Work Text:
“Is it actually true?”
This was the first game back after the Crowell-imposed mini-suspension. Ilya was bent forward, ready for the ceremonial face-off against Ericson, the captain of the Nashville Aliens. “Is what true?” Ilya asked.
“That you like taking it up the ass?” Blunt. Effective. Ilya had to give it to Ericson; he was efficient with his words.
The puck dropped, pictures were taken, and then hands were shaken. Ericson didn’t shy away from his touch. He wasn’t repulsed by the thought of a queer man. Ilya would give him credit where credit was due. But he would still fuck with him; he was still Ilya Rozanov after all.
He pulled Ericson closer, so only he could hear and said, “I like many things. Why? You want to try it?” It was risky; there was always the chance that he’d be starting a fight before the game officially started. But Ilya had pretty good intuition about whether someone was likely to drop the gloves. He just didn't always listen to it.
Ericson proved him right. He let go of Ilya’s hand and gave a playful push. “No fucking way, Roz, I don’t want to piss off Hollander.”
Ilya laughed and skated back to his bench, moving his mind into game mode.
***
Sometimes players tried to get in his head this way, but it didn’t often work.
“Cocksucker,” Roy spat at him as he skated past, bumping into Ilya even with the play dead.
The next time Ilya lined up for a face-off against Roy, he was smiling with his whole mouth. His eyes were set in their stony, focused glare. That look on Rozanov’s face haunted players across the league. “Is true,” he said.
“What’s true?” Roy asked, like he had forgotten what he had just said, as if the words fell out of his mouth with no conscious thought.
“Is true I like sucking cock, very tasty. You try it?” Roy’s eyes were getting wider with every word Ilya said. Ilya pushed further, “Not with me, though. I have enough cock to suck at home,” he finished.
It was like Roy was shocked that Ilya chirped back like this. Like he couldn’t comprehend that Ilya would freely admit such a thing. He lost the draw and was on the wing for the next face-off.
Ilya found that throwing it back gayer than he got it often rattled the other player much more than it rattled him.
***
It became almost a joke among some teams and certain players. An act of joyful defiance. A way to say hey, look at me, look at us, we’re queer, and we’re on the ice.
When the starting center of the Vancouver Orcas, Victor Gaunt, came out and got married, Ilya started chirping him.
“How is my second-favourite bisexual hockey player?” he hurled as they bent in the neutral zone.
Gaunt looked aghast, “Second favourite, Roz! Whose number one?”
“Me, of course, who else?”
Gaunt shorted, and Ilya took advantage of his momentary lapse in concentration, winning the face-off.
– –
Later, in the third period, they met in the circle again. “Hey, Roz, how does it feel that my husband is hotter than yours?”
“No. Is not true!
Ilya lost that draw.
***
The refs and the linemen usually let players get away with it. They almost always turned a blind ear actually.
There was only one game where a linesman didn’t let it slide
It was the fourth face-off Ilya had lined up for against Slinski. At each of the previous meetings, Slinski had tossed something offensive Ilya’s way.
“Queer.”
“Homo.”
“Cocksucker.”
This time, as Ilya bent to get set, Slinski threw “Fag” at him, under his breath. The linesman stood up and tossed Slinski out of the circle.
“Common man, I wasn’t even set!” Slinski complained.
“Shut it,” the official said. “I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth tonight, unless you want to get an unsportsmanlike.”
Slinski cut his losses and let the left winger come in.
While the other players reset, Ilya spoke quietly under his breath, “Thanks.”
“We should be doing more,” was all the linesman offered.
Ilya took the draw.
***
“I just wanted to say thank you,” a rookie from Colorado was already set in his defensive zone, ready for Ilya to come in and the puck to drop. His cheeks were rosy red, and he looked gassed. Colorado had iced the puck, leaving an exhausted fourth line on to face the top squad from Ottawa.
“For what?” Ilya asked, and his stick hit the ice. They were set, and the puck dropped.
Ilya never got an answer. They didn't meet again in the circle. They weren’t even on the ice again at the same time for the rest of the game.
Looking at the wide-eyed kid, Ilya thought he could guess, though.
***
Sometimes the other players just didn’t quit. Relentlessly trying to get under his skin. It was fine; they usually left Shane alone if they were going after him.
“Fag.”
