Chapter Text
Running Into A Glass Door On Purpose
It took a while for Scott to find a decent time to whistle Rozanov away from the rest of the Centaurs. Mostly because he was clearly babysitting Troy Barrett, who had the distinct look of a man who simultaneously wanted to run away screaming at the first sign of a rainbow flag and dive headfirst into a fountain of pure, gay hedonism. Scott knew that look because he’d seen it in his own reflection a great deal.
Sometimes he still has to remind himself that he doesn’t have to keep his face blank when he talks about Kip. That it would probably be weirder if he looks emotionally disconnected every time he talks about his husband. Still, habits like that die hard.
Fleetingly, Scott wonders why he seems to attract queer athletes like flies to honey, but then his own brain reminds him of the fact that a.) he is currently at a gay bar that he has partial ownership of, and b.) he’s also the first and only openly gay player in the MLH, so. He should probably stop forgetting about that.
Whatever. Barrett’s business is his business, and regardless of his previous association with professional piece of shit Dallas Kent, the kid seemed to have no problem cutting ties with his former teammate when it needed to be done.
This is not about him. This is, unfortunately, about his asshole of a team captain. It is also entirely Kip’s fault.
Scott tries to keep hockey talk to a reasonable level at home. He talks about his teammates and his own performance like anyone would their coworkers and their careers. And Kip has never voiced any complaints about Scott’s tendency to get passionate about his own profession, save for the occasional babe, I love you so much, but it is 1:30 and I have an 8:00 A.M. lecture tomorrow when [when, not if] Scott calculates time differences wrong on the road and calls at ass-o’ clock, New York time.
But Rozanov’s move to Ottawa had confused the fuck out of everybody, so he yapped about it with Kip one night (he was far more interested than Scott thought he would be, honestly). They talked a bit about Scott’s opinion of the guy and his experiences with him. Yes, he’s a dick on the ice, but he doesn’t seem like a bad guy, per se. He’s one of the best players in the league, and probably the most competitive guys he’s ever played against. Yes, he’s that hot in person, but that’s not hard to ignore when he calls you old every single time he sees you.
And Scott, a couple of beers deep that late on a weekend off, had offhandedly mentioned his dumb theory about Rozanov and Shane Hollander. It was just a silly thought, and probably, he told Kip, a decent amount of projection on his part. This inevitably led to spilling his guts about his one and only fight with Hollander. When Scott reluctantly confessed exactly what he’d said to start that fight, his husband had looked at him like he’d grown a second head, and, in a way that was adorable and far too excited, had whispered, Oh my god, they’re totally fucking! Scott, you used your gaydar!
[He also chewed him out for how mean picking that fight was, but Scott had plenty of regrets about that already.]
Now, it should be noted that Scott thinks his gaydar is, in fact, nonfunctional. Kip’s friend (and Scott’s friend, now, honestly) Maria had declared it so herself. Specifically, after he was shocked to learn that Eric Bennett, his teammate and best friend of many years, was bisexual. But it wasn’t really surprising to think that Scott was clueless when it came to this stuff, right? He spent most of his life trying desperately to smother that part of himself, refusing to entertain any whims or desires he had about the handsome men who he shared locker rooms with, or saw at a bar, or walked past on the street. That, in turn, meant he never really learned the, ahem, signs and subtleties (or lack thereof) of gay flirting.
[The only and most obvious exception to this was Kip, but Kip was exceptional in any and every way, to Scott. An outlier. That was a given, considering the way Scott threw all caution to the wind for him and only him.]
Kip, however, was insistent that Scott’s experiences with Hollander and Rozanov were indicative of something. Only god knows what that actually is, but it probably isn’t just friendship, he said. And now, walking around the Kingfisher in a way that was more awkward than an openly gay and married celebrity had any right to, Scott asks himself why he agreed to this in the first place. Why? For Kip, of course. And, in the virtually impossible case that they were right, a little bit for himself.
“Hey, Rozanov! Got a whole case of that fancy vodka of yours in the back if you want some,” Scott yells over to the Centaurs’ table. He tries to sound casual. He has no idea if it actually works.
