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Rozanov is uncharacteristically silent during warmups, and a quiet Rozanov is never a good sign. 

When Scott gets into position for the face-off, he has to consciously tell himself not to tense up. Whatever homophobic bullshit Rozanov spews can’t be worse than Twitter after the Admirals’ cup win. Scott can take it. He just needs to keep his head in the game. Think about the play, not what-ifs. Win the face off and wipe that self-satisfied grin off Rozanov’s face. 

The referee, Hal, raises his arm. “Welcome back for another season. Play nice, you hear me? That means you, Roz.”

Rozanov winks up at him, and Scott nods, determined. 

“Showtime, guys,” Hal says as he lifts the puck.

“They heard your knees creak in the cheap seats, Hunter,” Rozanov chirps as it drops. “What are you on, knee replacement number three?”

Scott freezes as the puck drops.

What the fuck? Nothing about cocksucking? No slurs? No digs at Kip?

A fraction of a second too late, Scott takes off down the ice, not bothering to waste his breath with useless swears. 

Throughout the rest of the game, Rozanov keeps chirping. But all his jabs are still about Scott’s age. Well, he gets in one about how New York City always smells like pee, which actually startles a laugh out of Scott. But the rest are bafflingly predictable. Does Hunter have a spot reserved yet in the nursing home? Rozanov is hearing from his grandma they are going fast. Is Hunter getting tired? It must be past his bedtime already. 

With two minutes left, Scott fumbles a pass, and Rozanov shouts delightedly, “How did you miss that? Does your boyfriend know he is dating blind old man?”

It’s the first time Rozanov has mentioned Kip at all during the entire game. And, as Scott watches Jalo pancake Rozanov into the boards, Scott can’t find a single homophobic insinuation in it.

The game ends 5-7 Bears.

Two hours later, Scott is sitting with Kip in a booth at Kingfisher, mostly over the loss but not over Rozanov’s weird behavior.

“Okay,” Kip says slowly as he spins his half-gone whiskey sour between his hands, “So you’re mad that he didn’t say anything mind-blowingly offensive?”

Scott huffs out an annoyed breath. “Obviously not. I’m annoyed because I can’t figure out what he’s up to.”

“Who says he’s up to anything?” Kip asks, his tone horribly reasonable.

Scott scowls. “It’s Rozanov. He has made it his professional goal to be the top chirper in the league. He once brought up Carter’s second cousin in a chirp.”

“The yoga influencer?”

Scott nods. “She’s… bendy.”

Kip rolls his eyes. “Babe, I think you’re overthinking this.”

“I’m not,” Scott says stubbornly.

Kip laughs. “Actually, I’m pretty sure you are. Because I can tell you’re not going to let this go until you get to the bottom of it, even though Rozanov is not worth it.”

“But –”

“And we both know he’s not worth it.”

“No, but –”

“See?” Kip says, laughing. “He wants you to get all up in your head about it. And you’re letting him.”

“I’m not letting Rozanov do jack shit,” Scott says, offended.

Kip just throws him a fond look as he leans in to kiss Scott on the cheek. “How about we head home, and I make you forget all about Ilya Rozanov?”

Scott actually hesitates, torn between winning the argument and succumbing to Kip’s admittedly superior plan. 

“Oh my god, seriously?” Kip demands, incredulous.

“What? No, we’re going. We’re going!” Scott says as he jumps to his feet and drains the last of his beer. 

“That’s what I thought,” Kip says smugly on their way out.

* * *

The Admirals barely win yesterday’s away game, 3-2, against the Bears, and both teams have some embarrassing fumbles. Carter whiffs the first play at the last second for some inexplicable reason. The Bears’ right wing gets into it with Breezy, and they both get stuck in the sin bin for too fucking long.

The second period doesn’t fare much better.

The only saving grace is that Gillis scores a great, clean goal in the third period, and they don’t have to slog through overtime.

Thank god today is a rest day. Scott has zero plans, except to make Kip breakfast in bed. Scott loves his boyfriend, but Kip could sleep through an air raid siren if it blares before noon, especially after a late night at Kingfisher, which is where they ended up after the game. Scott, though, has always been an early riser. Up with the sun, and all that. 

He puts on ESPN, letting it drone on quietly in the background as he pulls out bowls and a whisk. 

Scott only looks up as the coverage moves on to a recap of last night’s hockey game and a post-game interview with the Bears’ captain. Sighing, Scott increases the volume to catch the tail end of the reporter’s question: “... your second game against the Admirals, a win and a loss. Do you think the Admirals have lost their edge after the bombshell of a Stanley Cup finale?”

Scott’s jaw clenches, his temper spiking with a familiar irritation. What complete bullshit. Scott is exactly the same captain as he was before he pulled Kip onto the ice. If anything, he’s a better leader without that metric ton of fear and stress on his shoulders he carried for years.

Also, would it kill Rozanov to wear a shirt for one of these things?

On the screen, a bare-chested Rozanov shrugs. “Could have been that. Could have been many things. Maybe Scott Hunter did not drink his special smoothie this morning. Who can say?”