Ilya bent for the opening face-off. He looked up and saw a scruffy Johnstone chewing on his mouth guard. He was 6'9" and built like the men who would collect money from Alexie when Ilya was 15.
Ilya had played a lot of games like this; he had met a lot of men like this. He knew he couldn’t give Johnstone an inch. He also knew it was just going to be one of those nights.
Ilya won the face-off.
– –
The next time they met in the circle was two shifts later.
“I hear you take it up the ass.”
Ilya stared at him, not looking away, not saying anything, not even blinking. He bent down, got set. And won the face-off.
– –
Johnstone tried every chance he got to needle his way under Ilya’s skin. It didn’t work.
“I can’t believe they let fags like you play.”
“Couldn’t find a woman to fuck you up the ass?”
“Didn’t know you could be a fairy if you’re Russian.”
“Homo.”
Ilya just kept his blank stare. Got set for the face-off and won.
– –
Bood tried to bring it up on the bench, but Ilya shrugged it off. “He keeps losing the draw, is good for my stats,” was all he said.
– –
Late in the third, the Centaurs were on the power play after a slashing call on Vegas.
The first unit went out. Ilya pulled Barret and Hollander together in the neutral zone to talk strategy. The power play was virtually the only time all three were on the ice together. Hollander was tapped as the primary face-off man for their unit. Ilya covered his mouth with his glove so their opponents and the cameras couldn’t read his lips, “Hollander, let me take the face-off.”
Shane was giving him his patented no fucking way look. He lifted his hand to shield his own words, “Why?” he asked.
“I have had Johnstone’s number all night. He hasn’t won one.” Ilya gave Shane his trademarked for the love of god, listen to your husband look.
Shane rolled his eyes, “Fine, but you'd better get your ass to the wing as soon as we have possession. And you better get possession.”
“Ok.” Ilya turned and skated towards the offensive zone; the face-off was to the left of the Vegas net. Hollander lined up to Ilya’s right, Barret to his left, Bood and Baker were at the blue line. Ilya braced for what he knew was coming.
“How do you decide who fucks who?” Johnstone asked as they got set. Ilya heard Shane mutter a curse, and he flinched. Moved in too soon. The linesman signalled to reset.
That was all the opening Johnstone needed.
Fuck.
“Wanna know how I know it's you, Rozanov?” Johnstone said with a laugh. Ilya made the mistake of looking up at the other man, giving Johnstone the opportunity to finish his thought, “because you keep looking at him for permission.”
Ilya was lucky he didn’t get a delay-of-game penalty. He got right up in Johnstone’s face, “Do you want to get beat by a faggot?” It was all he could get out before Hollander and Barrett were there. They grabbed Ilya’s sweater and tried to hold him back.
Johnstone also had his teammates hold him back, keeping him from getting an instigator penalty. Johnstone, however, kept pushing his luck, “Hey Hollander,” he called, “How’d you pussywhip Rozy like that? He used to be such a ladies' man. You got blackmail on him or something?” Ilya felt Shane’s grip loosen on him slightly.
That was all the permission his husband needed to give him. Ilya stopped fighting forward and let the next face-off get set. Obviously, both Ilya and Johnstone were tossed from the circle. Hollander would be going in to face some nameless body. It didn’t matter.
Ilya Rozanov just smiled.
He locked eyes with Johnstone. He didn’t stop staring; he didn’t stop smiling. As they got into their positions on the wings, as Hollander lined up for the face-off, as the linesman dropped the puck.
Ilya Rozanov didn’t stop smiling as he dropped his gloves and barreled straight for Johnstone, and took hold of his white and gold sweater. He got two good hits in before Johnstone's gloves were off and got his hands on Ilya.
They traded blows until they both ended up on the ice, blood was pouring out of Ilya’s nose, and one of his problem teeth was feeling loose again.
Johnstone was on top of him, and Ilya just couldn’t help himself. He was sure he looked half-crazed, as he smiled up at Johnstone and said, “Careful now, I might accidentally turn you gay.”
Johnstone was horrified. Then he was angry. As the refs pulled him off of Ilya, he spat on him, catching Ilya’s cheek.
Ilya grinned and made a show of wiping his cheek with his already swelling hand. He flicked the ogar's spit onto the ice and waved goodbye at Johnstone as he was hauled off by the officials, yelling things Ilya couldn’t make out.