Rozanov turns toward him upon hearing his name, eyes lighting up with amusement at what he sees. He says something to his teammates, pats Barrett on the back twice, then steps toward Scott, weaving through the crowd effortlessly. That shit-eating grin-the one that most players in the MLH have taken at least one swipe at-graces his stupidly handsome face.
“Hunter! Are you flirting with me? In front of your beautiful husband and the eyes of God? You do remember husband, don’t you? Memory going already, old man?”
Christ, what an asshole.
“Very funny. I’m planning on jumping you, not seducing you, if you must know. Hope you’re not overly attached to those kneecaps. You will actually get a caseload of the good stuff if you walk willingly into your own death, though,”
Rozanov isn’t an idiot. Impulsive, but not an idiot. Scott can practically see the wheels turning in his brain, probably thinking about why the fuck Scott Hunter of all people would request a private moment with the man who does absolutely nothing besides terrorize him every time they meet on the ice. Whatever conclusion he comes to, it must be good enough because he nonchalantly shrugs and nods to Scott in a lead on gesture.
Shit. You have to stop letting Kip talk you into doing stupid things.
He did actually order a couple of crates of Russian vodka. Not in anticipation of interrogating Rozanov, but because a few of his friends and some of his teammates (including one or two Russians) gobble up the stuff whenever they visit. So he cracks open the untouched package of Nikiforov and sits on a stepladder next to the spare storage boxes in the back of the Kingfisher’s warehouse. Scott mentally thanks himself for having the foresight to move it from the freezer.
“Alright, Hunter. I come all the way here for good stuff, but what is price, huh? Are we gossiping now?” Rozanov wags his eyebrows at him suggestively. Scott desperately wishes the answer to that question was no.
“Shut up. God, this was a bad idea,”
Rozanov looks at him curiously, but his shoulders are a little tense, his stance rigid. Scott tries to hide his nervousness with an artificially casual laugh.
He really hopes he’s not about to get decked in the back of his own bar.
“Look, I, uh…I’m really not trying to pry or anything, and I would be happy to go the rest of my life not knowing anything about your personal life, but…”
But would you please tell me about your personal life in explicit detail? No, not explicit; vague statements would be ideal. Abstract, even.
Rozanov crosses his arms, keeping his body closed-off. He tries to keep his expression light, but his jaw is clenched.
“…But-?”
“…I guess I just wanted to say…Jesus Christ-I’m here for you if you ever need to talk about, uh-“ Being queer? The closet? Whether or not you’re fucking your arch-rival and narrative foil? “-things?”
Scott, you are such a fucking idiot.
Rozanov scoffs, a mischievous grin forming at the edge of his mouth. The face of a child who has been given a new toy.
“Things. Right. Have you finally given up on hockey? New profession is therapist?” Alright, he had that one coming.
“Fuck off, man. I don’t want…I just…if you need someone to talk to about…relationships. And hockey. And dealing with those two at once,” Please take the hint. I do not want to say this shit out loud.
Rozanov tilts his head, curiosity and caution evident in the furrow of his brow.
“…You think I am virgin? That I have woman problems? I do not need advice from Grandfather Hunter-“
Goddammit. Fine. We do this the hard way.
“You talked to Hollander recently?”
Just for a moment, and Scott knows he’ll feel awful about this later, (he feels bad about it now) Rozanov’s smirk falters and his eyes go wide with terror. Terror that Scott is all too familiar with. But it’s only for a second, and then his stupid grin is plastered right back to face, rigid and toothy. One of his eyebrows lifts in faux-surprise.
“Hollander? Montreal Hollander? We do charity together, yes, but that is it. What does he have to do with this?” His voice is even, calm. Too steady; too careful.
“Did he, uh, ever tell you why we got into that fight a couple years back?”
Scott knows this would go faster if he could just ask Rozanov directly, but then he risks scaring him, risks him storming out of here in anger and fear. He has to beat around the bush for a while, he has to.
[Because Scott would’ve run, if someone had asked him about Kip before he was ready. He would’ve sprinted away as fast as he could.]
“Fight? Oh, that one. Is hockey. Everyone fights. I don’t give a fuck why you and Hollander fight,” Rozanov snaps. His accent gets stronger the more agitated he gets. This might be the only time he’s ever actually rattled Rozanov. Fucking insane that it’s happening in the back of a gay bar instead of on the ice. Fucking insane that Scott is trying his best to not freak Rozanov out, and is failing anyway.
