps her arms around him, her hands rubbing his back.
“I feel so helpless,” he breathes, closing his eyes as he leans his forehead against her shoulder. “I can see that he’s struggling. And I want to help. But he’s … sometimes Scott is not talking to me. And I don’t know what to do.”
“You are already doing what you can, baby,” Elena tells him, her hand gently running over his back. “You love him. You take care of him. You make him smile. There’s not much more you can do. You have to let the professionals handle the rest, okay?”
“I’m scared, Elena,” Kip admits. “I’m scared of what this disease is going to do to him. I can’t stand the thought of seeing him suffer.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “But in the end, we can only try our best. And take care of ourselves too. You have to talk about this, Kip. You have to be kind to yourself. You’re only human, too.”
“I’m seeing a therapist,” Kip says, sniffling. “He said that Scott and I should … should talk about what we will do when it gets worse. That we should talk about stuff like healthcare proxy and specialist care.”
Elena hugs him tighter. “This sucks,” she says sadly. “It’s not fair. But I want you to know that you never have to pretend with me, okay? You can always talk to me, Kip.”
“Thank you,” Kip breathes, grateful. “Thank you, Elena.”
Ilya brought the good vodka. It feels like déjà vu.
Scott smiles at him. But it’s not a real smile. It’s not reaching his eyes. “Would you have thought we’d end up here someday? Like this? Both of us married to the man we like.”
“No,” Ilya admits. “But it’s good.”
“Yes,” Scott says, sipping his vodka. He looks away, avoids Ilya’s eyes, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the table.
I know what you’re trying to do, Ilya thinks.
“You’ve been quiet,” he points out.
“I was busy,” Scott mutters.
“No. I don’t want to hear bullshit. Tell me the truth,” Ilya says.
Scott glances at him, a little surprised. “What do you mean?”
Ilya huffs. “You are not busy. You are hiding. Why? Is your brain getting worse?”
Scott’s jaw is working. “It’s none of your fucking business,” he says with sudden sharpness.
“Yes, it is. You are important to me. And Kip is important to me, too. So I will say to you what you once said to me. Don’t be an asshole. Get your shit together,” Ilya says bluntly.
Scott’s eyes widen. He swallows. Looks down. “I’ve been having … thoughts,” he admits. “The mood swings got worse. And sometimes, I forget … words. Sometimes, I just feel like lying in bed all day. Like everything is too much. It’s getting worse. And I don’t want to burden anyone with this. Sometimes my brain tells me that it might be better if I just … disappear.”
“If that happens, you call me,” Ilya says firmly. It’s a demand. “You call me, and I will talk to you. Like I did when Kip wasn’t there. I don’t care how late it is.”
Scott smiles weakly. “Wow. You really want me to stay around. Did you grow so fond of me?”
Ilya doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. You are family. You and Kip. I want you to visit for many more years. Hope loves you. Everyone in this family loves you. No one cares if you can walk or not. No one cares if you forget some things. But we care that you are alive.”
“What will you do once you're talking to an empty shell?” Scott asks bitterly, staring at his empty glass.
Ilya shrugs. “Hope will still paint your nails, and we will still eat cake, and there will still be dogs playing in the meadow. There will still be sunlight, and there will still be someone to hold hands with. There will still be love. Death is nothing. Death is everyone being sad. I don’t want to be sad. Don’t make me feel sad about this. Not now. Not ever.”
I didn’t forget. I can never forget. It will always hurt.
Scott looks up and studies Ilya for a long moment. “We will all die one day, you know,” he finally says quietly.
“But not now,” Ilya says. “Look. Here is what you will do. Every two days, you text me something good that happened. And in return, I will send you a picture of Hope’s paintings.”
“God. After all these years, you are still so incredibly bossy,” Scott says dryly. But he is smiling now. It’s a small smile. But it does reach his eyes. Finally.
Ilya smirks. “Always. And talk to Kip. He is worried, too. You have to tell him what you told me. Talk. Make plans. That’s what you are good at, no?”
"I guess so," Scott says. Then, he adds, "I feel the same about you, you know? You, Shane, and Hope. I love you, too."
