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January 2011
Scott Hunter knew he was gay at a very early age. Before the accident with his parents, maybe even before he started playing hockey—but that’s a hard line to draw. Sometimes it felt like he started playing hockey before he could even think, before he was even making memories. But the point was, it had been many, many years of knowing himself. Knowing that he liked guys in the way his classmates, his teammates, and it seemed like the whole world liked girls.
So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that after 30 (or so) years of being gay, he had what some might call perfect gaydar. And boy did it go off in the proximity of Shane Hollander. But he also knew—after years in the closet and years in the MHL—that he would never bring this up to Hollander. It was bad form to tell a teenager playing in a highly homophobic sport that you were pretty sure he liked men. Plus, he wasn’t quite ready for the implications of what that said about him.
So he let that fact—assumption—lie dormant in his brain. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing in the MHL would change until someone came out publicly, and the chances of Shane Hollander being the first to do that were approximately zero. That guy was like twelve years old.
But then the All-Star Game happened.
Rozanov had skated past Hollander, barely slowing down as he said, “1221.”
Shane had looked down for half a second, like he was trying very hard not to react. Scott wouldn’t have clocked the number at all—except for the fact that he was in room 1222 at the hotel. And he’d seen Rozanov leave his room that morning—room 1221.
Scott had definitely heard that.
“Nice shooting, rook,” Scott said a moment later, leaning forward toward Shane.
Shane glanced up. “Thanks.” It was honest, innocent. Just a rookie, happy to get some praise from a more experienced player.
Scott tilted his head, casual. “What did he want, by the way?”
He had to assume he was wrong because there was no way that his suspicion was correct. Because there was no way Rozanov would share his room number with Hollander. But if he were—if it were innocent—then Shane wouldn’t deny it. Maybe Hollander needed to borrow a cup of sugar or something.
Shane didn’t miss a beat. “Nothing. Just shit-talking.”
Scott hummed. Sure. Shit-talking about his hotel room number. In that case, he had “shit-talked” with plenty of guys over the years, too.
“He’s an asshole, right?” Scott pressed. Because Rozanov really grated on not just him, but on half the players in the league. He was cocky and obnoxious, and of course, very good-looking. It only made him more annoying.
“I mean, yeah. Basically.” Shane said, and oh my god, he was blushing. This kid had it bad.
“Lucky me,” Scott said lightly, glancing away. “I’m in the room next to his.”
Giving Shane the warning in passing, just in case he was right about what was going on. Because Scott Hunter was observant and very good at detecting gay situations—okay, hook-ups. But if there was one thing that tripped him up, it was those tricky bisexuals. Impossible to pin down. Oh-so sneaky. And he couldn’t quite pin down Ilya Rozanov—popular with women, undoubtedly, but quite possibly interested in the Metros’ star rookie too.
And that had been that.
Or at least, it should have been.
He really shouldn’t have listened that night. Should’ve assumed he misheard (he never did) and minded his own business (he always did). But that was not the case. After the All-Star Game, he sat in his hotel room—1222—and read a book. Yes, a fucking book. He should’ve been watching TV or going out with the other players for drinks, food, anything. But no. He was reading. Silently. In his room.
Which meant that when the door of the room next door creaked open, and voices—plural—started talking…
He really wasn’t trying to listen. He was not a voyeur by any means, but he did have a perverse sense of curiosity. And again—he really couldn’t get a handle on those bisexuals. So he just needed to… check. Just needed to see if his suspicion over a whispered room number was correct.
It was.
It did not take long to deduce this. God, these guys were careless. Calling each other by their last names really took any doubt out of what he was overhearing. The last names, mixed in with the moans and the other sounds, were plenty for Scott to confirm his theory.
And the moment he did, he plugged his earbuds in and drowned out the debauchery next door, filing it away in the gay folder of his brain. One file for Shane Hollander—gay. And one for Ilya Rozanov—sneaky bisexual.