Droplets of egg fly all over the marble countertop as Scott stares, open-mouthed, at the television. How the hell does Rozanov know about his blueberry smoothie? 

The reporter isn’t done. “What do you have to say to the players who doubt Scott’s capability to lead his team now?” 

Rozanov’s eyes narrow as he looks directly into the camera. “I say, Admirals’ management holds the old man’s contract.” He waves his hand dismissively. “If you have an issue with senior citizens out there playing a full contact sport, breaking hips, that is not my problem. Not my team.”

Despite himself, Scott smirks. That is definitely not what the reporter was getting at. 

“No,” the reporter says hurriedly, “I meant –”

Rozanov makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “Hunter has not scored any goals in the last three games. Did you notice that? Much more interesting hockey topic than this, if you insist on talking about Hunter and not how me and my team won the damn game.”

Scott glares at the screen. Just when he thought Rozanov could be a quarter of the way decent. Scott had ten assists in those three games! So he wasn’t the one to personally shoot it into the net, that didn’t mean he was going through any sort of dry spell. 

Fucker. 

* * *

Halfway through the season, and it’s time for the All-Stars game.

“Hunter!” a voice rings out cheerfully. “And boyfriend!”

Scott’s shoulders are hunching by his ears before he even registers the accented source.

“Oh, hi?” Kip says confusedly, turning to greet Rozanov, who should be looking ridiculous in an orange, surf-themed Hawaiian shirt. Annoyingly, he somehow pulls it off. The Eastern Orthodox cross on his chest glints in the overhead lights from the hotel chandelier twinkling overhead.

“Don’t call him, ‘boyfriend’,” Scott grumbles. “He has a name, you know.”

Rozanov adopts an innocent expression that fools absolutely no one. He turns to Kip. “What should I call you? Mr. Grady?” 

Scott scoffs. Even when Rozanov was a rookie, and Scott was the top scorer in the league and new captain of one of the most promising teams in the division, Rozanov never called Scott “mister” anything. No, it was always “Hunter” if he was feeling generous or “old man” if he was feeling like his usual asshole self.

Rozanov asks Kip, eyebrows rising. “Do you want to be called Mr. Grady?”

Kip laughs. “God, no.”

“Really, Rozanov?” Scott despairs. Can’t he leave Scott alone for once in his career?

Rozanov crosses his arms over his chest. “Or just Grady?”

Kip grimaces. “That makes me sound like a hockey player.”

“And you are not a hockey player,” Rozanov agrees.

“He could be, if he wanted to!” Scott butts in before the sheer stupidity of the thought catches up with him. He flushes a dull red. God, this is what Rozanov does to him. At least Kip already knows Scott’s a little bit of an idiot when he gets riled up.

Kip pats his shoulder. It feels awfully like pity.

Ugh, fuck Rozanov, who is still speaking to them. “Kip will need a good teacher,” Rozanov says seriously. “Not a dinosaur who will only teach him old-timers hockey.”

“And, let me guess, that’d be you?” Kip says, eyebrows rising. Scott can tell from the way his mouth is twitching that he’s fighting the urge to laugh.

“No,” Rozanov shakes his head, “I am a professional hockey player. I do not have time. You should ask Hunter. He is going to retire soon, Да? Will have plenty of free time if his knees don’t break first.”

Jesus Christ.

Kip gives up his battle, dissolving into giggles.

“Are you done?” Scott gripes, bristling like an angry cat and unable to do anything about it.

“Are you?” Rozanov shoots back.

“I’m not retiring.”

Rozanov sighs with mock-sorrow. “So you will just die next season, then?”

As Scott opens his mouth to retort, Kip says loudly, “You can call me Kip.”

“Hello, Kip,” Rozanov says over Scott’s indignant splutters. “If you get tired of prune juice and early bird specials, let me know. I can hook you up.”

“You can? With who?” Scott demands, outraged, as he takes a small step in front of Kip, half shielding him with his body. How dare Rozanov. What exactly he’s daring to do is still unclear but –

“Rozanov!”

They all turn to see Shane Hollander jogging towards them. “What the hell? You were supposed to be at the restaurant twelve minutes ago for the Foundation meeting.”

“Look who I found,” Rozanov says proudly, gesturing to Kip and Scott. 

“Congratulations,” Hollander says flatly. He gives Scott and Kip a stiff nod in greeting before turning back to Rozanov. He does a double take. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Rozanov plucks the offending orange fabric between two fingers. “A shirt? Why? What is wrong with it?”

“Other than everything?” Hollander says, eyebrows raised. “You realize this year we’re in Chicago and not Tampa, right? It’s not exactly aloha shirt weather out there.”

“Hawaiian shirt is lucky shirt for All-Stars.” Rozanov leers at him as Hollander opens his mouth to retort back. “Last year was very lucky All-Stars for me, you see.”

Scott grimaces. Nobody really cares about the All-Stars outcome; a quarter of the guys try to get out of it, anyway, to have the weekend off. Judging by Rozanov’s waggling eyebrows, he must not be talking about a score on the ice.

