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All the staring was starting to make Kip nervous. He’d insisted on coming to the MLH awards event despite Scott’s protests because, he argued, he wanted to be seen supporting his boyfriend in public. Present a united front against the inevitable homophobia from traditional hockey fans and players, or something. And, while he didn’t exactly regret coming, he was definitely feeling some doubts about his choices in hindsight. Everybody had been civil so far, but it was definitely the type of event that viscerally reminded Kip of exactly why his entire friend group was queer. Many of the people he had been introduced to were very wary about touching him, or even being in his general presence, as though they could catch his gayness by simple proximity. Kip hadn’t left Scott’s side all night. He took an inappropriately large sip from his champagne flute and imagined sending out gay beams with his mind to infect everybody in the room.
“You doing okay?” Scott asked, eyeing Kip’s tight grip on his glass. “It’s okay if you want to step out or something, I can handle things in here. Go to the bathroom or the balcony or something, take a breather.”
“I might actually take you up on that,” Kip said, resisting the urge to lean into his boyfriend. God, he hated this. They were out, god damn it, some casual PDA shouldn’t feel like stepping on a landmine! He reached out with his free hand to hold onto Scott’s, giving it a light squeeze. “Any chance you can point me to that balcony?”
Scott smiled down at him and squeezed his hand back, then pointed him towards the door that opened out onto the balcony. Kip thanked him, apologized for leaving him to the wolves, and tried to step away as quickly and inconspicuously as possible.
The cool breeze that lightly buffeted his blazer when he stepped outside was a literal breath of fresh air, and Kip closed his eyes to enjoy it, leaning on the metal railing. He hated hockey—well, no, not really, he didn’t hate the sport so much as he hated the organization that ran it. His heart ached just thinking about all that Scott must have had to endure growing up as a young, orphaned, gay kid, so entrenched in the extreme, antiquated toxic masculinity that seemed to fester throughout the entire professional hockey sphere. He hated that homophobia was still so normal in the sport that was his boyfriend’s entire life, despite how the world had progressed around it. Kip was exhausted just existing on the fringes of the hockey bubble—he couldn’t imagine living in it. Not for the first time, he began to feel immensely grateful for Scott, that he had a boyfriend who was so brave as to risk his career, his friends, his entire world for him.
Kip was so lost in thought, he almost didn’t hear the door open behind him. He tensed slightly, forcing his shoulders back into the fake relaxed position they had been in all evening, and turned slightly to see who it was.
An unfamiliar man sidled up beside him, turning to lean with his back to the balcony railing. He was dressed in a sleek black suit, like most other men at the event, though unlike them, the first several buttons of his dress shirt were undone. He had a strong jaw, sharp eyes, and his hair was gelled back into a neat style that his curls looked like they were desperately trying to break out of. Given the way his muscles bulged under his fancy outfit, it was safe to assume he was probably a hockey player.
Kip looked away. He didn’t want to seem rude by ignoring the guy, but he also definitely didn’t want to risk starting shit with a buff dude while they were alone on a balcony.
“You are Scott Hunter’s boy, yes?” Hockey Guy asked, and fuck, he was Russian. Not that Kip had anything against Russians, of course, but the chances were that any given Russian in the NHL was not going to be all that friendly to gay people. The only Russian NHL player Kip was at all familiar with was that Rozanov guy from Boston, and based on the “fighter, womanizer, party boy” stories he’d heard about the guy, he was really hoping that he was not the man standing next to him.
“Yeah. That’s me.” Kip confirmed, standing straighter and flashing a tight smile.
Hockey Guy grinned and offered his hand. “Ilya Rozanov. Nice to meet you.”
God fucking damn it. Kip shook Ilya Rozanov’s hand. “Yeah, you too.”
Rozanov nodded and leaned back a little. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out a cigarette and an old, scuffed metal flip top lighter. He lit the cigarette and took a drag, blowing the smoke away from Kip, to his surprise. Kip watched him do all this in silence, tension obvious in the line of his body.
