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Scott ended the phone call, looking to the other end of the couch where Kip was buried under textbooks and his laptop, tracing the heritage of a painting for a class assignment. Kip sensed Scott’s gaze on him, and looked up, laughing shortly at the bewildered expression on Scott’s face.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“Well, I’m not even sure how he got my number - probably his mother, that woman is very well-connected - but that was Shane Hollander.” Scott said matter-of-factly.
Kip thought for a moment. “Hollander - from Montreal? Wait - didn’t you guys have a fight recently?”
Scott had to take a turn to think, and laugh. “Yeah, we did, didn’t we? That was a couple seasons ago. It happens, we both had bad days. Don’t hold it against him, that’s not like him.”
“Well, was he calling to make up?” Kip asked, tilting his head, “or - he didn’t ask you to come to Montreal, did he? I mean if he did-” Kip started to rush into saying.
Scott shook his head and moved down the sofa to Kip’s side, wordlessly gesturing for permission before lifting the textbooks out of the way. “No, he didn’t,” he said quietly, forehead pressed against Kip’s. “And that’s not how it happens, usually the agents would reach out first, so don’t worry about that. New York really wants to keep me, anyway.” He pressed a kiss against Kip’s temple.
“Ok, he wasn’t calling to steal you, unless you guys are suddenly best friends and he just wanted to say happy holidays, what’s up?”
Scott’s look of bewildered curiosity returned. “Well - he asked us over for dinner after the next Montreal game.”
“Wait-” Kip paused. “Us?”
Scott nodded. “He specifically said your name and my name. He said something about just wanting to be a good host, and suggesting staying in Montreal for a few days, since we have a gap in the calendar. He also said something about this new charity, you know the one his management people are setting up with Rozanov involved somehow? And because of my involvement with St. Thomas, and asking for advice.” He finished, looking at the dimmed lock screen of his phone.
“Well, did you tell him yes?” Kip asked, laughing, “or leaving the poor guy hanging?”
Scott shook his phone and tossed it to the couch cushion next to him. “I told him I would ask you, and double check our practice schedule. I know it’s the right before some of your finals. He’s… it was interesting. Hollander’s a solid player, good guy, but he’s very private, and kind of… closed, and weird sometimes.”
Kip looked at Scott, an expression saying everything words didn’t have to.
Scott put his hands up in false surrender. “Ok, yes, some of us were private and weird about it, shots fired, I got it. Does that also mean yes? A holiday weekend in… French Canada, of all places?”
Kip set the laptop aside and pulled a blanket off the back of the sofa and spread it over their laps, legs entwined. “Why not. More hot hockey players? Quaint Christmas markets? I’m in.”
Kip could only laugh shortly before Scott’s mouth was on his, hands slipping beneath his shirt.
—
Shane had been pacing on and off all morning. The cleaning service had come during the game last night just how he liked, so he could come home to a made bed and clear surfaces. Ilya was on the road and would be here soon. Shane had already ordered all of the groceries needed, which would be delivered shortly after Ilya’s arrival. He hoped he would calm down in time, but as long as he kept moving through his tasks, he could keep his mind off of the one task he had not been able to figure out just yet - what to actually say to Scott Hunter. And Hunter’s boyfriend.
Breathe, he told himself. Is not a problem, you will do just fine, he heard in Ilya’s voice in his mind. Shane went downstairs to the gym and worked through a spin workout and weight circuit, nothing heavy enough to need a spot but enough cardio and focus to hopefully give him more room later to figure out the plan for the evening. Well, not the plan. He had the recipe and the timing ready. The conversation.
When he arrived back upstairs, he timed it out as he hoped he would, with Ilya’s arrival. He had given Ilya a key and the passcode on the door months ago, but Shane could always hear him bumping up the stairwell. Shane went halfway down the stairs to greet him, already feeling more comfortable in his skin even in the middle of the staircase, as Ilya put his bag down on a step and wrapped Shane in his arms. “Woah, woah, woah,” Ilya said, murmuring something in Russian. Shane thought he heard something with lyubov’ again, melting a bit inside that he was chosen to be loved by this man in one language let alone multiple. Ilya stepped back slightly and looked at Shane. “You have been worrying all morning, haven’t you?” Shane bobbed his head a little before nodding once, then glancing back at the door to the hall. The staircase was enclosed with a heavy lock on both entrances, so Shane would hear if someone opened the door, but he still did not like being out in the open, especially feeling vulnerable and unsettled.
