Chapter Text
The award ceremony was held in a beautiful building, all roman detailing with high arches and huge windows. The carpet in the ballroom was a deep, plush red and felt soft even through Kip’s shining dress shoes. They pinched his feet at the toes, stupidly expensive and still not comfortable.
Scott had insisted, beaming at him over a clothing rack at their third boutique of the day as he talked about a future filled with quiet evenings and family events and maybe even holiday events at Scott’s apartment with their friends–
Kip had folded like a wet towel. He’d be wearing these shoes until they fell apart, mark his words, and the same went for the remarkably comfortable, tailored suit he was wearing. Scott had insisted they suited him and then had insisted on paying. The deep navy jacket matched no less than six other attendees he had seen so far, barely an hour into the post-ceremony party, and he had to admit it helped, the blending in. His own dress attire, geared towards interviews and the rare funeral, would have stuck out in this room of elite athletes and their plus ones.
Still, even with this chameleon outfit Kip had put together, the room was getting to him, the heat of constant eyes on them making his ears burn. He and Scott had shaken hands with what felt like half the room, making a slow circle through the hall. Kip had done his best to ignore the sharp, sickly feeling twisting in his stomach, to keep his hands relaxed and away from his too-tight collar.
Keeping up appearances, Scott had explained last night in their hotel room. They had flown out of JFK Airport together and were quartered in the nicest hotel Kip had ever set foot in, on the twelve floor. Scott had been sitting on the edge of their oversized bed, holding Kip’s waist firmly as he stood between the other man’s legs. They can’t think I’m backing down now. People will be looking for that.
His boyfriend hadn’t needed to clarify what people he meant – players, coaches, anyone bored and disrespectful enough to feed a line to tabloid news. Anyone who thought they were entitled to fan the flames the media had surrounded them with.
The intensity would die down eventually, Kip knew. Other NHL players weren’t immune to scrutiny and sooner or later, another scandal would make headlines. Still. The constant glances in his direction, hitting and skittering away, were making his neck itch.
Kit had stationed himself near the balcony doors after he and Scott had finished their first round of small talk, begging off with a touch on Scott’s forearm and a nod towards the table he was now sitting at, the press of the crowd suddenly too much. Scott had dropped him off with a quick kiss on the cheek and a beeline towards the bar, to grab them each a drink. A champagne flute of bubbly rosé had been delivered with another kiss, before Scott returned to the fold. His boyfriend was now leaning against the bar, chatting with a group of fellow players.
They looked friendly enough, shoulders jostling against Scott’s, stepping over the invisible line most of the others had stayed outside of the entire night. A hulking player Kip vaguely recognized from the Bears said something that made Scott laugh, and Kip tried to swallow at the sight, to squeeze his nausea back down a tight throat.
No one had approached Kip in the last few minutes, but the crowd was growing, players and coaches and upper management stepping through the main doors. Some stayed on the first floor, seated at tables and mingling near looming windows, while others descended the short set of steps to the dance floor and bar. Voices echoed off the high ceiling and paneled walls, the clink of glasses and scuff of shoes blurring together.
His shirt’s collar kept brushing the front of his throat, the tie too tight, and when Kip rolled his shoulders to force them to loosen, his jacket tugged on the motion. The chair beneath him was too warm, which didn’t make any fucking sense because it was made of wood and this room wasn’t even that heated–
He had to get out of here.
Kip stood a little too quickly, pins and needles prickling down his arms as the chair slid back on the carpet, stopping just before it hit the bank of windows behind him. Luckily, his boyfriend was facing him across the room, leaning one elbow on the bar as he waited to be served, and Scott’s eye caught on Kip as he stood.
Across the room, over the heads of the attendees that crowded the ballroom floor and bar, Scott mouthed, are you ok?
Thankfully, Kip was a certified expert in lip reading from years of going out with Elena and that Scott would never sport a long, scraggly beard. Thank the hockey gods, or whatever Scott called them, that choices like that were prohibited. He nodded and flashed a thumbs up, then pointed over his shoulder with the same hand. Scott sent back another thumbs up and cast one last glance towards him before turning back to the bar just as the bartender reached him.
Kip turned away quickly, ducking towards the large, glass double doors that led to the patio. They swung open easily, a gust of cold air breaking over his face as he pushed his way out. It was instantly cooling against the sweat on his cheeks, the door swinging shut behind him and abruptly cutting the sound of chatter off behind him. The relief that flooded him was instantaneous.
