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Scott Hunter was not a violent man. The Admirals Captain was well known for keeping a level head both on and off the ice. But there is an exception to every rule. A thorn to every rose. The final straw that broke the camel’s back.
And for Scott Hunter, that exception came in the form of Ilya Rozanov.
Ever since he'd begun playing for Boston at the start of the season, the young rookie had been nothing short of infuriating. Despite English being his second language, Rozanov knew exactly what to say to push people’s buttons. Scott’s especially. And he did it all with a cocky grin and a wink. The fact that he seemed so effortlessly good at hockey was just salt in the wound.
So when the 2011 All-Star theme was announced as ‘Europe vs. North America’, Scott was not surprised to learn Rosanov would be one of the rookies chosen to play. Scott was however shocked to see Rosanov had been assigned the hotel room next door to his own. The universe fucking hates me, he thought dejectedly. The last thing he needed was that asshole keeping him awake with partying or, god forbid, any other late night activities.
The team dinner had passed uneventfully. He’d have much rather had a quiet night in, but as team Captain, he was obligated to make an appearance. Still, it was nice seeing players who were normally on opposing teams, relax and enjoy each other's company. For this weekend, ordinary loyalties were put aside in favor of enjoying the sport and having fun.
Night one was always the skills competition. Scott had chosen not to participate in any of the challenges this year. His official reasoning was that he ‘wanted to focus on being the best Captain he could’; In reality, he just wasn’t in the mood for all the peacocking.
Unfortunately, because the universe hates him, the peacocking found him anyway. The sirens blared as the commentators announced that Rosanov had bested Scott’s record in the shot accuracy competition. He didn't say anything as he skated back to his bench, but he did glance over at Scott as he glided by. And the motherfucker winked. Scott wanted to murder him.
The homicidal thoughts were short lived though as Hollander, Canada’s new golden boy rookie, proceeded to obliterate Rosanov’s newly set time. Scott should really have been more upset about his record being broken (twice) but knowing Rosanov was only able to hold the record for less than a minute, definitely took the sting out of it.
He was more than happy to spend the rest of the contest absently daydreaming about where to spend his summer - Spain again maybe? - when four numbers brought his mind back to the world around him.
“One-two-two-one.”
Scott caught a glimpse of Rosanov as he skated away and turned to see who he’d been speaking to. Hollander? Why was Rosanov giving his hotel room number to Shane Hollander? The two rookies obviously hadn’t realised they’d been overheard, Hollander was still looking at where Rosanov had skated off to.
What were they up to? Scott pondered. He really hoped it wasn’t drugs. As much as these guys were technically his opponents, he actually kind of liked Hollander. And as much as it pained him to admit, they were both shaping up to have phenomenal careers ahead of them. He really hoped they weren’t going to throw it all away by doing something as stupid as illicit substances. At least not so soon.
Hollander had turned to face him now.
“Nice shooting rook,” Scott said calmly.
“Thanks.” Hollander looked around nervously.
“Glad to see Rosanov didn’t hold my record for more than a minute. What did he want by the way?” He asked in the most neutral tone he could muster.
“Oh, nothing, just shit-talking,” Hollander replied nonchalantly.
Okay. Plausible. This was Rosanov they were talking about.
“He’s an asshole right?” Scott chuckled a little. Hollander did too.
“I mean, yeah. Basically.”
Hollander was giving no suggestion that they’d done anything more than harmless chirping. Maybe Scott was over thinking this? Maybe he’d misheard? But just incase -
“Lucky me. I’m in the room next door to him at the hotel.”
There. A subtle warning that could pass as him simply complaining about sharing a wall with a known womaniser. Before he could say anything in response, Hollander was called on by one of the coaches. The Canadian skated off and Scott went back to daydreaming about Spain.
***
Many of the players had gone out to party after the skills contest was over. Being a team Captain, Scott had begrudgingly agreed to attend. When he was finally able to escape the festivities and head back to his hotel room, he thought he would finally have some much needed peace and quiet.
Until he heard the sound of a door opening and closing in the next room over. Rosanov’s room. Scott had just opened his book when a deep moan echoed through the wall followed by a soft thud. Great. So much for peace! Where does he find these women?!
Scott was just about to bang on the wall and tell them to be quiet when he heard a second, different but very much male, moan through the wall. And all of a sudden, his conversation with Hollander and what he’d overheard came flooding back to him.
“Oh my god they’re fucking!” He muttered aloud to himself. What the fuck did I do in past life to deserve this kind of torture?!
He almost couldn’t believe it. These two rookies had so brazenly hooked up in a hotel swarming the who’s who of hockey. A smaller, but very loud, part of his brain was also a little jealous of them. They’d found someone to share their secret. That ‘thing’ that hockey players weren’t allowed to be. That, Scott knew all too well.
He was just about to start searching for his headphones when he heard the blessed sound of the shower hum from the next door bathroom. So they’re not entirely stupid then. He’d laugh if the situation weren’t so utterly ridiculous. And he couldn’t even tell anyone! If Rosanov had been hooking up with a woman, sure! He could complain all day. But this - no! This he would have to take to his grave. Fuck you Rosanov!