“Shut up.” Hollander shakes his head, but the corners of his mouth lift into a small smile. “After this, you’re never giving me grief for my wardrobe choices again.”

“‘Give grief’?” Rozanov repeats, sounding the words out. “Yes, this is a good phrase. Your clothes do make me feel like someone died, yes.”

“Oh my god,” Hollander mutters. “I don’t know why I even try.”

“It is good you do not,” Rozanov says cheerfully. “I give thanks before every Foundation press event for your stylist.”

“You have a stylist?” Kip interrupts.

Hollander turns to him, going a bit red. “Uh, yeah,” he says, embarrassed. “Rose recommended someone to me, and it just worked out, I guess.”

Scott blinks. That’s right; Hollander dated Rose Landry for a hot second last year.

“Are they taking new clients?” Kip asks.

“I’m not sure,” Hollander says, a little taken aback by Kip’s enthusiasm. “But I can ask? Leah’s been great.”

Kip beams at him. “I’ve been telling Scott for ages that he could branch out a little bit – not that I don’t love you in black suits!” he says reassuringly. “But there are so many more options out there you know?”

Scott’s stomach sinks.

Rozanov looks like the Stanley Cup just fell into his lap.

“I’m gonna go get us checked in,” Scott says gruffly before Rozanov can get one more word out.

Kip catches up to him as the receptionist is handing over their room keycards. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Rozanov isn’t nearly as much of a dick in person. He’s hilarious.”

Scott glares. “You take that back.”

“Come on, I’ve watched your games. You have laughed at his chirps, just when he can’t see.”

Scott takes off for the elevators, hiking his backpack higher on his shoulder. “You can’t prove anything.”

Kip grins. “I mean, I don’t blame you for not wanting to give him the satisfaction. But props to him for not saying anything offensive or weird about us.”

“That’s a low bar,” Scott says, internally cringing at how weak his argument is.

Kip’s eyebrows rise as the elevator dings. “One the majority of hockey players have not met.”

Scott sighs as the doors close behind them. “So he’s not a complete jackass. So what?”

“So,” Kip says, “I think he actually likes you.”

“What?”

Kip purses his lips. “He called us over, right?”

“Uh huh,” Scott says, not at all sure where Kip is going with this.

“At All-Stars, where the who’s who of hockey is gathered in one hotel,” Kip says slowly. “Hell, he was meeting Shane Hollander.”

“Yeah, they have that charity together.”

Kip waves off his excuse. “What I mean is, anyone could have walked past us, overheard us.”

“Yeah?” Scott says, still nonplussed.

The elevator doors open at the 11th floor, and Scott squints down at the paper keycard sheaf with 1126 written in a loopy penmanship.

Kip hums. “It was a very public space.”

“So?”

“It’s like you’re being purposefully dense,” Kip teases. “All I’m saying is Rozanov deliberately had a loud conversation with us in the middle of a crowded entryway while literally anybody could have seen him being friendly with us.” Kip’s tone turns serious. “Every other time some hockey player wanted to express support, they pulled you aside, right? Or privately emailed you? And none have talked to me too, except for Carter and Huff, of course.”

Shit.

“Some guys Tweeted their support,” Scott says through gritted teeth. He slaps the key against the door with much more force than necessary.

Kip rolls his eyes. “But you get what I’m saying, babe?”

Scott lets the door fall closed behind them. “I do,” he says slowly. “But, really, of all people, Rozanov is the loudest ally? Are you shitting me?”

Kip runs over to the king-sized bed and hops on it. “I’d much rather have him on our side than Team Homophobe.”

Scott makes a face. Enough talking about Rozanov. The first event isn’t until four pm, so they have two hours before Scott has to be at the rink, and he has plenty of ideas about what to do in the meantime, and absolutely zero of them have to do with Ilya Rozanov.

* * *

Boston. Why, of all places, did Kip want to go to Boston?

Yes, it has the Freedom Trail. Yes, it has some of the best museums in the country. But Philadelphia is right there – or Washington, DC. Hell, Scott would rather do a weekend getaway in New Jersey. At least Jersey’s a NJ Transit stop away from NYC.

Boston, with its four-hour drive, might as well be on the fucking moon.

But this is what Kip wants to do for his Spring Break, so to Boston they go, especially since, remarkably, Scott has two days free of games. He has to hustle back to New York late Tuesday night, but he’ll make it work.

“I hate Boston,” Scott says as they leave The Paul Revere House. 

Kip tugs him closer. “I know, baby.”

“Why is it still so cold? It’s April!”

“It’s only 16 degrees warmer in New York,” Kip says. “Really, I don’t know why you hate Boston so much.”

“I don’t get why you don’t hate it,” Scott grumbles. “You say you’re a real New Yorker –”

“So are you.”

Scott throws him a look, and Kip’s eyes twinkle. He knows Kip’s true feelings about people from upstate calling themselves New Yorkers; even though Scott is clearly from New York. It’s right there on his driver’s license. But Kip loves him, so he keeps that kind of talk to a minimum.