“Yeah, everyone fights. Except Hollander. It was my fault. I still feel like a dick for it, but I was…it wasn’t a great time for me,” That, at least, is entirely truthful.
“Okay? The fuck do I care, Hunter?”
“I told him he was starting to sound like you.”
There’s an awkward pause as Rozanov processes this information. Scott wouldn’t be surprised if he’s convinced he mistranslated something. He knows he actually understood it, though, when Rozanov’s eyes stay fixed on a crate of bourbon for a beat too long. He takes a particularly deep breath, tension betraying his lungs.
“…Is good chirp. Are you apologizing to me for this?”
“For fuck’s-my room was next to yours at the All-Star game a couple years ago. I would love to erase the noises I heard from you guys from my memory forever. There are rumors going around that Hollander came out to his team. You just transferred to fucking Ottawa from Boston. If I’m wrong, tell me I’m wrong, but don’t lie to me for fear that I, out of anybody in this fucking sport, would ever out you. I’m not here to fuck with you, man,”
Scott does a piss-poor job of pretending to keep a casual attitude about all of this; his words too soft and shaky to lose their intensity. Sue him, he is personally invested in making the MLH a safer place of queer players, both for himself and for people like Hollander and Rozanov.
As a peace offering, Scott takes one of those bottles of vodka from the mostly forgotten crate in front of them, opens it, and hands it to Rozanov.
It takes at least ten full seconds before the Russian actually takes it and downs two big gulps of vodka without blinking.
“…Okay. Fine. You are right. I still don’t get-what do you want from me?”
Great question! I’m not entirely sure myself. Scott takes a hefty sip of his own beer.
“I…I guess I just wanted to ask, are you okay?”
Rozanov stares at Scott, a mixture of incredulity and fury on his face, and barks a loud and very sarcastic laugh.
“Am I okay? Ha! Of course I’m not fucking okay! Were you okay living every fucking moment of your life paralyzed with fear that everyone you know will fucking disown you if they find out who you love? Fuck!”
Oh, no. This is definitely more than a pair of fuck-buddies.
“No, of course not. It was hell.”
“Yes! Hell! Is hell! And also none of your fucking business, Hunter!” Rozanov spits.
And that’s what it comes down to. Regardless of his good intentions, it isn’t his business. He’s friendly with Hollander, but doesn’t really know the kid. And he’s certainly not close to Rozanov, holy shit. This was all just humorous speculation before now. Just a whisper, simple gossip. Scott doesn’t have a stake in any of this. Well, he didn’t, but now he’s made it about him and what he knows. Ugh, he feels like a real douchebag. He clears his throat, looking down at his feet in guilt.
Rozanov sighs, hands coming up to rub his temples. At least he looks less angry now. Instead he just looks…incredibly stressed.
Yeah, no fucking shit, Scott. What do you think he’s stressed about?
“…You’re right. I’m sorry. Really. I was just thinking that…before…if I had someone else who knew what it was like, especially someone in the league…”
“So what, you think…time to be ‘wise gay elder’?” And, now that he says it, Scott realizes that’s totally what he thought he was doing.
“Something like that, sure.”
“Shit. You are such…nice guy. Hockey dad. Mr. Gay Icon,” He might be a bit more offended by that if he actually thought Rozanov’s dramatic tone of disgust were genuine. Instead, it just makes him chuckle.
“Yeah, sorry.”
“…Do you want to talk about it?”
“No! Yes! Fuck you. Maybe?”
Scott waits what he thinks is an appropriate amount of time before speaking again.
“How long?”
“…Dating, a few years. Hooking up? Decade.” Shit!
“Shit,”
“Yes.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“Shane’s parents. The rumors about him telling his team-those are true. They were okay with it, but just okay, so no bombshells about dating the ‘enemy’ yet. One of my friends from Russia-she knows I’m bisexual and seeing someone, but not who. Rose Landry, I think. And fucking Hayden Pike,” Scott takes note of the mocking disdain with which he says Pike’s name.
It’s a (slightly) longer and weirder list than Scott and Kip had, that’s for sure.
“Rose Landry? Wait, Pike?”