Ilya nods. He wordlessly reaches over the table and puts his hand on Scott's.
Kip stands in front of the mirror and touches the grey strands he finds in his hair, smiling weakly. He’s getting old. They’re all getting older, of course. And it’s noticeable now. New aches are appearing. Exhaustion is creeping into his bones faster.
But Kip knows he has to be grateful that he’s still so healthy. He has to be grateful that nothing bad happened to him so far. No accident. No major sickness. Nothing more serious than a migraine bothers him now and then. It could be so much worse.
You have to take care of your husband, who could get so much worse.
Kip swallows. At least Scott opened up, and they managed to talk. Managed to make plans. For the future.
Right now, life is still pretty good. They try to make the best of it.
Apollo’s presence helps a lot, too. Since day one, the dog has been following Scott everywhere, like a large, gentle shadow. Apollo even obediently accompanies Scott to the occasional interviews he still agrees to give. And he curls up under a chair, his head on his paws, while he attentively listens to Scott’s voice.
Kip is glad Apollo is there when he can’t be at home. When Scott would be alone. Kip never likes to leave Scott alone. He feels a little guilty for it, but he just can’t erase the pictures of Scott on the floor, gripping his own hair, blankly staring at glass shards from his mind.
Kip was so scared that day.
He still is scared.
The medication Scott is taking is working well so far. But Kip has read enough about CTE by now to understand that it might get worse very fast. Often, the symptoms stay the same for several years, and then spike up all of a sudden, when the CTE reaches the next stage. There are four of them, Kip knows, his throat tightening when he remembers them. When he remembers the symptoms of each one.
Not today, he tells himself then, watching Scott writing his book, or reading something, with Apollo curled up by his side. Not today.
But how long will he be able to say not today?
It starts small, in the end.
It starts with Kip finding Scott standing in the middle of a room, looking confused, blinking, and fidgeting.
“I … I forgot … I don't know," Scott stutters, looking so utterly defeated, it breaks Kip’s heart.
He can only hug Scott in these moments.
He can only hold Scott when he has sudden mood swings. One moment, he’s smiling, the next, he’s on the floor, crying his eyes out, not able to tell what makes him so sad. Apollo always comes running when he feels Scott’s distress, licking his face, whining, and pressing against him, until he feels better.
Kip can only hug Scott and hold him when he is suddenly convinced that it would be better if he didn’t exist at all.
“I love you,” he whispers, rocking them both gently, feeling Scott tremble in his arms. “I love you. I love you. I love you …”
The world is changing around them every day. Time goes on. And life happens.
Kip loses his Dad. It hurts so much. It tears him apart from the inside. For weeks, he cries himself empty. And Scott holds him through it, crying too.
Shane follows Ilya in retiring from professional hockey. He becomes a coach instead. It’s fitting. Everyone says so. And everyone knows he will lead his team to great success.
Hope wins several art competitions. There are articles about her in newspapers. “She will be a star one day,” Scott says and smiles proudly.
Scott’s book is doing well. They get letters regularly, from players who felt inspired, from players who decided to come out as well. There are so many more pride flags in audiences now, so many more rainbow coloured tapes around sticks now. Sometimes, someone mimics what Scott and Kip did many years ago, by proposing to each other on the ice, in front of a cheering audience.
Life happens.
Some of it good. Some of it bad.
Sometimes, Kip pictures a perfect world. It feels like a bittersweet dream he shouldn’t indulge in for too long.
In this perfect world, he and Scott grow old together, and everything is fine. They are that type of aging couple that sits in a café in comfortable shared silence, each one with a book in their increasingly wrinkled hands.
They travel the world together. They go on cruises and drink cocktails while watching the ocean stretch out endlessly. They dance to Dancing Queen, laughing.
In that world, their bodies are only aching with the natural soreness of old bones and nothing else. They get tired quickly and fall asleep on the couch. Because it’s normal.
In a perfect world, they visit their friends regularly, eat cake, and reminisce about the past together.
But it is not a perfect world. In between all these perfect moments, there are the imperfections of a progressing sickness that is slowly creeping up to them.