Scott complains, “Aren’t New Yorkers supposed to hate Boston?”

Kip laughs. “That’s more about baseball than anything else. Just don’t root for the Red Sox around my dad, or you’ll be sleeping on the stoop for the rest of the night. In 2004, I think he had a nervous breakdown after the curse broke.”

Scott sighs. “I’m gonna have a nervous breakdown if the Bears make it to the playoffs over us.”

“It’s looking good for them, right?” Kip says as they wait at the next light to cross.

“Mm hm,” Scott agrees. “They’re playing the Voyageurs tomorrow. Should be neck-and-neck.”

“Do you want to go?”

Scott shakes his head. “This weekend is supposed to be about you, Kip.” Scott pulls him even closer and presses a kiss to his stubbly cheek. “Two hockey-free days.”

Kip shrugs. “I could do some hockey. After dragging you all the way to your least-favorite city in America.”

“You’re sweet,” Scott says as they head into the car Scott ordered. A speedy fifteen minutes later, they arrive at a trendy place Elena recommended for dinner. The portions are tiny but delicious. As Scott quietly starves over five courses, at least Kip seems to be having a good time.

“Okay,” Scott says as they hover in the tiny plastic entryway after they’d paid and bundled up in their heavy coats. “I’m, uh, still hungry.”

Kip looks up from his phone. “Oh my god, me too.” He reaches up to kiss Scott squarely on the mouth. “I love Elena, but she eats like a bird sometimes.”

“Don’t hate me –”

“I would never.”

“But there’s a sports bar around the corner? And it looks like the Buffalo-Edmonton game is starting.”

Kip laughs loudly. “So much for a hockey-free weekend, Hunter.”

“We don’t have to go!” Scott says at once. “If you want to go somewhere else, anywhere else, we can!”

“No, you will literally combust if you don’t see a hockey puck within 48 hours,” Kip teases.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Kip says as he pushes open the plastic door onto the street. “I know what I got into when I fell in love with you.” The Boston wind hits them like an icy slap to the face, and Scott swears loudly.

Smithfield Bar is raucous, smells like stale beer, and, for some reason, still has St. Patrick’s Day decor up. They take a pair of stools by the bar, and Scott avoids making eye contact with the aggressively large leprechaun leering down at them among the top shelf liquor.

He grabs a Stella for himself, a whiskey sour for Kip, and a plate of fries for them to share. They settle in, and when Buffalo scores the first goal, Scott gives a loud whoop. He might captain the Admirals now, but Buffalo was his team growing up. Plus, his guys aren’t around to rib him for rooting for one of their conference rivals.

By the end of the second period, Buffalo is leading 5-0, and it’s looking to be an embarrassing shutout for Edmonton. Scott grabs Kip and kisses him square on the mouth. “What the hell was that play?” he demands, pointing as the replay shows on the nearest screen. “I had no idea Morris had it in him!”

On the next stool over, the guy grumbles, “Figures the fag doesn’t know shit about hockey.”

Scott whips around as, next to him, Kip freezes. “Excuse me?” he says, his voice deadly level.

The guy eyes Scott up and down, sizing him up. The barfly’s decently built, but, as Scott is a professional athlete in a high contact sport, he could definitely take him. Easily.

Evidently the guy is too drunk or too stupid to come to the same conclusion. “I said, shut up, and let the rest of us enjoy the game in peace. Nobody wants to see that,” he says, his gaze darting derisively between Scott and Kip.

Scott glances back at Kip, who seems pretty torn between letting his boyfriend wail on the homophobe and ignoring him.

The bartender takes a step closer and clears his throat. “Come on, Rich. They’re payin’ customers, just like you.”

Rich, apparently a regular, grunts in response.

Still rankled, Scott reluctantly sits back on his stool. It really wouldn’t be a good look if it got out that the Captain of the Admirals beat up a random guy at a sports bar in Boston. And this isn’t Scott’s crowd; he isn’t at Kingfisher, among friends. Who knows how the rest of the bar would react? As long as Rich shuts up and lets the rest of them enjoy the game in peace, Scott won’t have a problem with him. 

But then –

“Bunch of fairies.”

Okay, that’s fucking it – Scott leaps to his feet, but a hand on his shoulder holds him back. He turns, about to tell Kip to let him handle this, when someone – who is distinctly not his boyfriend – says, “We have a problem here?”

Fucking hell.

Rich’s eyes go wide. “You’re Ilya Rozanov!”

“Is me,” Rozanov says good-naturedly, but his eyes are as cold as ice.

Scott shrugs off Rozanov’s touch. “I was handling it,” he says stiffly.

“Oh, I am sure you were,” Rozanov says, his tone still light. “But this is my city, my people. And us Bostonians, we do not always fight fair, no. Not like uptight New Yorkers like you.” His expression hardens as he moves to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Scott, clearly gearing up for a very unfair fight indeed, if the idiot doesn’t back down. 

Kip laughs loudly.

Rich flinches.

“I see you have not recognized my ancient friend here,” Rozanov continues. “So let me introduce you. This is Scott Hunter –”

Rich’s eyes impossibly widen further.