December 2013
He really would have let it go. He hated all the locker room talk—his teammates using slurs and sexist language to describe things that were different or bad. And Shane Hollander was a sweet kid, and a fantastic hockey player, so he wasn’t going to tease him or give him any shit for who he wanted to sleep with. He really had no right to judge. But at the end of the day, Scott was a highly competitive person, and he’d been playing hockey for a long time.
And it had been a long fucking week. They’d played Boston a few nights earlier, and Rozanov had been on his usual bullshit the entire game—chirping, grinning, skating just a little too close after whistles like he wanted a reaction. Scott had mostly ignored him until after the final buzzer. They were heading off the ice, both teams peeling toward their respective tunnels, when Rozanov caught his eye.
“Hey, Hunter,” he said, voice low, amused. “Too bad you cannot play at home every night, right? It’s better for you, huh?”
Scott didn’t even try to hide his disdain. “Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”
Rozanov chuckled at that. He seemed to thrive when people threw obscenities at him. “Ah,” he said, almost fond. “It’s more fun if you’re there.”
Scott didn’t engage with that. Took the high road instead of mentioning who Ilya would rather be fucking with. He was mature about it.
And that should have been the end of it.
But then they played Montreal. And they lost. Again. And Hollander—golden boy, media darling, too fucking good for his own good—decided it was the perfect time to chirp.
“Hope next time we play, you decide to show up,” Shane said on the ice after the final whistle.
Scott scoffed. “Cheap,” he said, spitting it out. He was still trying to catch his breath, still trying to cool his racing thoughts.
Shane shrugged, almost sheepish. “True.”
That should have been the end of it. Hollander’s first attempt at chirping and Scott’s polite brush-off. Mature. Respectable. A role model for the league. It should have stopped there. But Scott couldn’t help himself. He was too pissed off at losing, too pissed off at himself for doing a shit job as captain and as a player.
“You’re starting to sound like him,” he added, throwing fuel on a fire Hollander hadn’t even meant to start.
Shane stopped. “I’m sorry, what?”
There it was—the opening. The chance to walk it back. To apologize. To pretend he hadn’t just said something that, in this league, meant a hell of a lot more than it sounded like. Scott was in his thirties. He really should have been the mature one. But tonight, he just wasn’t.
Scott met his eyes. “You fucking heard me, Hollander.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
And there it was. The defensiveness was immediate—anger, and something sharper underneath it. Fear. Later, Scott would feel horrible about that. About making Shane feel exposed. He’d replay the moment in his head—the way Shane’s expression changed, the way he went from confused to something else entirely. Cornered. Like a predator backed into a corner with only one way out.
In the moment, though, he watched as Shane skated forward, gloves already half-off, and Scott almost laughed because this was insane—this was Shane Hollander. And he was trying to fight him. Over that. Over the implication that he was starting to sound like him. Technically, Scott hadn’t even said Rozanov’s name and just implied that he knew something. Just put the idea out there that Shane was acting a little too—let’s call it Russian—for his liking.
Refs were between them in seconds, hands on chests, pushing them back while both of them still tried to lean around shoulders and get one more word in, one more step forward. Scott could vaguely hear Shane throwing insults at him—something about him being old. That would stick with him, too. The way Scott had implied he knew about Shane’s sexuality, about his secret, and Shane had come back with old. He really should pick on someone his own size next time.
Shane Hollander, the golden boy of the league, had tried to get into a fight with him over a simple implication. It was damn near comical—and yeah, it made him feel a little bit better about the loss. Yeah, he felt a little bad using Hollander’s personal life as hockey chirp fodder. But he never claimed he was perfect.
June 2017
Believe it or not, there were a lot of other things on Scott’s mind in 2017. He wasn’t thinking about Shane’s brief dalliance with Rose Landry—a complete fake relationship, of course, he was sure of that. He didn’t care about playing against Rozanov and his stupid fucking chirps that absolutely did not get to him—okay, they did, he absolutely punched Roz in February for some nonsense comment after their loss to the Raiders.
