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“Scott Hunter.”
Great. He'd been hoping for a breath of fresh air before the after party, but apparently not.
Scott leans forward on the bench, staring at the ground, bracing himself not to give the asshole the satisfaction of a reaction.
“What do you want, Rozanov?”
An audible shrug. He can picture the swagger of the shoulders.
“Is big trophy,” Rozanov says. “I can help you carry?”
It's not his best. Scott snorts.
“Calling me old again? Come on. Here I was thinking I'd given you some new material.”
“Material?”
“Something to work with. You know, call me a faggot or whatever. Trust me, I've heard it.”
“I do not use this word.”
Now, that's a surprise. Scott's eyes jump off the pavement to where Rozanov is standing. He's got a black tank top and big black headphones and his jaw is stiff and serious, like he's just walked out of a fucking Depeche Mode poster. Except for the fact that he's currently strangling the handle of a roll-along suitcase like he's terrified to be here. It kind of undercuts the whole aesthetic.
“I mean,” Rozanov continues, “I can still tell you to suck my dick, if you want.”
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”
“Probably, yes.”
He says it like it's not a word of a lie. Not a flicker of a smile. He doesn't break eye contact until it sinks into Scott's bones. Oh.
“Fuck.” He lets out a shaky sigh. Rozanov. Fucking Rozanov of all people.
“Yes. Fuck.”
Uncharacteristically quietly, Rozanov helps himself to the other seat on the bench, on the other side of the big red trophy. He uncouples his hand from the poor suitcase and massages it, worrying at it the way he worries at his stick when a game is going badly: vulnerable, and pissed about it. Scott feels a knot of sympathy in his gut. Can he put a hand on the kid's shoulder? Tell him it's all going to be okay? No. That would probably scare him off – it would have done Scott, the first couple of times he did this - so he looks away, to ease the pressure, and waits for whatever is bubbling up inside of Rozanov to either spill out or die in his throat.
(Scott tries to imagine what they look like from the end of the alley. Two bros, sitting two feet apart on a bench staring at the concrete instead of each other for whatever this is, because they're not gay. Jesus.)
So he waits. But Scott's not immune to the agitation of vulnerability either, and he can feel it clawing up his legs til his knee starts to bounce, clawing up his torso til his chest tightens and it feels like he's the one coming out all over again and -
“Fuck, I need a drin-”
“I am not gay.”
Scott fights the urge to look at him again. Let it come. And if he's taking the piss, so help him, Scott can always punch him later.
“I like women too.”
“You're bi?”
“Yes. That.” Rozanov swallows hard, pushing through, fighting every instinct, and man, Scott's been there. “So I was thinking maybe I never tell anyone, it would be okay. But there's this person. This... man. He is special to me. And I didn't think we had a future together, until you did what you did. So. Thank you, Scott Hunter.”
A future together. For another hockey player? For another kid like him, yes, and that will never stop feeling like the best kind of punch in the gut. But for another major league, top of the sport hockey player? Maybe even two, if Scott's suspicion about this special person is right, and fuck. That's powerful. That feels impossible. It wasn't so long ago, when the best he thought he could have hoped for, was to wait until he'd faded away.
“I...”
He can't help it this time, he looks. And Rozanov is already looking. Smirking. The motherfucker has turned the tables on him and he knows it, and Scott can't even be mad.
“Um. You're welcome,” he manages instead.
Rozanov snorts, and settles into his seat a little. He doesn't look as much like he wants to disappear into a hole in the earth anymore. Scott's been there, too, and he can't help smiling back. Good for you, kid.
“So your... Kip is not here?” Rozanov asks. “For your big night?”
“No,” Scott says. “He couldn't fly out.”
They both know that's a lie. Rozanov raises an eyebrow. Scott thinks about the future he (they) are maybe thinking of building, and confesses.
“Look. Truth is, things are kind of intense. With the League, with the press. With the fans. A lot of it's been great, but... I really meant it, it's been a month. A crazy, complicated month. Plus, Kip's kind of become super famous super suddenly because of all this too, so that's been a ride and a half-”
“Oh, well at least that will not be a problem for us.”
It's Scott's turn to raise an eyebrow, and Rozanov realises he's said too much. He holds his breath, digs his thumb into the palm of his hand again, and Scott tries to clamp down on his smile before it sends him running for the hills. Good for them. Fucking hell, it makes so much sense. With this whole rivalry business the sexual tension is right there, first of all, and it all spirals out from there: the rebel and the golden child, 1221, where's your boy, all of it. Chemistry at the All Star Game. The way Rozanov looked like someone had ripped his heart out when Hollander got laid out on the ice.
He is special to me.
“Anyway. We just didn't want to poke the bear,” Scott finishes, giving Rozanov a place to hide. The kid lets his breath out, his shoulders settling again. There's a long stretch of silence – of distant crowds, traffic, wind. Then:
“Is it worth it?”
His voice is quiet, but hopeful. Curious. Soft. It's a side of World-Famous Asshole Ilya Rozanov that not many people get to see – one which asks less if I do this, am I going to want to break your jaw next time I see you? and more, what you've been through, would you inflict that on me?
Well, I'm not from Russia, Scott wants to say, because he has to imagine that has a few more stakes to it than what some kid from Brooklyn is going to deal with. I'm not at the height of my career, not anymore. I don't have anything to prove.
But then he thinks of Kip. And how it felt to hold him and everybody cheering and Kip and comfort in the evening and peace in the morning and Kip and blue banana smoothie and yapping about light sources and serial killer podcasts and not being so lonely and finally, finally feeling like he's not ripping himself in half anymore and Kip, Kip, Kip, and what comes out is -
“Yes.”
And Rozanov's face lights up. He beams, even his eyes shine, full of love, and he tries to cover his mouth but it does little to reduce the luminescent joy. For himself. For Shane. For the reassurance that all the hiding, the lies, the shame, the slurs, the dirty hits, the invasive questions, it will all be worth it one day. He can have what he wants. What he deserves. He shines so bright it hurts, and Scott's almost jealous for a moment, of what he could have had all this time if he'd been the one in that seat ten, fifteen, twenty years ago.
(Almost? He's definitely jealous. But he's here now and he wouldn't change it for the world).
Rozanov splays his arms across the bench then, and pokes Scott firmly in the shoulder.
“First Cup for the Admirals in 28 years, hm? You would not have won if Hollander did not get concussion.”
It's almost a change of subject. But not quite.
“Well, you could have trounced us yourself anytime you wanted,” Scott retorts.
Rozanov shrugs. ”I let you win. Before you retire.”
“Mm, so kind of you.”
“Mm, yes I think so.”
Asshole. Scott chuckles.
“Come on, Rozanov. You gonna buy me a drink or what?”
“Ilya. But no. I have a plane to catch.”
Oh.
“Back to Moscow?”
“No.”
He keeps Scott's eye a little longer. To make sure he knows. He knows he knows.
Montreal.
“Alright, well. Look out for the loons for me, right?”
“The what?”
“Never mind.” Scott shakes his head. “Have fun, kid. See you in October.”
“See you in October, Brave Scott Hunter. I look forward to wiping the floor with you.”
He wouldn't expect anything less.