“He is the captain of a pretty good hockey team,” Rozanov says. “Not sure if you have heard of them, though.”

Scott grimaces. Trust Rozanov to be a fucking asshole off the ice too. He coughs. “I think he gets the picture.”

“I do not think he does,” Rozanov says, his words as sharp as glass shards. “Because I am also the captain of a pretty good hockey team – best, actually – and if any of them said what you did, I make them do bag skates until their feet fall off.”

“Jesus, Rozanov,” Scott mutters. “Really?”

Rozanov shrugs. “Management would be annoying if I punched out their lightbulbs instead.”

Behind them, Kip suggests, “You could make it look like an accident.”

Rozanov twists around to see him properly. “Too much work for me. Much rather make them better players and suffer at same time.”

Scott smiles. “Not a bad strategy.”

“Best strategy,” Rozanov corrects, puffing out his chest.

“Oh my god,” a familiar voice says, “I leave you alone for two minutes, and you’re already getting into it with Scott Hunter?” 

They all turn to see Shane Hollander making his way towards them.

“You’re in Boston too?” Kip says, surprised.

“Somebody’s got to kick this guy’s ass tomorrow,” Hollander says as he elbows Rozanov in the ribs. Rozanov dances away, scowling.

“No fucking way,” Rozanov argues at once. “If anybody’s ass is –”

Loudly, Hollander cuts him off, “What are you doing in Boston? You’re not here to see the game, are you?” 

Kip explains, “Spring Break.”

“Sounds like fun?” Hollander says dubiously. “It’s barely spring out there, though.”

“That’s what I keep saying,” Scott says miserably. 

“The power went out in Ilya’s building, so we came to watch the game here where there’s actual heat,” Hollander says, jerking his head towards the screen, where the third period has already started in earnest. “Want to join us?” he asks.

“Oh,” Scott says with a glance at Kip, who shrugs. He looks to Rozanov next, who actually doesn’t look put out at the idea of spending the next forty-five minutes together to wrap the third period and watch the post-game analysis. “Sure.” He turns around to grab his half-empty beer, noting the empty stool next to his. “Where’d that guy go?”

“He fled like scared little mouse as soon as he saw Hollander,” Rozanov says gleefully.

“Who?” Hollander asks as they weave through the tables to a booth along the back wall.

“A homophobe,” Kip explains with a grimace.

“Oh,” Hollander says, his eyes narrowing. He turns to Rozanov. “Did you punch him?”

Scott blinks as Kip lets out a surprised bark of laughter. That was Hollander’s first question? Apparently Rozanov’s allyship is more widely known than Scott thought? Or maybe Rozanov and Hollander are better friends than he thought. After all, they are hanging out the night before a big game where they will face-off for a spot in the playoffs.

“Why do you look to me like that?” Rozanov demands, full of over-the-top offense. “Hunter is right there!”

“Hunter has gotten into three fights this whole season,” Hollander says dryly. “You got into three fights during your last game.”

“Is exaggeration,” Rozanov protests as they sit down.

“Fine. Hunter, what was it?” Hollander asks. “Two fights, right? I was rounding up.”

“Oh my god,” Rozanov groans. “I am surrounded by the most boring hockey players in the league.” He turns to Kip. “You, you seem more exciting. Entertain me.”

“Afraid not,” Kip says sympathetically. “All I’ve done is drag Scott from museum to museum. We did the Paul Revere House this afternoon.”

Rozanov lights up, and Scott inwardly groans. “Ah, looking to relive your childhood, Hunter? Missing the old days before electricity and inside plumbing, eh?”

* * *

To Scott’s infinite irritation and dismay, Kip and Rozanov strike up a friendship after that night in Boston. He’ll hear Kip giggling at his phone, see him lean over the bar to show his screen to Kyle, and then watch as he begrudgingly shows Scott too.

“It’s just because you get in a mood if you know I’m talking to Ilya,” Kip says apologetically after it happens for the fifth time that night.

“I don’t get in a - a ‘mood’!” Scott splutters. Fucking… Ilya.

Kip raises his eyebrows and sips his whiskey sour.

Scott grimaces. “Really?” he huffs out an angry breath. “Of all the guys in the NHL, you had to befriend the one who regularly calls me a dinosaur?”

“Well, yeah,” Kip says like it’s obvious. “Much better than the guys who regularly call you a cocksucker.”

Scott’s frown deepens.

“Hey,” Kip says gently, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard over the music but not loud enough to be overheard. “If it really bothers you, I can stop. But, I have a theory why Rozanov keeps calling you an old man.”

“Because he’s an asshole?” Scott grumbles.

Kip grins. “Oh, sure. But mostly, I think he sticks to it because he knows you’re not that sensitive about it.”

Scott frowns.

Kip sips his whiskey sour. “Rozanov is observant. You’ve said so yourself. He notices everything on the ice, and a decent amount off it.”

Scott just hums.

“If he wanted to poke you where it really hurt, he could,” Kip says seriously. “He’s still never brought up our relationship or your sexuality in his chirps, has he?”