But for the most part, Hollander and Rozanov were not a concern of his in 2017. He was too busy trying to win the Cup and, you know, win over the love of his life while figuring out how to publicly come out while playing a sport that had decades of homophobic history and no out queer players. Simple enough. Nothing major.
So after the win of the Cup and his very public outing with Kip, he wasn’t exactly expecting to end up at a gay club with Ilya Rozanov. And he, least of all, was expecting to enjoy it.
But Ilya was at ease there. Not just comfortable—at ease. Like this was a version of him that didn’t exist anywhere near a rink. No edge, no constant push for a reaction. Just… there. Talking, laughing, moving through the space as if he belonged in it. It was disorienting.
“The great Scott Hunter, in person,” Rozanov said, leaning against the bar beside him, like it had been obvious all along. “I should be honored. They named the whole night after you.”
Scott huffed. “Yeah, well. Didn’t exactly plan on celebrating it like this, but I can’t say it isn’t fun. I didn’t spend a lot of time in gay clubs before now.”
Rozanov glanced at him, something quieter in his expression than Scott was used to. “You did a good thing.”
That caught him off guard. The sentence lacked the usual bite, the joke he would normally tack on.
Scott shrugged it off anyway. “Did what I had to do.” He smiled at Kip across the club. He wouldn’t change a thing. Actually, he wished he had done it the day he met Kip.
“Not everyone does,” Rozanov said simply.
Scott didn’t have a response to that. Didn’t really want one. So he took a sip of his drink instead and let the noise of the club fill the space between them. Rozanov didn’t push or make it weird. Just stayed there for a minute, then clapped him once on the shoulder and disappeared back into the crowd.
It was… unexpected. And, annoyingly, kind of endearing. It showed Scott a glimpse of the man Rozanov was underneath all the bravado and taunting comments. The version of him that didn’t make everything a game, or a fight, or a performance. The version that, apparently, just said what he meant and left it there. He could almost see why Shane Hollander would—or at least had—put up with him.
Almost.
Scott didn’t think about it much after that night. Not really. There were interviews, appearances, a thousand conversations about things he was still figuring out how to say out loud.
But a few days later, he got an email. He’d received a lot of messages since he came out—emails and DMs. From strangers, yes, but also from other players in the league, and even beyond that. Retired athletes in hockey and other sports. Current players in almost every sport who wanted to let him know his bravery meant something to them.
He read every single one and kept them close to him. Especially when reading through the other comments and messages—the ones that spread vitriol and hate.
But this one stood out immediately in his inbox. From Shane Hollander. That alone was strange enough that he read it twice before opening it.
Subject: Congratulations
Hi Scott,
I wanted to reach out and congratulate you on your recent announcement. What you did took a significant amount of courage, especially given the environment we play in.
I know there’s been a lot of attention around it, but I hope you’ve also had the chance to recognize the impact it’s already having. It’s important, for more people than you probably realize.
I won’t take up much of your time, but I wanted to say I respect what you did.
All the best,
Shane
Scott read it once, and then again. It was… polished. He half-thought it might have come from Shane’s PR team rather than him personally. But the line about it being important for more people than he realized—that didn’t sound like a PR move. That sounded like someone showing just a little bravery in a world where it was terrifying to do so. There was something in it—not in what it said, but what it didn’t say.
November 2019
It had been an interesting few years.
Scott was engaged.
That still felt strange to think about sometimes. Not in a bad way—never that—but in the quiet moments, when it was just him and his own thoughts, it still caught him off guard. For so long, the future had been something abstract. Carefully managed. Limited. Now it was… real. A wedding. A honeymoon. A life that didn’t have to be hidden or explained away.
He’d come out. He’d done the interviews, the press, the careful, measured answers about being proud and hopeful and ready for change. He’d meant all of it. But that didn’t mean it had been easy. It didn’t mean the locker rooms had suddenly become welcoming, or that the jokes had stopped, or that every arena felt safe. It just meant he’d gotten better at navigating it.