“All right, Mr. Business Man,” Ilya said, picking up his bag and putting an arm around Shane as they walked up the stairs to the hall together. “Bring me inside, show me your business notes and your calendar for the day, tell me everything you have already planned.”
Shane shook his head. “Shut up,” he said, shoving Ilya’s arm lightly as he opened the door to the condo. Ilya waited until the door was closed behind them before he pulled Shane close again. “You know I am right,” he said, cupping Shane’s chin in his hand, a half-smile and a flicker in his eyes daring Shane to prove him wrong. Shane could only sigh, sometimes both in frustration and acceptance that Ilya was already so good at reading him, before accepting a kiss.
When they kissed, something in Shane that he had been holding tight for as long as he could remember finally loosened. Every time over the last decade, and especially over the last six months, whatever that weight was got a little lighter and lighter and lighter, until Shane hoped that finally someday, he would be allowed to kiss Ilya as much and as often as he wanted to, and maybe then that weight would finally drift away.
They both caught their breath for a minute, being in the space together. Shane looked at Ilya, taking his face in a hand this time. Ilya looked tired, and Shane knew he was giving up a recovery day to be with him. Ottawa’s game last night had been tough, but they had won against Boston, and Ilya was at least able to be reassured he had made a good choice and show his new team that he had brought something special with him when he signed an open agent deal. Shane had checked the game stats on his phone between periods, and snuck some glances at the club TVs he could see from the halls and the bench that sometimes showed progress of other games. It was a risk to divert his energy like that, but still Montreal had also won against New York, giving the Canadian hockey nation the satisfaction of pride of their boys holding down the home ground going into the holidays. Neither Shane nor Hunter had said anything in front of their teammates for their plans today, but had exchanged a more intentional greeting and handshake in the lineups before and after the game.
Ilya sensed Shane looking him over. “It was a hard night, but today will be fine. You will shower, we will rest, you show me all your plans. Hunter is nice guy, he’s very happy with his boyfriend,” Ilya dragged the word out a little teasingly, enjoying how it still made Shane smile and bring a blush to the freckled cheeks Ilya loved so much. “He will be happy for us. Or,” Ilya shrugged, making the Russian noise Shane could not figure out or duplicate no matter how many times Ilya tried to teach him the right words, “turns out he is secretly a jerk, I will punch him for you, we embarrass his boyfriend who is also probably very nice guy who will be embarrassed by the jerk he is with.”
“Oh my god,” Shane groaned, “this is such a bad idea.” He dropped his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder.
“No no no no, net,” Ilya shushed him, shuffling Shane backwards from the entry towards the stairs. “I am guessing you already bought everything, everything is planned?” Shane nodded, before checking a notification on his phone. “Well, the grocery order is downstairs, and-” Ilya took Shane’s phone out of his hand and pocketed it, before turning Shane around and pointing him up the stairs. “I have this,” he said. “You, go, shower. And-” he picked up his bag from the ground and dropped the strap over Shane’s shoulder, before kissing a particular favorite freckle, a secret one Ilya liked to think was only for him, behind Shane’s ear that he could likely never see in the mirror “-wait for me.”
“You’re impossible,” Shane said, looking behind him.
“Nah,” Ilya said. “But you love it anyway,” he said, patting Shane’s ass. “Now go.”
“You dick,” Shane said, shaking his head before walking up the stairs.
“That is the whole point!” Ilya called behind him, before going out to the hall. He smiled when he heard Shane laughing from upstairs.
—
After Ilya intercepted the delivery order and put the items away in Shane’s kitchen, he looked around at the spotless home, thinking through how to make this evening go well. He wanted to be able to live openly with Shane, and he agreed with Yuna that talking to Hunter made sense. Hunter had good history in the MHL and New York City was a very open place, a very good place, but hockey fans do not all live in New York City, but things still seemed to be going good for Hunter. But, he did not feel like he needed Hunter to make this decision for him. Ilya now just wanted these things to go smoothly for Shane. He pursed his lips, thinking for a few moments, before going upstairs to strip off his sweats from travelling and asking his stressed-out boyfriend very nicely to please fuck him in the shower.
—
The buzzer on the intercom sounded from downstairs, nearly at the same time Shane’s phone vibrated on the counter with a text message-
From: Scott Hunter:
Here? In both the nicest and sketchiest alley ever?
Kip thinks we’re going to be kidnapped in a
luxury car.
Ilya laughed, reading over Shane’s shoulder. “See? I am not the only one thinking, why is your front door in an alley, and why is alley full of Mercedes and British cars.”
“It’s discreet,” Shane said, straightening his shirt and looking around the kitchen.