“No,” Scott says begrudgingly.

Kip waves his hand as if saying, there you go.

“I still don’t like him,” Scott says firmly as he takes a bracing pull of his beer.

“Literally nobody is asking you to,” Kip says with a little grin. “But you know me, I can’t resist a messy gay.”

Scott chokes. “Rozanov is not gay.”

Kip stares at him. 

“He’s not!” Scott struggles to find the right words. “He’s just… European.”

Kip has to muffle his loud laughter into Scott’s shoulder. “Sweetheart, I love you, but your gaydar is shit.”

“He’s not gay!” Scott protests. “He’s slept with, like, half the single women in Boston. And a decent amount of the married ones too, if you believe the rumors.”

“Fine,” Kip acknowledges, “he’s bi, then.”

Scott just shakes his head as he takes a long pull of his beer. 

“You’ve really never gotten that vibe from him?” Kip asks curiously.

“No.”

Kip studies him for a long moment. “Bet.”

Scott barks out a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“I bet that Rozanov isn’t as straight as you think,” Kip says confidently.

Scott throws back the rest of his drink. “And what will I get if I win?”

Kip leans in. “I’ll let you buy that new vibrator and keep it in under my clothes at your next game.”

Scott goes furiously red in an instant. “Really?” he breathes.

“Mm hm.”

He pulls back, frowning. “And what do you get if you win?”

Kip taps his chin in thought. “Another daytrip to the Met.” 

As Scott theatrically groans, Kip leans in close. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, his warm breath ghosting against the shell of Scott’s ear. “I’ll bring it there too.”

Scott slaps a hundred dollar bill on the table for their drink and drags a giggling Kip out of the bar. He has a sex toy to buy and a genius boyfriend to fuck within an inch of his life.

* * *

Scott shakes Shane’s hand, saying, “Good game, Hollander.”

Shane makes a face, but he takes Scott’s hand anyway with a forced smile.

The Admirals are heading to the next round in the playoffs, and the Voyageurs aren’t. That has to sting, but Shane doesn’t look nearly as annoyed at the results than he had when he rushed onto the ice, fifteen minutes late for warm ups. He had to know this was a likely outcome, with Pike out with an ankle injury, and Drapeau freshly back from tendon surgery.

While Scott's teammates boisterously troop back to the locker room, his skates back to the front of the line. “Hey,” he says to Shane, “A couple of us are heading to Kingfisher after. Do you want to come?” 

He had a decent time hanging with Shane at that sports bar in Boston. It was basically the first time he’d ever seen Shane loosen up, even though he only drank two ginger ales and had a single sip of vodka that Rozanov insisted on ordering for him. The kid had a crazy high hockey IQ that Scott wouldn’t mind poking at more.

Shane blinks. “Sure? I’ll ask Ilya if he wants to go, if that’s OK.”

Scott doesn’t bother hiding his frown at Rozanov’s name. “He’s here too?”

Shane grins and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “We knocked the Bears out of the playoffs two weeks ago, so I told him to mope around New York instead of moping around Boston for a change.”

Scott grins back. Maybe the loss knocked Rozanov down a peg – but Scott isn’t too hopeful. “Yeah, bring him. I can rub the win in his face too.”

“Only you two,” Shane mutters as he stakes off.

Scott, Carter, Huff, and Kip all troop down the street to the F train, since a car would only get stuck in post-game gridlock traffic all the way to 23rd Street for the next hour. They gamely sign autographs for fans in the subway and pose for selfies until they have to resurface to street level.

Kingfisher patrons all cheer as they walk in, and there is truly no greater feeling in the universe, fresh off a playoff win, his boyfriend plastered to his side, surrounded by his friends.

When Rozanov and Shane arrive, Scott is already two drinks in and chatting loudly with Elena, Kyle, Carter, and Kip at the bar.

“Drinks are on me for the losing team captains,” Scott crows.

Rozanov crosses his arms over his chest and scoffs, “Big words for tipsy gay man.”

Their whole group goes quiet at Rozanov’s threat. Scott sits up on his stool and places one foot on the floor, ready to toss him out onto the street if he needs to. “Hey,” he says in warning, his eyes flashing. “Don’t do that here. Not to me.”

The entire bar seems to hold its breath.

“Is okay,” Rozanov says as he slings an arm around Shane. “My boyfriend is also a gay man, and he will need several drinks before he can fight you again since he is least violent, most boring player in the NHL. You will be on even lawn.”

Scott trips on nothing. Kip snorts into his drink, and Kyle’s mouth falls open. Carter’s eyes have gone as big as the coaster under his beer glass.

Scott’s gaze flits between Shane and Rozanov. Rozanov, sure, he could totally see him pulling a gigantic lie out of his ass like that to fuck with all of them. But Shane, Shane’s a good Canadian boy. Never bad-mouths another team, if he can help it. Never puts down other players or captains, with Rozanov being the notable exception. Doesn’t lie, from what Scott can tell from his numerous interviews.

“Even turf, Ilya,” Shane says into the dead silence. “The idiom is ‘even turf’.”