***
Award shows were lonely. Everyone brought their families and partners which often left Scott feeling like an odd man out. And everyone loved to acknowledge that elephant. Those who didn’t know about his parents would stumble out an apology once he explained that they were dead. Those that did know always felt the need to tell him ‘they would be proud of you Scott’ - he knew they meant well, but his heart ached nonetheless.
He’d managed to escape from a rich lady ogling him and scrambled for the bar. And found himself right next to Shane Hollander. Scott was only a few years older than Shane but at this moment, the rookie looked so much younger. He’d just won Rookie of the Year, but here he was standing awkwardly at the bar, sipping soda through a straw and trying to avoid eye contact with everyone around him.
“That better just be ginger ale, rook,” Scott said. Hollander turned and smiled at him.
“It is Mister Hunter. I wouldn’t indulge in front of you.”
Mister Hunter? Way to make a guy feel geriatric. He squelched the thought and congratulated Shane on his award. Time to make him feel less awkward.
“What would you say if me me and some of the other old fucks wanted to do some shots with the three rooks? Would you be into that?”
“Fuck yes, I would,” Shane replied almost insantly. Excellent.
“Okay then, where’s your boy Rosanov?”
“M-my what?” Shane tensed and his eyes went wide.
Oh fuck.
Scott had meant the question to be an innocuous jab at their on-ice rivalry. Shane had clearly interpreted it differently.
Shit. God. Scott, fix this before the entire room wonders why you made Canada’s golden child cry.
“No - I mean. Not your boy, uh,” Jesus, Scott! Way to be chill. “Just like, it’s always Hollander and Rosanov, right?” Did that sound convincing?
“I, uh, don’t know where he is,” Shane mumbled. “We’re not, like, friends or anything.” Now he looked like a kicked puppy.
Scott was screaming internally. Why was this his life?
“No worries man,” He tried to sound as unphased as physically possible. “I’m sure somebody else grabbed him.”
It seemed to work because Hollander relaxed a little.
“Right. Let’s do this. Vodka? Tequila?”
Both. Scott needed copious amounts of both.
***
The next few years went by without much fuss.
The two young rookies became two annoying Captains. Rosanov because - well - he’s Rosanov. And Hollander was just so fucking nice, it was kind of infuriating. Scott was all for professionalism and trying to be level headed, but the guy didn’t even chirp.
Scott was named U.S. Captain for Sochi. And getting that gold felt good. Though, being in Russia was uncomfortable. It was one thing to be in a sport that didn't entirely accept your… preferences. Being in an entire country that felt that way? Brought a whole new meaning to the word fear.
And then the Bears and the Voyageurs both won cups before Scott and the Admirals. That stung a little. He couldn’t be too mad - it was the nature of the game. But it gave Scott more drive to get his team to the playoffs each year. And if both Hollander and Rosanov mysteriously disappeared at award shows, Scott chose not to pay attention.
***
And then Scott found Kip. The sunshine he didn’t know he needed in his life. The world felt brighter to Scott. He still had fears and a lot of misplaced shame to deal with. But, overall, his life was better with Kip around.
Scott had just gotten back from a grueling road trip and had practically pounced on Kip the moment the apartment door had closed. They were now settled on the couch watching a western conference game.
“Okay,” Kip turned to face him. “I need to know the details of that fight you had with Hollander.”
Scott groaned.
“Oh, c’mon! You have to tell me! I know I’m no hockey fanatic but I do know that guy does. Not. Fight. Period. So come on. Spill.”
Scott hesitated for a moment before audibly sighing. Kip’s grin widened.
“Okay. But this stays between us.”
He was met with a confused look.
“It’ll make sense when I tell you. But you have to promise that you won’t say a word.”
“Okay! I promise,” Kip held up his hands in surrender.
Scott turned so they were facing each other on the couch.
“It’s really all Rosanov’s fault.”
“The Boston Captain?” Kip raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. He’d been chirping relentlessly at our game the night before.”
“Yeah, you punched him, I remember. But that’s not unusual for you or for Rosanov. If I remember correctly, he laughed as he skated away.”
“He did. Cocky bastard.”
“...That doesn’t explain why Hollander hit you.”
“God, I kind of feel bad,” Scott muttered. “I was still in a sour mood from the Bears game. We’d been playing like shit for the whole road trip and Hollander… chirped at me. And I was just so frustrated that I crossed a line.”
“Okay… what did he say?” Kip said, looking a little concerned.
“That he hoped I’d show up for our next game.”
“THAT’S IT? Scott, are you serious?”
“I know, it was such an innocent little chirp!”
“What the hell did you say back?”
“This is the part that can never leave this room,” Scott looked at him seriously.
Kip nodded.
“I told Hollander he was starting to sound like him. Him being… Rosanov.”
“Okay, I’m lost. Why would that make Hollander lose his shit? Do they really hate each other that much?”
“No, it’s more what I was… implying.”
“I’m still not following Scott.”
