Chapter Text
From precariously close to the edge of the kitchen table, Scott’s phone began to rumble.
Kip peeked over his coffee mug. “Uh-oh,” he said.
The first two weeks after the cup were mayhem. The only time the phone stopped ringing was when Scott turned it off. Since then, things had settled somewhat, but he and Kip had observed a pattern: if it rang before 8AM, it kept up all day.
Usually this was down to some news article or think piece or social media post that had blown up overnight. Everyone and their mothers needed to talk to him, personally, about everything posted about him. Did he have a comment on this footage of Kip at a game three years ago? Did he know this guy who claimed to have hooked up with Scott in college? Did he think the MHL was exploiting his sexuality for publicity after fostering a repressive environment?
Scott sighed at his phone, closed his eyes, and bit the bullet.
“Hello?”
“Scott Hunter,” said an irritatingly familiar accented voice. “Is Ilya Rozanov.”
“Rozanov,” Scott said slowly. His first instinct was to just hang up. Whatever this asshole had to say, he didn’t need to hear it before he finished his coffee.
“I get your number from Andersson, he tell me not to tell you.”
Scott grimaced. “Okay. What’s this about?” He shot Kip a look he hoped conveyed, kill me now.
A thoughtful noise came from Rozanov’s end of the call. He spoke slowly, his tone its usual flat drawl that made it impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic. “I want to say thank you for what you did and it was very brave. It is important.”
It was basically the last thing Scott expected Rozanov to say. “Oh. Uh, thank you.”
“It changes the game for lot of people,” Rozanov said, matter-of-fact.
Scott had heard much more effusive praise since coming out, but something about hearing it from the biggest douchebag in the MHL made him feel flustered. “I don’t know about that,” he protested.
“No, is true,” Rozanov insisted. Then, just as plainly, he said, “It changes the game for me.”
If Rozanov had said he was outside the apartment with a wrecking ball, it would have shocked him less. Scott’s face must have done something interesting, because Kip set aside his coffee and leaned forward, looking concerned.
In a brighter tone, Rozanov said, “Okay, this is all I have to say! Thank you, Hunter, and congratulations on your love.”
Scott finally managed to get his tongue to move, saying, “Rozanov –” but the phone beeped the end of the call before he could get another word out.
He lowered the phone. Kip stared at him inquisitively.
“Holy shit,” he said. “I think Ilya Rozanov just came out to me.”
The craziest summer of Scott Hunter’s life passed in a haze of media events, PR meetings, and plenty of public dates with Kip to make up for all their time hiding. By the time the new season began to loom on the horizon, he’d almost forgotten about the call with Rozanov. He certainly didn’t recognize the number with the Boston area code on his phone screen.
Scott was just stepping out of his building’s gym when he answered. “Hello.”
“Scott Hunter!” The exact same chipper greeting as last time. “Is Ilya –”
“Rozanov,” he filled in. He mopped at his face with a towel and glanced down the hallway. It was the middle of the day, so he had the place more less to himself. He headed for the elevator. Remembering their last talk, he tried to take a gentler tone. “What’s up, man?”
“Sorry, am I interrupting afternoon nap?”
Well, so much for that approach. “What do you want?”
“I am back in Boston for season, but I will not spend much time at training camp. And I am bored with Boston already. I think I will come to New York this week.”
Scott had a sinking feeling in his stomach that wasn’t just the elevator. “Okay…”
Rozanov seemed undaunted by his hesitation. “We should have dinner! You can get me senior discount.”
His head thunked back against the elevator wall. He really did not want to have dinner with Ilya Rozanov. He couldn’t think of a way to decline that wouldn’t make him feel like an asshole. “Hang on,” he said, and opened his calendar app. The doors opened, and he scanned his schedule on the way to his apartment. Scott put the phone to his ear again. “I’m free Thursday evening,” he offered.
“Excellent. Is seven okay? Is too late for you? You probably eat dinner at 4PM.”
Scott wasn’t going to regret this – he already did. Presently. As he was doing it. “Seven is fine,” he said, a little too loud. “Make a reservation and text me where to go.”
Rozanov made a dismissive noise. “No, no, I will pick you up. Send me your address.”
“I’m not giving you my home address.”
“Why not!”
“Because you’ll probably post it on social media to psych me out before our next game.”
That made Rozanov laugh. “It is good idea,” he said. Stopped laughing. Started again. Blew out a breath like he had to get himself together. “I might do this to you,” he allowed, “but you have nice boyfriend living with you now. I would not do this to him. You are safe.”
Scott deadpanned, “Thanks.”
“Text your address. I will see you Thursday.” And before Scott could keep arguing, he hung up.
“What an asshole,” Scott muttered.
Scott’s reflection stared back at him, gallows-grim in a blue button-up shirt. “I could tell him I’m sick.”
“He’s gonna be here in twenty minutes,” Kip reminded him from his spot on the bed. He didn’t look up from his phone. “Way too late to back out.”
“You could call me with a fake emergency right after we leave,” he suggested.
Kip snorted. “No way.” He set his phone aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He met Scott’s eyes in the mirror, that sort of stern-playful look he wielded like a weapon. “Come on, this is a nice thing you’re doing.”