So no, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had not been top of mind.
Not since their little joint press conference the year before.
Scott remembered watching it, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral as the two of them sat side by side and told the world they were “friends.” Close friends. Best friends, even. The kind of thing that made sense on paper and nowhere else. They announced the Irina Foundation in honor of Ilya’s mother.
It was moments like those that really reminded Scott that Ilya was a whole lot deeper than he let on to the world. He hadn’t said anything about their “announcement” at the time. What was there to say? He’d already filed them away years ago. Didn’t need confirmation. Didn’t need the performance.
So no. Not top of mind. He still played against them both—Ilya now playing for Ottawa and losing far more frequently than he did with Boston, Shane still playing with Montreal and kicking his ass just as frequently as he had for the past decade.
After the most recent Ottawa and New York game, he had actually hung out with Rozanov at the Kingfisher. Ilya was still an annoying twerp on the ice, but they had become something similar to… friends? Off the ice. Maybe not quite that close, but something adjacent. It seemed like Rozanov didn’t have a lot of people in his life, and, reluctant though he was to admit it, Scott actually liked the guy when they weren’t on the ice.
Rozanov had been his normal antagonizing self at the Kingfisher, ordering himself and Eric themed cocktails—“the Scott Hunter”—and making jokes. Scott had been pretty focused on Kip most of the night and hadn’t spent much time with the Russian until the end of the evening, when Rozanov looked over, caught his eye, and grinned like he’d been waiting for it.
A few years ago, that look would’ve come with an edge. A challenge. Something sharp enough to cut. Now there was something else layered underneath it. Recognition, maybe. Or respect. Scott wasn’t sure when that had changed.
Rozanov joined him at his table, cocktail swapped out for a beer, leaned forward, and asked, “You ever think about coaching?” Scott didn’t brush it off quite as easily as he might have a few years ago.
“I run camps in the summer,” Rozanov said. “With Hollander.”
Scott huffed quietly under his breath. “Yeah, I heard.”
Everyone had heard. The foundation, the press, the carefully packaged version of whatever the hell they were doing. “Friends.”
“Good kids,” Rozanov went on, shrugging. “And we need coaches like you.” A pause. “Thought you might be interested.”
That gave Scott pause. “Coaches like me?”
Rozanov gave a small shrug, not saying much with it. “Yes. It’s good to give them a safe space. Have coaches that understand.”
That made sense. Coaching, mentorship, giving back—he’d been circling that idea for a while now. But hearing Rozanov say it, hearing him talk about safe spaces and kids who needed something better than what they had… it dug into that side of Rozanov that he rarely got to see. The one he didn’t show off to the press and public. The sweeter, more complex side that made him someone Scott actually somewhat… liked.
“I’m getting married this summer,” Scott said instead of complimenting Ilya’s character. God knows he’d make some comment about that. “And then honeymoon. So I’ll be a little busy.”
Rozanov nodded immediately and didn’t even take the bait to comment on Scott’s wedding.
“Next year, maybe,” Scott added, almost without thinking. Not because he was uninterested—but because he couldn’t deny the intrigue of watching Hollander and Rozanov coach side by side.
“Yeah,” Rozanov said. “Next year.”
And that was it. Just an offer, made plainly, accepted just as plainly, and left there between them.
Later, when Eric stared at him across the table and said, “That guy is so weird,” Scott had laughed.
“He’s mysterious, for sure,” he’d said. “But I think he’s maybe a decent guy.”
April 2021
No one should get outed publicly without their consent. It had been a fear of Scott’s for so many years that it was ingrained in him. Even now, publicly gay and married to the love of his life, he still had a momentary panic when he saw a photo of him and Kip on social media. Not full-blown panic, but just a half second of fear so deep in his system he didn’t know if it would ever go away.