Out here, the music and conversations were muffled, the lights from the ballroom casting bright patches on the ground behind Kip. It was dim, with a few clusters of metal chairs and tables populating the space, large planters of greenery and grass placed between each. The night sky loomed cloudless overhead, the stars clear and crisp despite the city spread below them. The only other people were a pair cast in shadow on the far right of the patio, the glow of their cigarette ends giving them away.
The patio area was impressively large, serving as the rooftop to lower floors of the building. Kip’s dress shoes clicked on the stones beneath them as he crossed quickly to the railing, feeling the tension that had been coiling in his shoulders slowly release as he leaned against it, the cold metal biting through his suit sleeves. He could feel his pulse in his fucking throat.
He paid the other people no mind as he willed his heartbeat to slow, hands clasped tightly together, fingertips digging into the back of his hands and knuckles white. Shit. He didn’t usually get overwhelmed like this, not at noisy events, he couldn’t with the side gigs he worked with Shawn and their weekend excursions to their converted sports bar.
It wasn’t the event. It was the eyes that tracked Scott and him across the room, the slight hesitation every time a player went to shake Kip’s hand, as if they’d catch it. A room full of media trained professionals would never say anything outright, but–
They didn’t have to.
Kip had felt Scott winding up tighter beside him with every introduction, whether or not the other player hit all the respectful points, his responses slowly losing their padded niceties as his shoulders crept towards his ears. It was the scrutiny and the bizarre distance that trailed each interaction that Scott was worried about, and Kip couldn’t help but share his anxiety.
The cool night air filled his lungs in long, slow sips. There was nothing he could do to make their attendance tonight go smoother, it was a hurdle they had to get over together. The first of many events together. A few minutes out here and then he would go back inside. Just – he didn’t think he could handle another hulking athlete that could barely meet his eyes.
A blast of noise behind him knocked Kip from his trailing thoughts, chatter and the thrum of music bursting into the bubble of the patio before it just as quickly popped, the click of the door closing muffling the noise again.
Footsteps clicked across the stone behind Kip and he forced his shoulders to stay relaxed, forced himself to keep leaning against the railing in what he hoped looked casual enough to be dismissed.
The steps slowed as a person stepped up to Kip’s left, their hands braced on the railing as they stared down at the ground below them, barely a foot between the two of them. Kip let himself glance over and couldn’t help but recognize him in his sharp silhouette, curls gelled back from his face.
Ilya Rozanov. One of the star players of the NHL, nearly a decade into his career. Center for the Boston Bears, a brutal, fast player known for womanizers tendencies and his bragging habits.
Kip had learned a lot about hockey in the last three years, unable to swipe past anything to do with Scott’s career. Ilya Rozanov was a difficult player to mistake and it was his distinctive build that stood beside him now, glaring down at the buildings as if they’d personally offended him.
“...Hi.” Kip had to give himself credit. Even with the hesitation, the greeting was clear and strong, pushed past the tightness of his shirt on his shoulders, his collar resting against his throat.
“Hello,” said Rozanov, shifting to cross his arms and lean them against the railing. His suit was near to the navy blue Kip was wearing– a popular color, and he was doubly glad Scott had insisted on it. “Is nice out here. Cold.”
He found himself nodding to the observation, still staring at the player’s profile. The silence between them stretched, broken by the subtle sound of the heater above him and the quiet traffic below. The other man had to be out here for a reason.
There was no love lost between the Russian and his boyfriend, Kip knew. But that irritation didn’t bleed into the game and never interfered with anything on ice. There was mutual respect, he’d heard it in Scott’s tone the few times he spoke about the Bear’s star center, but it was another question altogether if that respect held after their…announcement.
Kip hoped the other player appreciated directness.
“What do you want, Rozanov?” It came out harsher than he meant it, apprehension twisting into aggression, and he immediately tried to soften the bite. The man beside him, staring down at the distant city below, likely didn’t need irritation at an event like this. “I didn’t think you were someone who liked small talk.”
The other man laughed once, quietly, shaking his head as he finally turned to look at Kip, hip braced against the railing. The dim lighting of the heater cast a soft glow on sharp points of his face. His expression dropped to a strange mix that Kip couldn’t read, lowered brows and lips pressed together.
Fuck. All these athletes were so unfairly gorgeous.
“I don’t mind small talk. Is not so bad with the right people.” Rozanov spoke in a soft, low tone, gaze burning into Kip’s. He paused, then dropped his eyes to the ground between them. His shoulders, broad and solid, seemed to curl in. “I wanted to congratulate you. On you and Scott’s relationship being…open, now.”