Scott turned to face him. “You don’t understand. Rozanov’s a nightmare. I can’t sit through a whole meal with him. He’s gonna piss me off ‘til I end up on the news.”
“He’s a closeted hockey player!” Kip held his arms wide. “A Russian closeted hockey player. God, you of all people should understand him having to put up a tough front.”
“Rozanov doesn’t have a ‘tough front,’” he insisted. “He’s annoying. He’s the biggest pest in the league. All he does is tell me I’m old.”
“Maybe that’s his way of asking for your wisdom.”
Scott pulled out his phone. “The last thing he texted me was, Restaurant is on the roof. Can you still do stairs?”
At the first twitch of Kip’s mouth, Scott pointed a finger at him. “Don’t laugh at that.”
Kip bit his lip. He beckoned Scott closer and reeled him in by his belt loops until he could wrap his arms around his hips, chin propped on Scott’s stomach as he looked up at him. “Imagine what a difference it would have made for you to have another hockey player you could talk to about this. Do you remember how much you were struggling with it at his age?”
He did, of course. And Kip was right, of course, and the sweetest person on the planet. “I know,” he relented. “I know. I’ll try. Jesus, I don’t even know what to say to him.”
“Just be honest. Just be you. Be there. Remember, the closet can be a really dark place.”
Rozanov pulled up in front of Scott’s building in the most ridiculous car he’d ever seen. It was lime green, two door, blacked-out windows, nearly flush with the pavement. The passenger window rolled down, revealing Rozanov in a white silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. “Scott Hunter!” he called. “You look very nice. Your boyfriend help you? Is benefit of – what do they call it? Robbing cradle? He makes sure your pants don’t get too high.”
Scott almost turned around and went back inside. Instead, he gestured at the car and asked, “Aren’t you a little young for a midlife crisis?”
That got him a laugh, and Rozanov stretched across the seat to open the door for him.
The biggest shock so far was that instead of heading further into Manhattan, they crossed the bridge into Brooklyn, though still within a well-gentrified area, valet stands dotted along the street. Rozanov handed his keys over to one, then led Scott into a restaurant with high ceilings and light, modern décor. The hostess led them to the roof, where the tables were spaced well apart, vases of flowers and small lanterns on each table. It struck him suddenly that Rozanov was trying to impress him.
“This is nice,” he commented as the waitress left with their drink orders. He couldn’t keep the suspicion from his voice.
“This is how you are meant to eat when you have won the cup,” Ilya explained in faux patience. “You may not know – you are new to this. I will teach you.”
Scott shook his head. “This is not the side of Brooklyn I grew up in.”
Rozanov leaned back in his chair. “No, you are sad little orphan boy like” – he said something quick in Russian – “Oliver Twist.”
He was definitely gonna end up on the news. “What about you?” Scott asked, trying to get this conversation somewhere remotely civil. “Are you from Moscow or…?”
“Yes, Moscow. But I promise there are other cities in Russia. My family has some money there. More money after I start playing hockey. But now my father is dead, I am orphan like you, but not so sad. Not like Oliver Twist.”
Scott was saved from responding to that by the waitress’s reappearance with a bottle of wine. “Can I get you started with anything?” she offered.
He was about to apologize for not reading the menu when Rozanov cut in and rattled off what looked like most of the appetizer list.
“I was sorry to hear about your father,” Scott offered once she left again, eyes now fixed on the menu. He didn’t want to be here any longer than he needed to be. It was some sort of weird fusion cuisine, which Scott wasn’t against, but it seemed the more conventional the dish, the more expensive it was. The steak was $75 while something called branzino was only $41.
“Yes, yes, everyone is very sorry,” Rozanov dismissed. He leaned over the table, watching Scott look at the menu. “You can get steak,” he said. “You are boring and expensive date, but I already guess this.”
Scott’s eyes snapped up. “You don’t think this is a date, do you?”
“You and very young boyfriend are not swingers?” he asked. His accent made it hard to pick out the sarcasm, but his face didn’t. “Well, is for the best. I would probably break your hip if we fuck.”
His patience finally gave way. “Look, do you have to do this?” Scott demanded. “Be a dick when I’m trying to help you?”
“Help me?” Rozanov echoed. “Help me how? I am teaching you how to eat like respectable celebrity. I am help you.”
Lowering his voice, Scott said, “You came out to me, Rozanov.”
Rozanov leaned away from him with a weary expression that didn’t cover up his unease nearly as well as he seemed to think. “Is not big deal. Not like I made out with my boyfriend on TV.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Chewing on his thumbnail, Rozanov resolutely looked out at the skyline. He nodded.
The waitress reappeared with a tray full of appetizers, most unrecognizable to Scott, but it had been thirty whole seconds since Rozanov said something unpleasant, and he didn’t want to give him ammunition by asking. They put in their orders – Rozanov got lamb, the second most expensive and second most normal item on the menu. Bitch.
Scott reached for what looked like octopus on flatbread and asked, “So how long have you been together?”