So he’s not happy when Ilya and Shane are forced to come out by a slip-up from none other than Hayden Pike. A stupid fan mail video that ruined a decade-long secret. He’d always hoped that when Shane and Ilya announced their relationship, if they ever did, that he could have an “I knew all along” moment—that he could claim he’d known about the biggest secret in MHL history (including his sexuality) since their first season.
But he didn’t feel like gloating in the wake of this. So he didn’t. He played his games and made no comment when media outlets asked his opinion, because why did his opinion matter here? He waited until he was in Ottawa after Game 3.
He wasn’t going to lie—he was incredibly nervous to go see Ilya. He wasn’t even sure Shane would be there, but he assumed after Hollander had attended their game last night with his parents. Still, he was determined to talk to Rozanov and share his support. So he pestered Hayes for Rozanov’s address and, after convincing him he wasn’t putting out a hit on their center, headed to Rozanov’s house.
He was second-guessing himself when a rumpled Ilya Rozanov opened the door. “Hunter. You are at my house.”
Scott suddenly felt like an idiot standing in the doorway. “Yeah, I—uh. I got the address from Wyatt. He had to make sure my intentions were noble first.”
“You could have texted,” Rozanov said, and Scott mentally berated himself. Yeah, he should have texted. That would have made a lot more sense than showing up uninvited. But he was here now, so…
“You seem to enjoy showing up unannounced. Maybe I wanted to see what it was like,” Scott countered, keeping his voice light and hoping Ilya would take the quip well. He really didn’t want to have to get right back in his car. That would be a little too embarrassing to handle.
“Come in,” Ilya said with a smile, and Scott breathed a small sigh of relief as he stepped into the large living room.
“Hi, Scott.” A smiling Shane Hollander stepped into the living room. He looked a little more unkempt than Scott had ever seen him, and now Scott was really wishing he had texted first.
Scott nodded at him. “Shane. Good. I was hoping you’d be here too.”
“He usually is,” Ilya said, a bit smugly, for no real reason. Pissing on his territory like a dog. Classic Rozanov behavior, just in a very new, very gay way.
“Oh, were you guys watching the Madrid Open?” Scott asked, glancing at the TV, trying to do anything to ease the tension coating the room.
“Uh, yeah,” Shane said.
“Kind of,” Ilya added.
Yeah, he should’ve texted first.
“I know it’s awkward because we’re in the middle of a playoff series, but I wanted to talk to you guys about… you know.” You know, your very public outing of a relationship that you’ve kept under wraps for the better part of ten years.
“Uh-oh,” Ilya said. “Are we getting a lecture from Dad?”
For fuck’s sake. Of course this was the version of Rozanov he had to get today. Not the little flashes of the nice and reasonable Ilya, but the asshole persona he dealt with at games. Scott looked at Shane. “Is it possible for him to not be an asshole for five seconds?”
“No,” Shane said. “So what did you want to talk about, exactly?”
He had to admit, it was odd to see Shane on Ilya’s side so resolutely. It made sense that he’d back his longtime boyfriend up, but it was still jarring to experience.
“Well, first of all, I’m sorry you guys got outed that way. That’s awful.” He got the words off his chest, hoping they might better explain his presence and make Shane and Ilya stop staring at him like he was declaring war by being here.
“It wasn’t great,” Shane agreed.
“Ruined our plan to kiss on television,” Ilya said dryly. Scott chose to ignore that jab.
“When I heard about what happened, I felt sick, honestly. Being outed was my biggest fear for years. That decision shouldn’t have been taken from you. No one should have that forced on them,” Scott said earnestly.
“Is that the only reason you felt sick?” Rozanov tested him.
“I was pretty shocked. Not gonna lie.” Okay, he was going to lie. He wasn’t shocked by their relationship, but he had been shocked by the video—shocked that they were outed against their will. Shocked that Hayden Pike was still alive.
“If you are here to tell us our relationship is okay or not okay, we don’t care,” Ilya said bluntly.
“Jesus, Ilya,” Shane muttered.