“I may have implied… thatthey’resleepingwitheachother.”
Kips eyes went wide.
“Hold on. So you chirped that he was gay - which by the way, really?” Kip gave him a look that said are you fucking for real right now? “But also, he lost his shit over it - are you saying Hollander is a homophobe?”
“No.” Scott ground his palms into his eye sockets. “This is where you find out I’m a horrible person.”
Kip said nothing and just looked at him.
And so Scott told him everything. The hotel sex, the award shows, all of it. When he’d finally ended his word vomit, Kip was staring at the wall bug-eyed. After a very long silence, Kip finally spoke again.
“You’re right. You are kind of a horrible person.”
“Ugh, I know,” Scott leaned forward and rested his head on Kip’s shoulder. A moment later, he felt Kip’s arms wrap themselves around his torso. He leaned further into the touch.
“You should apologise to Hollander, you know?”
Scott simply nodded into his shoulder.
“It must be nice though? Knowing there are others in the league?”
“I guess… but it’s not like they could ever be out. To be gay would be one thing. Gay but also sleeping with another player on your archrival team? The league would crucify them.”
“That’s… actually really sad.”
“It is.”
They held each other in silence after that.
***
“Oh my God! That looks bad!” Kip yelled.
They were in the apartment watching the Voyageurs play the Bears and had just witnessed Hollander get slammed into the boards.
“Scott - he’s not getting up.”
“It’ll be alright, the medics are coming out.”
They both watched the screen as a crowd of people surrounded the Montreal captain lying on the ice. Notably, Rosanov was hovering just outside the circle, ignoring yells from the ref to go back to his team bench.
“He looks so worried,” said Kip. “How do people watch this and not realise?”
At that moment, the commentators began talking about the sportsmanship of Rosanov’s concern. Scott sighed.
“They just see what they want to see.”
Kip shuffled close to him on the couch and wrapped Scott in a tight hug.
***
Kissing Kip on centre ice was not something Scott would ever regret. But being in the spotlight, a spotlight of this magnitude, would take some getting used to. The reactions to his ‘coming out’ had been as broad a spectrum as you could imagine. Everything from adoring joy to death threats.
His team had been great, his coaches too (even if a couple of them had thought he was secretly dating Rosanov). He’d had messages from other players across the league as well. Shane Hollander had sent him an interesting email. It was very formal, almost like something he’d receive from a brand sponsorship. Still, he’d sent a thank you reply.
He’d been so nervous going on stage when he’d won MVP. He’d hoped he didn’t look too nervous as he read out his speech. Seeing Kip in the crowd had made it all worthwhile.
***
Clubs were still not his thing. But he couldn’t exactly not show up to a Scott Hunter Night. Huff, Bennett, Matti and Carter (and Gloria) had graciously accompanied them. What was more surprising was running into -
“Rosanov?” The Russian grinned at the sound of his name. “What are you doing here?”
Rozanov shrugged. “Wanted to see what Scott Hunter Night was. Is not as bad as it sounds.”
Scott snorted and shook his head. “Did you really come to a gay bar in Vegas just to make fun of me?”
Rosanov laughed. “I came to say Congratulations. Too bad your nice boyfriend will leave you once he realises you are boring dinosaur.”
“Fuck you Rosanov!” Scott laughed regardless of the chirp.
Rosanov’s face changed into something more serious. “But really… is good. What you did. It will be good for… others.” He scratched the back of his head, almost awkwardly. Very unusual for the normally cocky Russian.
“I hope so.” Scott said. “I’ve been getting a lot of support. I got an email from Hollander actually.” Was that too forward? Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have-
“Oh yeah? What did he say?” Rosanov wiggled his eyebrows.
“He was supportive. But it was very... corporate?”
Rosanov laughed, almost hysterically.
“That is very Hollander! Always the professional.”
“I’m here with some of the guys,” Scott said. “From my team, I mean. And Kip, my boyfriend. You, uh, you wanna join us?”
“Yes, let’s head over. Before your boyfriend gets jealous of me stealing you away.” He wiggled his eyebrows again, suggestively.
The comment made Scott stop for a moment. Time to lay your cards on the table, I guess.
“How do you get away with it? Saying things like that? How does nobody… figure it out?”
Scott wasn’t sure how this was going to go. Of course, Rosanov could play dumb but Scott was hoping for an olive branch.
“Is simple,” Rosanov said matter-of-factly. “Stupid Americans see or hear things they do not understand and blame it on bad English or that I’m European.” he shrugged. “Besides. Until you, nobody would dream of hockey player being not straight.” He gave Scott a pointed look.
Scott couldn’t argue with that one.
They rejoined the small group to continue the celebrations and they cautiously accepted Rosanov into the party. Carter kept ordering drinks and eventually, a few of them ended up on the dancefloor. Rosanov ended up dancing with a couple of men, not looking out of place amongst the other bodies around him.
“Damn, Rosanov sure looks comfortable out there.” Bennet said, somewhere to Scott’s left.
“I guess it’s a European thing, no?” Huff responded.
Scott couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. Such a perceptive bastard.