Rozanov seemed more casual as he spoke now, focusing on the food. “It is serious only recently, but we have been something… basically since I came to US.”
He couldn’t remember exactly which year Rozanov got drafted – though he remembered the Rookie of the Year awards. Shane Hollander beat him out for it. He could only imagine how unpleasant Rozanov had been over that. “Does anyone else know?”
“His parents,” he answered breezily. “I have friend from Russia who knows I have someone, but I cannot say who.”
“He’s in the closet, too?” In a fucked up way, Scott thought, that made things easier. It had been brutal for Kip, having to go back to hiding.
Rozanov nodded again, eyes on a flatbread of baba ganoush, and dropped the next bomb like it was nothing. “He is hockey player.”
Scott’s mind immediately started flipping through the Boston roster, but before it could get very far, he shut that down, reminded himself that it wasn’t his business. Rozanov could tell him about himself, but the rest wasn’t for him to share. Besides, he didn’t even know if the guy was in the MLH – he could be in the minors or even Europe.
He offered: “I think it was hard for Kip to understand, at least at first. You know, coming from outside the hockey world.”
“Probably it helped that you are sugar daddy.”
“Watch it.” Scott leveled him with a glare.
Rozanov held up his hands in mock surrender, and they let the conversation drop for a while. Talked about the food.
“I thought you’d take me for borscht or something,” Scott teased.
That got him a scoff. “This is all Americans know about Russia.” He counted on his fingers: “Moscow, borscht, and we stole your election.”
Scott smirked. “Oh, is that confirmation?”
Rozanov shrugged. “Probably we did. Stealing our own elections is too easy now. We need to try new things for excitement.”
He thought about the Sochi Olympics, about Vaughan’s comment about how dangerous Russia was for gay people. Back then, it had made Scott quietly panicked and paranoid for himself. He looked at Rozanov now and remembered Kip’s words from earlier. Not just a gay hockey player – a gay Russian hockey player. The stakes were a lot higher for him. He remembered spotting Hollander trying to talk to him after Russia lost, and it had looked, from a distance, like Rozanov was yelling at him.
At the time, he’d figured it was just Rozanov being a dick as usual. But no wonder.
Their entrees came. Scott eyed the skyline as they ate, thinking about Rozanov’s mystery boyfriend. Fuck, how many gay players were there in the league? Was Rozanov just the first that would come to him? Was he going to end up some sort of keeper of MLH closet cases? Or maybe others would follow his lead. It mattered that he’d done it after winning the cup, Scott thought.
He laughed quietly.
“What?” Rozanov asked.
Scott shook his head. “I was just thinking – two of the last four cups were won by teams with gay captains. Imagine if Hollander came out.”
Rozanov’s face did something strange then. Quick, nearly imperceptible if Scott hadn’t been looking right at him in the lamplight. A widening of the eyes, then a careful schooling, the looseness that had fallen into his expression through dinner tightening back up.
“Mr. Perfect?” he scoffed. “I don’t think so.”
Several puzzle pieces slotted into place at once.
“Holy shit,” Scott said.
Rozanov shifted aggressively in his seat, jaw going tight. “Holy shit what, Hunter? Holy shit you are fantasizing about Montreal captain now? Probably because you are cradle-robber and he has baby face. Won’t your boyfriend be jealous?”
Scott let out a breath. “I’m not gonna tell anyone,” he promised.
“Good! There is nothing to tell,” Rozanov snapped, but there was a brittleness in his voice now.
They finished eating. Rozanov grabbed the check before Scott could even look at it. “This is lesson two about being big celebrity,” he drawled. “Even though you have more money than ever, people keep buying things for you.”
“Thank you for dinner,” Scott deadpanned.
“Shit. I forgot to ask for senior discount.”
“You already made that joke.”
Rozanov made a dismissive noise and waved a hand at him as he stood. It was strange, watching his mannerisms now. Scott had probably written a lot of it off as European, but Rozanov was actually sort of flamboyant when you paid attention. He wondered how much the accent covered up, how he sounded to other Russians. If that had been hard for him, growing up.
God damn it, did he actually give a shit about Ilya Rozanov now? Kip was never going to let him hear the end of this.
When they finally pulled up in front of Scott’s building, he turned and said, “Look, I know how tough it can be, hiding yourself like this and not having anyone to talk to about it. And I hope you and – and whoever you’re dating, you can support each other, but I imagine a long-distance relationship isn’t great when that’s your only person.”
Rozanov was looking straight ahead, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel like he was impatient.
“You can call me if you need to talk,” he offered. “And New York is an easy train ride from Boston – you don’t have to slog through traffic in a race car.”
“It’s a nice car!” he protested.
Scott stared at him a moment, waiting for him to acknowledge anything else he’d said. When that didn’t happen, he clapped a hand on Rozanov’s shoulder and squeezed it. “I’ll see you around.”
He was about to close the door behind him when he heard that sharp, “Scott Hunter!”
Scott ducked to look at him.
Rozanov rubbed his thumb against the side of his nose and shrugged. “Maybe next time I meet your boyfriend. Might be nice to talk to someone my own age.”
He slammed the door.