“Was not my choice; his wife is too smart. She let him borrow brain cell. Figured it out. He is close with Shane, though, so he was going to know sooner or later. Oh, also Ryan Price. Walked in on us during camp last summer. I said we should charge him for show, but Shane did not agree, so-“
“And the move to Ottawa-?”
“For him, yes. If we are together, I cannot go back to Russia. America is lot better than Russia for queer people, but still not good as Canada. And too far from Shane. Canada is best option. I need citizenship, Ottawa needed center,”
Ilya Rozanov moved teams for Shane Hollander. And not just any team, but the team he was drafted by, the team he won a cup with. He moved to a different country.
Holy fuck.
[For a second, Scott wonders if he would go so far as to move to another country for Kip, and the insecure part of his brain says you kept him in the closet for so long, you can be awfully selfish when it benefits you. But then the rest of brain says of fucking course I would move for Kip.
But only for Kip.]
“…He’s it for you, then?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. Not even a stutter. He takes another hefty sip of vodka. Scott follows suit.
“Wow.”
“Again, yes. Your tiny brain still processing? Cannot use big words right now?” Ah, there he is.
“Do you blame me? I thought you guys were fucking at best; not, like, engaged,”
“No, no, no rings, yet. But eventually. Hopefully, soon,” And, fuck, Ilya Rozanov sounds wistful. He is fucking whipped for Shane Hollander. Is Scott dreaming?
“We only…the reason we started dating, stopped pretending it was casual…was after you-after the cup, with Kip…” Rozanov’s uncharacteristic stuttering surprises Scott.
Is he…embarrassed? Is it possible to embarrass Ilya Rozanov?
“…Really?”
He hesitantly nods, and keeps his eyes firmly away from Scott.
“If you hadn’t done that…I would be miserable. Well, I am still kind of miserable, but I would be miserable and not have Shane. It might take long time, but we will be able to just be us one day. Is only thing keeping me, ah, floating. I didn’t let myself think like that, before.”
And fuck if that doesn’t make Scott want to throw all past interactions with this Russian asshole out the window in favor of liking the guy. Not only liking, but sharing a deep well of sympathy for; he’s admitting to what amounts to a coworker that the most excruciatingly vulnerable and terrifying choice Scott’s ever made in his life gave two people courage to love each other.
“Do not make me repeat this ever. If I give you too much credit I will surely vomit,” He adds casually, as if to pretend any of this is a normal and impersonal thing to say to someone you regularly slam into giant panes of glass.
“…Scott Hunter, are you crying right now?” Oh, no.
“Fuck off. Shut up. You just told me I’m responsible for you guys deciding to live as yourselves-”
“I do not recall saying ‘responsible’. Jeez, Hunter, your ego is massive. How does wonderful husband Kip put up with you?”
Scott doesn’t hesitate to answer that truthfully, “No idea.”
At some point, both Scott and Rozanov end up on the semi-clean floor of the warehouse, manspreading their asses off.
“So I have…a list, now,” Scott remarks.
“Oh? List of your worst traits? Unsatisfied lovers? List of games you have lost? Must be long list. Did you have to order extra long paper-”
“A list of people who are safe. People in hockey, I mean. It was Kip’s idea. It’s not, like, a complete directory or anything. It’s just-it’s a spreadsheet, and one column is safe and one is not safe. It started out as a guest list for the wedding, but after we finished that, we just copied and expanded it. Honestly, the safe list is longer than I thought it would be. The not safe list isn’t exactly short, but it’s a start. Plus, there are a lot of people that are somewhere in the middle. People who ignore the comments, the slurs; they tolerate the intolerance. But they’ll also act normally around me. I think maybe they’ll be safe, one day. Just not yet.
Anyway, I can send it to you guys. Shane has my email, but if you want, I can give you my phone number, too.”
Rozanov squints and appears to internally debate this. He nods after a second.
“Thank you for the offer, but you and I both know that I should not have access to your phone number. Email is enough for me. List is nice, but…there is difference between just being gay and being gay with another player. And this stupid fucking rivalry thing…I have never hated Shane. Did he piss me off? Oh, yes, all the time. Wanted to grind him and his pretty freckles into the ice. Never hated him. Not really,” Bad word choice, Rozanov, Scott thought. Or, more likely, intentional, graphic assholery.