Ilya slowly pulled himself to his feet, pausing on one knee. He wasn’t a young man anymore. Centaur sticks were tapped on the ice as a sign of respect, and the hometown crowd cheered him on as he paused to take the moment in.
He didn’t know how many fights he had left in him. But God, that one felt good. Johnstone would get at least a two-game suspension for the spitting, probably more. Ilya hoped the media would ask about it after the game. Ilya would very happily list off all the things Johnstone said and then talk about how spitting on someone was only ok if you had consent and Johnstone did not have consent.
The ref skated over to him. “You’re off too, Rozanov,” the ref said.
“I know, I know. Is not first fight.” Ilya pushed himself up and skated off the ice. His night was done. The clock would wind down before his 5-minute penalty for fighting would expire.
He made his way to the locker room, where he quickly shed his sweater and shoulder pads before finding a sink to wash his hands in. He may have acted cool on the ice, but he really, really didn’t want Adam Johnstone’s spit on his skin for a second longer.
A member of the medical staff found him and pulled him into the small treatment room, just off the locker room. She started with his hands, but Ilya stopped her. “Please, can you take care of my face first. I think nose is broken and can’t wash face myself before is set.”
“Yes, of course,” Maya, Maria, Mia? Names are hard when your face and hands hurt after giving a homophobe a deserved beating.
She carefully wiped away the blood and sweat from his face, paying special attention to everything on his left cheek. So she saw what happened. Is ok. Ilya was sure the clip of that would follow him for the rest of the season, certainly every time they played Vegas.
“You did a good job out there. With Johnstone.” Mia(?) said. No, Ilya was sure it was Maria.
“Thanks.” They didn’t say anything else while she worked quickly, gently stuffing Ilya’s nose with cotton balls to stem the bleeding before cleaning, disinfecting and wrapping his hands in gauze.
“Dr. Terry will have to set it, but you're good for now.”
“Thank you… Maria?”
“Its Sarah, actually. And no problem.”
“Shit. Maybe we check for concussion, too, Da?” He was only half joking.
Sarah couldn’t answer before she was interrupted by loud cheers coming from the hall leading to the ice.
“Rozy, you crazy motherfucker!” Bood was hollering as he came down the tunnel, followed by the rest of his team.
“Nice Gordie Howe Hattie,” Hazy said, tapping his stick to Ilya still dressed shins. The rest of the team followed suit, greeting him at the door of the medical treatment room. They all showed their respect for a thing Ilya had never heard of before.
Ilya finally asked, “What is a Gordie Howe hat-trick?”
“What the fuck, Roz? Did you hit your head?” Barrart asked.
“I don’t know, maybe, what is it?”
“It's like when you get a goal, an assist, and have a fight all in the same game,” Hazy answered.
Ilya was taken aback, “I have never heard of this? Is this one of Baker’s pranks he is trying?”
“No, you dummy, it's a real thing.” Shane was the last one in the locker room, the last one to greet him. He pressed his forehead to Ilya’s, mindful to be careful of his swelling face. “How have you played 14 seasons of professional hockey and have never heard of a Gordie Howe Hat trick?”
“No, I still think you invent this. Who is this Gordie Howe? Do you think he is a better player than me? Is he hot?” Shane smiled at him. It was one of those quiet smiles that still touched his eyes.
“Shut up, asshole.” Shane had become more affectionate after games these days. It had taken literal years of playing on the same team, and it was never before games. He was still laser-focused before the puck dropped. But after the final horn, he would linger near and not stiffen when Ilya would tease him. Like tonight.
“Yes, but I am your asshole.” Ilya smiled; it was softer than his earlier smile. Johnstone doesn’t get to see this smile.
“I hate it when you fight,” Shane confessed as he was inspecting the bruises that were forming on Ilya’s jaw.
“Yes, but he deserved it!”
Shane pulled away. “I just wish you didn’t fight every time someone says something awful on the ice,” he said.
“I don’t,” Ilya grabbed Shane's hands and looked him in the eyes. “I promise I don’t. I am not young as I once was. I am old man. So now I only fight when they really deserve it, or they bring up you. Which is same as really deserving it, actually.”
Shane held his gaze, “Ok. Ok, I believe you,” he said.
Ilya carefully pressed a kiss to one of Shane's hands. “Now go get undressed, Dr. Terry has to set my nose, and I don’t want you to hear my manly screams.”
Shane snorted and turned towards his stall. Ilya was the happiest he had ever been.