They had spent the afternoon preparing everything, Shane able to get in the rhythm of the habits of his kitchen. He enjoyed cooking, following recipes and watching things come together with an end result. He used a meal service for heavy training and travel weeks, but when he could, he enjoyed using the kitchen to it’s fullest. He enjoyed it even more, in ways he didn’t imagine before, when Ilya was with him, which was now as often as they could make it, certainly much more frequent than a few times per season before. The pattern of the tasks at hand had made it easier to think through a conversation. Now the only thing left to do was - to actually do it all.
Ilya put the knife down on the cutting board he was standing over, walking around the corner of the counter to stand in front of Shane. “This will go fine, I know this,” Ilya reminded Shane of what he had said all afternoon. “This is your home, they are both just nice guys. You decide if we talk a little, or a lot first, or I just talk.” Shane nodded, remembering the outcome of the unexpected conversation of his parents. It was something he had replayed often in his mind for comfort, a memory he didn’t know he needed for the past ten years and something he wanted to remember sharply, to contrast all the times he had lied to his parents and misinterpreted their quiet allowance of giving him time as being ignored or judged. He repeated the facts to himself. This will be fine. He kissed Ilya one more time, holding onto the feeling of ease and rightness, before going to the door to welcome their guests.
—
Ilya continued slowly working at the cutting board, a task he had to physically take from Shane’s hands. He really needed something to do as well, and he decided he wanted to look like he belonged here. He was not just another guest at dinner. He heard Shane and Hunter’s voices, another man he did not know that must be Kip. He fidgeted with the medallion around his neck, kissing it before sliding it back under the collar of his shirt. Ilya had faced the confusion of his own childhood, protecting himself, protecting his secret with Sasha, protecting his heart against his family after his mother died, taking her role of stalwart of his soul with her. After that phone call between a frigid, dark, Russian alley and an echoing hotel staircase, Ilya decided he would damn the whole world before he let Shane go through that.
—
Scott Hunter, his partner Kip, and Shane rounded the corner from the entry. Ilya watched Shane gesturing to the view, the fireplace and the living room, the table set for four, and Ilya saw Hunter’s brief confusion at the extra place setting, before the group turned and faced the kitchen. Ilya Rozanov, center forward most recently of the Ottawa Centaurs, greeted them with a smile more genuine than Hunter thought the Russian man possessed, though it was somewhat offset by the greeting wave with a knife in his hand. Ilya quickly placed it down and strode around the counter.
“Rozanov,” Hunter said, slowly as he replaced his confusion with surprise, then what Ilya thought was a true smile. Ilya had spoken to Hunter after last season’s Cup game, and had left on good terms with the other man. Ilya had a new appreciation of how hard it was to speak for your family, and had expressed his respect for Hunter choosing to do so in front of his team and strangers around the world.
“Ilya, please,” he said in response, reaching out to shake his hand.
“Ilya, of course. Scott, then, please,” Scott replied, before putting his hand on Kip’s shoulder.
“Good to see you again, Scott,” Ilya said, before turning to the other man. “Ilya Rozanov,” he introduced himself, watching the familiar flicker of recognition come across a stranger’s face that meant they recognized his name or his face.
“Kip. Grady. And I know, I mean, I know who you are. Really nice to meet you, Ilya.” Kip was the kind of comfortable, polite, easygoing person Ilya had hoped for tonight. He did not know anything about the other man other than some press pictures of Scott attending Kip’s recent graduation from a graduate doctoral program, in history, Ilya thought he remembered.
“He is technically Dr. Christopher Grady,” Scott cut in, “PhD of contemporary art studies now at New York Visual Arts Institute-” “ohmygodstop” Kip said quietly to the side, but he couldn’t stop the small smile and quiet flush from the pride in his partner’s voice.
“-though he doesn’t like to talk about that with strangers, so we’ll just focus on the excellent student of hockey he has become recently,” Scott finished. “He knows the rosters of the league inside and out this year.”
“It’s really helpful for one of the studios I oversee, too,” Kip added. “Scott has sent a lot of players and their families to us when they are moving and looking for art for decoration or their own collections.”
“Ah, you must be enjoying life in New York City, then?” Ilya asked, as the group moved back into the kitchen, Shane tailing behind, Ilya noticed.
“Yeah, it’s good to be home,” Kip said, smiling slightly up at Scott. “Boston was great- well I’m sure you know that, it’s where I did my graduate program, but my family and friends are all in New York and I was lucky to find a position back in the city.”