“Fair. Still, if you can’t confide in anyone in Ottawa…” Rozanov shakes his head.
“No, is not like that,” He says, clearly struggling to find the words to explain his situation. Whether it’s the language barrier or the weight of everything on his shoulders, Scott can’t be sure.
“Look, I know everyone thinks Centaurs suck, and right now, yes, we are bad at hockey. But…I like the people. Teammates, coach, staff. I did not feel like I could come out in Boston. Most guys there would have been okay with it, I think, but okay in same way that Metros are ‘okay’ with Shane. Okay as long as you don’t talk about it. Here…I think it is closest I will get to ideal situation. Makes me impatient. Is fucking stupid, how more accepting team makes me feel worse,” He huffs, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand.
“What’s holding you guys back right now?”
There’s a pause before Rozanov speaks again.
“Shane is terrified. He loves hockey, loves his team so much; he does not want to risk losing it all. He has a legacy in Montreal. Part of problem is I don’t want to pressure him; other part is that I think maybe…he has reason to be wary of team. Not all of them, but some. Coach, maybe. Kind of seems like an asshole.
And, fuck, maybe if I push him on it too much, I lose him. Took us so fucking long to get together in the first place because we were so scared. Leaving Russia permanently wasn’t-it was fine, for me. It was big change, but I had never gotten the…not love, but, uh, appreciation-is that word? Didn’t get that from my country in same way I gave myself to it,” Scott can hear the sadness in his voice, though Rozanov’s clearly trying to disguise it as nothing more than cynicism and bitterness. Cynicism and bitterness he is clearly entitled to.
“Is not like that for him.”
For a moment, he flashes back to that conversation with Vaughn and Hollander in Sochi. No, America isn’t as accepting of the LGBTQ+ community (or minorities in general) as it likes to pretend it is. Being in New York has insulated Scott from a decent chunk of that (road games are a different beast altogether). Still, same-sex marriage has been legal for a couple years now. He’s lucky. He gets to be himself with his husband, have a successful career, and represent positive change in his country (despite Roger Crowell’s desperate attempts to stop that).
Ilya doesn’t get that. He never had a choice in whether or not Russia would tolerate his relationship with Hollander. He doesn’t get the options that Scott did. It’s his homeland OR Shane. More than that, it’s his homeland or himself.
And all of this at the age of, what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? Jesus.
“He always struck me as being pretty high-strung, especially for someone so young. Anxious. Never blamed him, considering the pressure he’s been under since his rookie year. The pressure you’ve both been under, yeah?”
“Anxious, yes,” He lets out a blunt, monotone ha! “Understatement,” His face gets that smitten look again. I can’t believe he’s this squishy on the inside.
It’s not lost on Scott that two of the best players in the entire sport of hockey are worried about, among other things, losing their jobs over their love for each other.
“Coming out…it’s terrifying no matter what, but knowing the only thing stopping you from coming out is yourself…I almost lost what I had with Kip because I was so scared to jump off the edge. It was impulsive as hell, bringing him on the ice. It wasn’t planned. And sometimes I think that was the only way I was ever going to do it-spontaneously. You can’t wait for everything to be perfect, because it’ll never be perfect.
Look, your situation is a lot more complicated than mine, but…if-if you would be open to some advice from your ‘gay elder’, don’t lie to him to spare his feelings. If he’s half as crazy about you as you clearly are about him, he’ll know something is wrong. It’ll only make you both miserable in the end.
He…you both deserve…sunshine.”
Scott’s pretty sure he visibly winced after that last sentence.
Christ, man. If you were gonna steal from your husband’s best friend, you could’ve at least made it sound cool.
He looks tentatively back at Rozanov, who, surprisingly, isn’t wearing a shit-eating grin. His jaw is clenched tightly, his face too neutral to be what he feels. Not while he pointedly looks anywhere but at Scott.
“Sunshine. Do you get that? Does it feel like sunshine? Being out, being married?”
“Honestly? Kind of, yeah. I didn’t realize how much the idea of being outed weighed on me for all those years. You learn to shove it down, you know?”
Rozanov nods, closing his eyes for a moment. He visibly swallows, and Scott really hopes he’s not going to cry because, fuck, he is not prepared to comfort a sad Ilya Rozanov.