“I’m not,” Scott assured him. “I have no idea how this thing with you has even been working, but you guys obviously have it figured out. It’s definitely never interfered with your hockey.” And that was true. He had known about their relationship for years and had never once seen anything between them bleed onto the ice.
“Thank you for saying so,” Ilya said, finally toning down the aggression.
“How’d Crowell react to your relationship?” Scott asked, the taste of the commissioner’s name unpleasant on his tongue.
“You can probably guess. I think if he thought he could get away with it, we’d both be out of the league.”
“I think he felt the same way about me when I came out.” Scott wasn’t really sure—Roger Crowell hadn’t directly spoken to him—but he definitely hadn’t received any fruit baskets.
“And Troy Barrett. Troy got an email after that that was like… what is the word? Nice but sounds angry?”
“Passive-aggressive,” Shane supplied.
“Yes. Okay. That,” Ilya clarified. Scott hadn’t known that, though he wasn’t surprised.
“Crowell’s a dinosaur. He’s standing in the way of progress, which is part of why I wanted to talk to you. Carter Vaughan and I are trying to start a group of MHL players.” He paused, then corrected himself. “No—of hockey players. I’ve already reached out to Max Riley and Leah Campbell, who are interested in fighting back against toxic hockey culture. Not just homophobia, but all of it: racism, sexism, rape culture, transphobia, toxic masculinity. I know that sounds kind of huge and impossible, but it has to start somewhere.”
“Like a club?” Ilya asked. “Of nice hockey players?”
“Basically,” Scott said. He wished he had a better name for it. A nice hockey players’ club sounded a little elementary. “I thought when I came out that that would make a difference for other queer hockey players.”
“I think it did,” Shane said with a small smile, glancing at Ilya. “It did for us, anyway.”
“Yeah?” Scott said, his chest warming. “That’s nice to hear. But when I heard Troy’s story, it made me realize that queer hockey players still didn’t feel safe coming out. And that’s just one problem with hockey culture. Sometimes it all seems so broken, I don’t know if it can be fixed. But I want to try.”
“So if someone in hockey says or does something awful, we speak as a united front against it?” Shane asked, a hint of interest in his voice.
“Exactly. Right now, it’s scary, speaking out when you’re just one person. But if we have an organized group that can release statements, it’s a lot less scary. It’s powerful. I have over fifty hockey players interested already. I think we can really do this.”
“I’m in,” Ilya said immediately.
“Me too. A hundred percent. I know J.J. and Hayden would be into it too,” Shane added, and Scott mentally added them to the list. Really, it was the least Pike could do.
“My coach might join as well. He is a very good guy,” Ilya said, already recruiting.
“Yeah? That would be great. I’d love to get some people from that side of the bench.” Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry—I kind of jumped right into my pitch. I mostly came here to tell you I’ve got your back. And… congratulations, I guess.”
“You can congratulate us after we are married,” Ilya said.
Scott blinked. “And when will that be?”
“July. Makes sense, right? Maybe the week before camps start?” Ilya said, as if it were casual to propose a wedding date like that.
“Sure. Whenever,” Shane agreed easily. And that was even more shocking. Tight-laced Shane Hollander had just so easily accepted Ilya's suggestion of a wedding date, as if it wasn't a life-changing choice.
Scott stared, astounded at Shane acting so calm. “Jesus. This is really weird. Sorry.”
“Why? Because we are both men?” Ilya asked.
“What? No! Because—” Scott stopped himself, then shook his head. “You know what? Fuck you, Rozanov.”
“You are a good guy, Hunter,” Ilya said with a laugh.
“Well. There’s something I never thought I’d see,” Shane said.
“Funny. I said the exact same thing when I saw you guys kissing in that video,” Scott shot back.
“I want to be friends,” Ilya added, softer now.
“Me too. After this series ends, of course,” Scott said.
“I will be busy in the semifinals after that,” Ilya added with a grin.
“Dream on, Rozanov.”
Scott gathered himself to leave, exchanging numbers with both of them and promising to follow up after the season with more details.
And next time, he would text first.