In the real world, which is the only world he will ever get, Kip watches Scott reach out and run a trembling finger over one of the pictures in their memory book. Still remembering most of these moments.
“You’re so handsome.”
Kip looks at the picture Scott is pointing at and smiles. It feels like this was yesterday. But he does remember. Scott took this picture. Kip is sitting on the couch with a book, wearing his reading glasses, his curls falling in his face, that is slightly tilted to the side, supported by one hand. He’s still young in this picture. Young and unknowing.
There are so many pictures in this book that they created together. It holds their whole life between its pages. Pictures of Ilya and Shane. Pictures of Apollo. Apollo, who was so loyal and caring until his last breath. Pictures of Hope. Pictures of the whole Kingfisher crew. Kip and his Dad. Scott and Kip. Carter, Eric, and Huff.
“I’m tired,” Scott says, closing the book, closing his eyes for a moment.
“Do you want to lie down?” Kip asks.
Scott nods. He doesn’t move, though. Just sits in his armchair, his head tilted to the side, like he’s listening to something only he can hear.
And Kip may be older now, but he can still lift his husband. Can still carry him to the bed and lay him down gently. He brushes Scott’s greying back from his forehead and kisses it gently.
Scott smiles absently, his eyes closed. He turns his face to the side, to the sunlight falling into the room through the window.
Kip joins his beautiful husband in bed. He cuddles up against Scott and wraps his arms around him, holding him.
It was a good day. Tomorrow might be a different one. They can’t know. But Kip knows they will face it together.
He takes Scott’s hand and closes his eyes.
Dear Scott,
If you are reading this, or someone is reading these words to you, you are either at the hospital or, sadly, Kip is gone. I really hope he is still there. And if you are still there: I love you, Kip. I love you so much.
You probably wonder why I wrote this letter. You might be confused. Maybe you woke up and forgot some things. This letter is meant to help you remember.
Your name is Scott Hunter, and you probably suffer from a condition called Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, short: CTE. It’s a progressive brain disease caused by repeated head impacts, which you experienced during your career as a professional hockey player.
This disease has several stages. It usually starts with depression, anxiety, and mood swings. Eventually, there might be memory loss and executive dysfunction. The final stage resembles advanced dementia.
It’s scary. And it can only be diagnosed after your death.
It’s scary, and I can imagine that you are very tired, Scott. I can imagine that you are about to make a decision. Please read the letter completely and take a look inside the folder before you make this decision. Please do it for me.
I want to tell you some things about your life.
You are loved, Scott. You are so loved. By Kip, your husband. By your friends who hopefully are still around. Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, and their daughter Hope, who drew the paintings I attached to this letter. Your teammates, who always had and have your back. Carter, Eric, Huff. All the people from the Kingfisher, the queer bar you co-own with Eric. Shawn, Kyle, Maria, Elena. They all love you, Scott.
I know that sometimes, it feels like everyone would be better off without you. You might feel like a burden. Because you are sick. Because you can’t move your body as well as you could in the past. Because you need help with little things that once seemed so simple. Because you tend to think you should be strong enough to take care of yourself, a remnant of the time when you were lonely and hid your true self away. I know. But it’s not true. I promise you, it’s not true.
Ask Ilya, if you can. He will tell you not to be boring and eat a piece of cake with him. Ilya has a sweet tooth. You can trust him with that.
You are loved. And you influenced the lives of so many people. You fought so many battles. People know who you are. You will still receive letters from hockey players who found the courage to come out. You will still hear from people who also experience symptoms of CTE and feel seen thanks to you, thanks to your book, and to the many interviews you gave. You were so brave. And many people are grateful for that.
There are a lot of letters, articles, and interviews in this folder. And of course, there’s the memory book you and Kip created together.
I hope this helped a little. I hope you might remember some things now.
I don’t know what your now looks like, Scott. I can only imagine. And I can only tell you that your life is full of love. That there will still be sunshine when you open your eyes tomorrow. That there will be people who will be happy to see you, to hear from you.
And if you have to make a decision now, please make it with this knowledge. You are loved. And you always will be.
With love and hope,
your past-self.
The End
Afterword
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