That’s not a denial about the gay thing.

Rozanov, for his part, looks absolutely thrilled at their reactions. 

Shane turns to Kyle, who has managed to pick his jaw up off the floor, and says, “A ginger ale and whatever your most expensive vodka is for this asshole over here. And he will be paying.”

“No! Hunter just said it is free!”

“I’d be shocked if it was still free for sore losers,” Shane says, his voice as flat as the rink in Madison Square Garden.

“Who is a sore loser here?” Rozanov demands, and his eyes are fucking twinkling. “If anything you are a sore loser after last –”

“Absolutely not,” Shane cuts him off severely. “Do not go there.”

Rozanov’s mouth snaps shut.

“Holy shit,” Carter breathes. “Ilya Rozanov, whipped. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“If anyone could do it, it’s Hollander,” Huff calls from a nearby booth with Eric Bennett.

Rozanov rounds on them. “I am not whipped.”

“Oh yeah?” Scott challenges, enjoying himself now. “You wanna finish that earlier thought?”

Rozanov turns back to Shane, who simply shakes his head. With his mouth set in a mulish grimace, Rozanov knocks back the double vodka Kyle just set down in front of him. 

Scott loses it, ugly cackling like there’s no tomorrow.

Eventually, the shock dies down, and everyone resumes their conversations. Scott finds himself next to Rozanov and Shane after Kip gets up to use the restroom. “Okay,” he says. “I have to ask, how did this happen?”

Rozanov glances at Shane, and Scott truly would never believe Rozanov would ever defer to his career rival about anything, except he’s seeing it in front of his very eyes. “Many years ago,” Rozanov says quietly.

“Holy shit. Before All-Stars – last year’s All-Stars?” Scott amends.

“Way before,” Rozanov supplies as Shane nods. 

“Ilya talked me into coming here tonight,” Shane says as he spins his glass full of Canada Dry between his hands. “He’s been texting Kip for a while, and obviously you’re a good guy, so I knew it would probably be fine. But we’re not ready to do anything official yet,” he says. “This is just… testing the waters.”

“Well, you’re in good company,” Scott says bracingly. “Don’t worry. I’ll text Huff and Carter that this doesn’t get out to the rest of the guys.”

“Please,” Shane says.

Rozanov bumps shoulders with Shane. “I told you it would be alright, котёнок.”

Shane shrugs. “You know me.”

“You worry too much.”

“I do.”

Scott blinks. “I think this is the longest I’ve seen you guys talk without fighting.”

Rozanov grins. “Will not last.”

Shane mutters, “Because you have a pathological need to bait everyone around you.”

“Bait? I do not bait! I just point out totally true facts. Is not my fault my English is not good enough for –” he frowns before he snaps his fingers, “nuance.”

“Uh huh,” Shane says, a small smile playing around his mouth. “But you’re fluent enough to chirp Scott about the details of hip dysplasia.”

Rozanov laughs. “You are jealous because you cannot chirp.”

“I don’t need to chirp,” Shane sniffs. “My playing speaks for itself. Unlike some people’s.”

“Boo,” Rozanov jeers. “You just do not know how to have fun at hockey games. So boring, Hollander.”

Shane rolls his eyes.

“Ilya!”

Rozanov leans back to see Kip waving from the other end of the bar. “Elena actually wants to hear about your ridiculous car collection. What’s the newest one you bought, again?”

Rozanov hops up from his seat like someone lit a fire under his ass, grinning broadly. He takes one step, rethinks it, does a u-turn, presses a kiss to Shane’s cheek, and finally leaves them. 

“Never tell him this,” Scott says in an undertone, “but I think you guys are cute together.”

Shane laughs. “That’s what my mom said after she got over the shock.”

“He’s met your parents?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, smiling at the memory. “After, he said he could see where I get my boring from. He likes my mom, though. But I think that’s just ’cause he’s a little scared of her.”

“Does he call you boring a lot?” Scott asks.

Shane laughs. “About as often as he calls you old.”

Scott leans back in his seat, thoughtfully surveying Rozanov down at the other end of the bar. “So all the time, then.”

“All the time,” Shane echoes with a grin. “But it doesn’t mean anything. Not really. He admires you, you know?”

Scott guffaws. “What? Rozanov, admire me?” he says, incredulous. “Why don’t you pull the other one?”

Shane shakes his head. “When you came out, it changed things for us.”

Scott blinks. Shane did send him that long, very stilted email the day after he came out. Scott figured Hollander did it because he’s a good Canadian boy, and that is what good Canadian boys did. But, sitting in front of Shane now, in a gay bar in New York, that email probably has a lot more between the lines that Scott didn’t pick up on.

Shane stares down at the glass between his hands. “We wouldn’t be coming out to anyone, if you didn’t do it first. So, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Scott says, and the words don’t convey nearly enough weight for all that Shane is telling him.

They each take a drink, and Shane’s shoulders lose some of the tension they’d been carrying ever since Rozanov dropped the ‘boyfriend’ bomb. 