“Must be hard, yes?” Rozanov asked. Kip raised his eyebrows, prompting the Russian to continue: “Dating Scott Hunter.”
“No, it’s not.” Kip said shortly. He wasn’t going to take this guy’s bullshit, but he wasn’t going to rise to the bait, either.
“But he is so old,” Rozanov sighed dramatically. “Is not exhausting when you are young, agile man who wants to go on fun dates and he has to sit down all the time because of his aching old bones? Is not boring when he tells stories of the bacteria who were the only other alive beings when he was little?”
Kip stared at him, incredulous and tentatively amused. “What? He’s not old!”
“No, no, he definitely is! He is so old it is elder abuse he is still playing. Very sad.” Rozanov nodded sagely, as though he had just spoken of some great tragedy, but Kip could see him pushing back a smile when he flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette and took another drag.
“He’s only three years older than me!” Kip defended, also fighting back his smile. Most of the self-protective tension from before had leeched out of him by now, and his body was angled more towards Rozanov as he spoke.
“Oh, is good he is not cradle robber, at least. Sorry, do you need to sit down? Must be hard to stand for so long at your age.” Rozanov said, feigning concern. “Though you look very good for being so old, very handsome still, unlike Hunter.”
Kip couldn’t help himself: he let out a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. Rozanov, too, had given up on hiding his grin, and was looking very pleased with himself at having amused Kip so much.
“Alright, well, I think my boyfriend is very handsome, even though we’re both obviously so old and wizened.” Kip said. Noting the slight furrow in Rozanov’s brow at the last word, he clarified: “Wrinkled.”
The Russian hummed in acknowledgement and put his cigarette back in his mouth, lightly puffing on it.
“So what’s your deal?” Kip asked. Rozanov looked at him, eyebrows raised. “You know—why come all the way out here just to talk to me? Surely you didn’t just want to joke about Scott’s age with his boyfriend.”
“Ah, no.” Rozanov said. Then he shrugged. “Well, yes, I did want to do that, I think it is important everybody knows how cruel it is to make such an old man play such an aggressive sport. He probably needs special pillow for his knees for when he gives blowjobs.”
Kip let out a surprised squawk of laughter. He slapped a hand over his own mouth, turning bright red.
Rozanov laughed, then sobered slightly. “But, no. Is not the only reason I talk to you. Probably everyone has said this already, but I wanted to say that… is brave, what you did. On the ice.”
“Oh,” Kip said. “Yeah. Thank you.” Rozanov was right in assuming that everyone had been saying the same thing. Though, they all meant it in the way Kip had thought Rozanov had meant his first question: it must be so hard to be gay. That somehow, their love was some great uphill battle, just because they were both guys. They were ignorant, of course—loving Scott was the easiest thing Kip had ever done. It was everything else—the MLH, the hiding, the homophobia—that was hard.
Kip had a feeling that Rozanov didn’t mean it the same way as everybody else.
They stood in companionable silence for a while, until Rozanov’s cigarette burnt down to the filter. He stubbed it out on the railing and sighed through his nose, his gaze fixed somewhere far away on the horizon, beyond the city skyline.
“Hockey is not… good, for gay people.” Rozanov said, something world-weary in his voice. “Hunter is smart to do what he did, when he did it. They cannot ignore him, or force him to be quiet about it. They have to accept him. And you. Still not good, of course, they use him as token representation and they do not care when he is treated badly by other players, but…”
He turned his head towards Kip, offered a crooked sort-of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You will be okay. Some would not be so lucky.”
After a weighted pause, Rozanov straightened, clapped Kip on the shoulder, and sauntered back indoors, calling over his shoulder: “Tell Hunter I say hello, and that his boyfriend is too good looking for him!”
Kip watched him go, only a little bit dazed, and more confident than ever that he and Scott were doing the right thing. That maybe, despite all the hardships, by just existing out in the open, they could make it a little easier for someone else to do the same.