Ilya made a Russian noise in agreement. “Dah. Boston was very good for me, good for the league. Many universities, so must be good place for art as well.” He turned to lead the group to the table, and give himself a chance to look back at Shane and give him a look, willing him to snap out of it and get back in the game here. Something in Ilya’s eyes brought Shane back around, and Shane offered the group drinks before taking over serving from the kitchen.
Once settled at the table with full plates, and wine that Shane sipped at only enough to loosen his clenched hands, the conversation inevitably turned to why the hell Ilya Rozanov was at Shane Hollander’s home.
“-I mean, I saw the press updates from Mrs. Hollander and the new foundation she’s working on in both of your names,” Scott was saying, “and I figured we’ve all played together long enough to know each other, but I was surprised to see the two rookie archrivals of the last decade suddenly working on something like together. I’d love to know more. And what the hell happened in Boston, Ilya. Something must have been enticing about Ottawa to make you leave your first drafted team.”
“Oh, there was,” Ilya smirked only slightly as Shane kicked his foot under the table. He cleared his throat. “Boston has many newcomers, lots of skill, wanting to make a name. Ottawa needed a name, and they had a good deal. Canada and Russia are also very good together, easy for residency and passport.” He gracefully turned the conversation backwards, to Boston, then New York, setting the way for Scott and Kip to be able to talk about living in New York City together.
Shane watched Ilya throughout the discussion. His English really was so much better than when they had first met. Shane noticed he could put the accent on a little more if a situation called for it, or feign ignorance of a word, or drop it for an accent that was charmingly a mix of French-Canadian and Boston townie at times. Ilya was the son of politicians, and had moved in circles with royalty and business empires in childhood, at boarding school, and formative years as an athlete. He could still be an asshole, but he was an asshole who knew how to use his charm or a simmering ferocity to command a table of friends or a boardroom of investors. He timed his questions between bites off his fork, never rushing someone through a drink.
Kip was describing the new apartment they had just bought together, with room for a growing art collection, and a plan similar to Shane’s to buy the unit next door for Kip’s father someday. “He won’t need it for a while hopefully. He was pretty young when he had me,” Kip shared, “then he actually realized he was gay. My mom is super great but she, you know, wanted the whole family thing. She stuck around while I was in high school but moved a few years ago with my stepfather. I think we all knew I would always choose my dad, if they made me choose, so she kind of made a choice for me, I guess.”
Shane had been cutting his food in straight lines, methodically working through his plate as much as Ilya was methodically leading them through a conversation. With Kip’s story, though, he paused and set his fork down.
“Was it hard for her?” Shane asked. “Finding out her husband and her son were gay?” He caught himself, realizing maybe this was too blunt, but thankfully Kip seemed like someone accustomed to having this discussion, maybe since the events of the Cup game.
Kip laughed. “I mean, probably, but they were both really young and not everyone knows right away, you know? And she still had plenty of time to meet someone after. I think she was mostly happy my dad came out to her pretty quick. And as far as me, I just was who I was and didn’t really ever have to decide, or figure it out? It just felt natural to me as I grew up.”
Scott watched Kip, nodding along with every word, though he must know this story already, thought Shane. Scott turned back to Shane. “Thank you for inviting us, together. This is one of the reasons I was interested to hear what you guys were working on. You know about my story, I think, the scholarship program I was on. If there are other things happening in the sport that can help kids stay on track through getting on a team, counseling, things like that, I’m all for it.”
Shane cleared his throat. “If… if it’s not too much, Scott, I wonder what your team said? You know, after the Cup,” he gestured to Kip and blushed lightly, “if the league said anything? You said in your MVP speech you wanted to be a good representative to kids who had different stories growing up.”
Scott looked at Shane, and then at Ilya for a moment longer than was maybe needed. “They actually… really didn’t, to be honest. Most of the guys were fine, and if they weren’t, they knew to keep their mouths shut. The younger guys were the best, honestly. It’s been really different, the last few years, with rookies coming in through school and programs in the States. Same-sex marriage was only legalized a few years ago for us, I think you’ve had it for a while longer in Canada, and I have no idea about Russia, I’m sorry, Ilya,” Scott turned back to him. Ilya nodded and made a face. Scott took Kip’s hand, seated alongside him at the table. “I did contact my agent’s firm, first to make sure they weren’t a bigoted asshole and turns out they are not, thankfully, and they made sure there wasn’t any shitty old-fashioned moral character clause at risk. We’ve had some offers from the league and from the city for some partnerships, spokesperson kind of things. We’re still thinking about it. I’m still… pretty private, though I do want to be a good representative. I, at least, personally feel like it’s important.” He shared a look with Kip, smiling briefly and squeezing his hand.