Despite himself and the optimism Kip couldn’t ever seem to shake, he found himself taken aback by the Russian player’s words. Low and flat as they were, they rung with sincerity.
“Thank you,” he said, letting himself turn fully towards the other man, leaving an arm braced against the railing. He tried to keep the apprehension bubbling in his throat out of his voice. The cold breeze cut through the heat against Kip’s back, ruffling his hair, while Rozanov nodded back. “I appreciate it– so does Scott.”
“It is sad, yes? That I congratulate you on just living.” The remark was mild, the other man’s face giving nothing away as Kip stared back at him. On the railing, Rozanov’s hand was clenched tight.
Suddenly, Kip hated that he had to look up to meet Rozanov’s gazes. Hated that he’d spent the entire night doing it. His skin was still crawling after an hour of practiced niceties, of smiling while Scott deflected increasingly personal questions posed under the thin guise of genuine care.
And here was another one, maybe more sincere than most but still pushing it.
“It’s incredibly sad. It’s awful.” The words came out sharp and Kip forced himself to stand straighter, arms crossed over his chest. His chest burned, defensiveness flaring up faster than he could put it out.
“Yes, yes, I agree,” said the other man quickly, both hands lifting slightly in that universal placating gesture and Kip forced himself take a deep breath. Rozanov had come out here to congratulate him and make some clumsy observation on being gay is so hard, and Kip had no right to be curt with him. Especially not here, not so close to the party still carrying on behind them. He must make some expression of regret because Rozanov continued, “It is…difficult, your position. It is stressful tonight. That is okay.”
There’s something in that statement that Kip felt like he missed, weight behind the words that he didn’t know the source of. Something unrecognizable flashed in Rozanov’s gaze, there and gone.
“Thank you,” Kip repeated, gentler than before, because he wasn’t sure if he had anything else to say. This was a player who wasn't friends with his boyfriend, who’s known specifically for his unfriendliness outside of his team, making sympathetic comments on a poorly heated rooftop patio. He forced himself to exhale, to turn back to the railing and lean his arms against it and stare at the stars above him, to not meet the gaze now drilling into the side of his head. “That’s very true.”
A pause, dragging, then the rustle of clothing as, in Kip’s peripheral vision, the other man shifted to stare up at the stars with him. Another rustle and Kip glanced over as Rozanov shook a cigarette into his hand, putting it to his lips and quickly pulling a lighter from his suit jacket’s pocket.
Before he could catch himself, childhood habits bubbling up, Kip blurted out, “Those are so bad for you.”
Rozanov looked at him with raised brows, glancing over his cupped hand, curled protectively over the flickering flame. The lighter clicked once, twice, before he inhaled and the end of the cigarette glowed a cherry red. The other man was grinning as he pulled the cigarette away, Kip realized. Rozanov was thoughtful enough to exhale away from them, the night breeze carrying the smoke away from Kip.
“You remind me of someone,” said Rozanov, holding his cigarette in his left hand, over the railing. He was still smiling, staring out at the night’s scene with unfocused eyes, before he shook his head and blinked hard, as if breaking away from something. “You and Hunter are…very brave. It was important, what you did.”
Kip stayed silent. Maybe it was his single flute of champagne or the overall stress of the night, but Kip felt like he’d taken a step down the stairs and missed the next one. He was hovering in uncertainty, missing some key point between the lines of Rozanov’s words.
The other man pulled again from his cigarette, then slowly exhaled as Kip stood there, feeling like he was supposed to wait for something. Why, he had no idea. The buzz of the ballroom hadn’t quite settled yet, still burning between his ears, and the cool air of the patio hadn’t yet dissipated it.
“Anyways–” Rozanov gestured, right hand sliding sharply away from him on the railing, as if pushing his earlier words away. “Have a good night. It can be loud here. This is good place to catch your breath.”
Abruptly, the other man turned away from him, striding towards the doors as Kip turned to watch him leave. The cigarette, barely smoked, was put out in an ashtray beside the windows and the Russian player slipped inside before Kip could even call out a goodbye. He stared after Rozanov’s retreating back until he blended into the shifting crowd, then turned back to his view of the city.
It was kind, he decided, if awkward, of the other player to come speak to him. To congratulate the boyfriend of the first openly out player in the league. He would stay out here for a few more minutes before rejoining Scott for their next round of introductions. The city’s lights blurred as he stared out at them. Kip swallowed against a tight throat, pressed the knuckles of his right hand to his eyes, and breathed.