“…You’ll get there, man. And you’ll be annoying as hell about it, I’m sure.”
They sit there in silence for a couple of minutes. Not an uncomfortable silence; it’s the silence between two people who share the same type of pain. The same grief.
All of a sudden, Ilya’s shoulders begin shaking. Five minutes ago Scott would’ve panicked and assumed he was either getting ready to throw a haymaker or crying, but then he tilts his head toward the ceiling and it becomes clear he’s laughing. Laughing, eyes closed, head shaking.
“What?”
“I-I can’t believe you told him he sounds like me. Fuck, that is funny,” He actually snorts, and continues, “I have to look up that fight later and zoom in on his face,”
“You wanna know how I knew I was right?” Ilya nods enthusiastically, eyes lighting up with glee.
“He called me old and also a pussy, in that order,” Scott admits.
Ilya’s eyes widen cartoonishly, his jaw dropping open in shock. The corners of his mouth lift so high up on his cheeks it looks like it should hurt. He chortles something in Russian.
“Fucking shit, that’s good! I am so proud of him! Oh, oh! I am going to text him,” he whips out his phone clumsily and begins typing with a passion. “I am going to suck his dick so good later-“ Fuck. Scott narrowly avoids choking on his drink.
“Okay, okay, I really really don’t want to know anything about anything you guys do-“
“Is cost of being nosy, Hunter. You want hot gossip, you get dirty details,”
I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Scott sighs, then shrugs in reluctant agreement, essentially saying you got me there.
Ilya takes a deep breath and lets it out through closed lips; like blowing a raspberry without the tongue. It’s goofy as hell to watch.
“Well. I should probably get back to team before they start spreading rumors about scandalous affair between legendary hockey player and nameless grandfather. And I don’t care if I have to pay for it, I’m taking this fucking vodka with me,” He raises his left fist holding the skinny neck of the glass bottle.
Scott scoffs and replies, “I’m sending you home with at least three bottles. Kyle ordered two crates full of the stuff,” He pauses for a second, then continues, “And I do feel bad about interrogating you like that. I should’ve…I don’t know. I’m clearly not very good at being a gay elder,”
“…Is okay. There is not really good way to ask ‘hi, are you fucking your rival’. Was surprising. And a little scary. But…you are ‘Big Gay Scott Hunter’. You know what it feels like. If was anyone else, I would have lied.” The honesty in his demeanor continues to astound Scott.
“Just, you know, do not be surprised if I begin to describe our sex life in detail on ice. I am petty. Shane taught me that word. I like it,”
“Please don’t do that.”
“I’m going to.”
“Hey, man! I was beginning to think Scott was serious about killing you. What did you guys do, fall in?” Hayes asks Ilya.
He holds up his three bottles of vodka in triumph, earning a chorus of cheers from the Centaurs.
“First of all, that dinosaur could not kill me if he had a machine gun. Second, Hunter lost crate, so we spent like ten minutes checking freezers. Then, I had to pick bottles myself. Little taste test. Is important, yes?” Cheers and chirps continue; Boodram insists on getting a sample of Russia’s finest. Ilya holds his open bottle out of reach, and Scott watches everyone go back to normal, completely ignorant of the chains holding their captain down.
He takes one final look at Ilya and turns, heading over toward his booth, where he knows Kip is waiting for him. He pauses his conversation with Sean and Maria when he sees Scott approach. Just one look at him and fuck, it’s like coming home. Scott slides right next to him, where he belongs.
“Hey! Everything good? Is he…?”
“I’ll tell you later. Have I told you how much I love you today?”
Kip smiles, his shoulders relaxing, eyes bright and soft.
“At least three times, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”
Ilya feels Barrett nudge his shoulder. The others are busy talking about stupid shit again in a way that Ilya has a hard time pretending to dislike.
“Hey, um-“ Troy whispers, “-are you…good?”
No, not really. He’s tired and sore, and he knows when they get back to the hotel, he’ll feel that deep sadness and exhaustion again.
But…one day, he’ll be able to come here again, with Shane. He wishes that day would be tomorrow. Still, the promise of sunshine keeps him standing.
“…Da. For right now.”