“Ok, I’ve talked a lot, you guys, and I appreciate it.” Scott said before continuing, “and I’m grateful you both seem as… unbothered about this as you are.”
Shane cleared his throat as if he wanted to say something, then just nodded and looked at Ilya.
“Well,” Ilya said, “Vodka? Dessert? We need a good drink for a toast.”
They refilled glasses and sat around the table, a little more at ease. Shane looked alongside the table at Ilya, and inched his foot over and to his leg against Ilya’s, before nodding and picking up his glass. He looked in it for a moment before looking back across the table at Scott and Kip.
You are brave, Ilya’s voice from the summer echoed in Shane’s mind, moya lyubov. I love you, my sweet boy, and I am the one who is sorry, not you, never you, his mother had told him.
Shane set the glass aside and clasped his hands on the table. Scott raised an eyebrow.
“One of the reasons I - we - asked you over for dinner tonight was to… talk to you about something, and ask you about it.” Shane said. Ilya pressed his foot more firmly against Shane’s under the table, resting his hand on Shane’s leg as discretely as he could. Ty khrabryy, he thought as hard as he could, trying to remind Shane.
“We’re together,” Shane said, and Scott’s face started to split open in a slow smile. “I’m gay, and Ilya and I are together.” He opened his clasped hands, offering an open palm on the top. Ilya rested his hand in Shane’s, fingers and palms undeniably joined together. He bit back a smile of pride, only so he could watch Kip and Scott’s responses, daring them to challenge Shane in his own home. Shane looked at Ilya. “He’s my boyfriend.”
There was only a heartbeat of silence, when Kip smiled the content, celebratory smile of someone who had nothing to lose and only joy to be shared. Scott’s smile grew before he laughed. “You… goddamn it, you motherfuckers. I knew something was up! Holy shit.”
He looked at Shane’s tense posture, the grip of their hands, Ilya’s challenging stare. Scott recognized a defense line when he saw one. He held up his hands in peace. “Have you told anyone else?”
Shane exhaled a breath, uncomfortable with how tight his chest had become. “Just my parents. And they know it is a secret. We don’t want anyone else to know, yet. Well, I guess except for right now,” he said, gesturing at the table.
Scott nodded. “Ok, I won’t pretend I wasn’t slightly suspicious, but definitely not of you two together. I kind of wondered… if you two knew about each other, and were maybe antagonizing each other on purpose because of it? At least for a while, until the All-Star Game, because you played really well together.”
“Yeah, because they were finally playing on the same team,” said Kip mischievously.
Ilya couldn’t help it. He covered his face with his free hand and laughed, wiping tears he hadn’t felt building now threatening to fall with a hoot of mirth. “Ok. Ok. I like you, New York,” Ilya pointed at Kip. Kip leaned back in his chair grinning as Scott joined in Ilya’s laughter. Shane closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered with a sigh of mixed exasperation and relief.
Ilya jostled their hands still clasped on the table. “Is ok, Shane, see?”
Scott nodded and leaned forward again. “It really is ok, you guys. It’s…. This is such a huge thing, for both of you.” He looked back at Kip, who gently rested a hand on Scott’s back. “I heard what you said, and you don’t have to ask. We won’t say anything if this is your secret. But… just know… it’s so much easier after. Your parents already know, Shane.” Scott paused, as the others watched his jaw clench and he summoned up the next words. “It is so hard, living in something that is familiar even though you know it’s not good for you. I knew I was living… sort of in the dark, and I was so afraid. But I knew I had to take a chance because I knew something better was out there, even if it didn’t work in the long game, it was worth the shot. When you’re ready, hell even if you’re not ready, it’s worth it.”
A comfortable silence followed his words, an acceptance by all those at the table that what needed to be said had been said.
Kip was the first to raise his glass. “I am the most honored guest, I think, because I tagged along with Scott and didn’t know either of you tonight. So, to honor our hosts - a toast. To living in the open.”
Scott held his glass in his palm, looking up at Kip then both Shane and Ilya. “To taking a shot,” looking at them meaningfully.
Ilya picked up his glass of very excellent vodka that he had stocked in Shane’s home. “Za druzbhu,” he said, clinking his glass with Kip and Scott, turning to Shane.
Shane lifted their clasped hands and leaned over to kiss the back of Ilya’s hand and looked in his eyes, joy apparent, a future, that’s all he wanted, he had told his parents; relief, that they weren’t alone, and maybe it would get easier.
He picked up his glass and touched his guests’ and Ilya’s. “Za lyubov,” he said, and drank.