“After you gave that Sports Illustrated interview about coming out,” Shane lowers his voice conspiratorially, “Ilya bought it the next day. Read it twice.”

Scott cracks a disbelieving grin. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” Shane says, shaking his head. “He said it was to improve his English, but then I caught him trying to make that blueberry smoothie you mentioned.”

Scott doubles over laughing. 

Shane sits back in his seat, looking incredibly satisfied with himself.

Scott calls, “Rozanov!” 

Rozanov’s head pops up from where he’s huddled with Kyle, Kip, and Elena. “Eh?” he asks, looking disgruntled at the interruption.

“What’s this I hear about you reading all my interviews? And trying to make my smoothie?”

“What?” Rozanov yelps. “Shane!” he points a finger, looking utterly betrayed as Kip howls with laughter.

Shane raises his eyebrows and lifts his glass in a toast. “You shouldn’t have made me late for warm ups, asshole. I told you, you’d regret it.”

“Wait,” Kip says as he taps Rozanov’s bicep to get his attention. “Is this why you asked how many bananas go into Blue Moon Over Brooklyn as soon as you got my number?”

Rozanov remains haughtily silent.

Holy shit, Scott has never laughed this hard in his life. He is never going to let Rozanov forget a single second of this moment. “Hey, Rozy, I’ll,” he forces out as he gasps for air, “autograph your Sports Illustrated next time I head up to Boston. Anything,” he snickers, “for a fan!”

“I hate you all,” Rozanov declares before he loudly demands another vodka.

Scott lowers his voice and says to Shane, “I don’t know how you do it. With him.” 

“He can be surprisingly sweet,” Shane explains, ducking his head.

Behind Shane, he watches Rozanov, vodka in hand, start towards them. “Is that before or after he calls you boring?”

Shane’s nose scrunches as he thinks. “Kinda in the middle?”

Rozanov arrives and leans in, squeezing into Shane’s personal space. “Is okay, you can keep talking about me.”

“We weren’t talking about you,” Shane denies at once.

Rozanov raises his eyebrows. “What were you talking about then? Bland New Yorker articles? Final question on last night’s Jeopardy?”

“There he goes again,” Scott sighs.

“What?”

“Scott can’t believe my boyfriend calls me boring all the time,” Shane explains.

“Why? Is true?” Rozanov says, puzzled. “You are boring.” He leans in closer. “And beautiful – with beautiful freckles. And second best at hockey in all the league. And, yes, you have weak backhand, but I overlook this because you have the best ass in all of Canada.”

“Man,” Scott marvels as a blushing Shane dodges the messy kiss Rozanov is trying to press to his face, “you are like the king of mixed signals.”

Rozanov shrugs. “I keep things interesting.”

Kip appears at Scott’s elbow and quickly presses himself to Scott’s side. “You sure do, buddy.”

“Hunter, I need fresh air. You come with me,” Rozanov commands. “Kip, tell Shane how to make good smoothies. Shane’s taste like shit.”

“Hey –” Shane starts hotly as Scott protests, “You can’t boss me around like that.” 

Rozanov hums. “I will make it worth your while.”

Scott makes a face. “Gross. No thank you.”

“Not like that,” Rozanov drawls. “What a dirty mind you have, old man.” He turns to Kip, eyebrows raised, like are you hearing this too?

Kip gives Scott a little push off the barstool. What a traitor. 

Scott begrudgingly gets to his feet, telling Rozanov, “Just promise me you’re not going to shove me down a manhole because you’re out of the playoffs.”

“As if you need my help breaking all your fragile knees and hips,” Rozanov says imperiously. “Come.”

Shane opens his mouth. “No –”

“No cigarettes, yes,” Rozanov says impatiently as he ushers Scott out the door with his free hand not clutching his vodka, “I know, Hollander!”

Outside, Scott inhales a deep breath and shoves his hands in the pockets of his light jacket. Summer is coming late to New York.

“Your city still smells like piss,” Rozanov mutters as they lean against a waist-high cement planter full of mostly-alive plants. 

Scott laughs. “Like Boston is any better.”

“At least Dunkin’ smell covers it up.” Rozanov tilts his head upward, studying the star-less sky. Between the light pollution and the clouds, he can’t be looking at anything especially interesting.

“So… why exactly did you drag me over out here?” Scott asks as the seconds of silence tick on. “It can’t be only to badmouth my city.”

Rozanov exhales a deep breath. “Wanted to explain myself. About that magazine.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “It’s not that embarrassing,” he blatantly lies. “Now that I know you’re… you.”

Rozanov huffs an irritated breath. “I read your stupid interview because I wanted to see what you had with Kip. Know what I was missing out on, what could be possible with Shane.”

Oh, fuck. What the hell can Scott possibly say to that?

But Rozanov isn’t done. “Because I want to share stupid things about my lover – probably not his disgusting smoothies since you already did this – but,” he sighs heavily, and Scott, to his horror, actually starts to feel a twinge of sympathy for him, “I cannot tell anybody how he has specific order for putting on his socks every morning. How he can do terrifying wolf bird call.” He takes another pull from his vodka. “How he loves hockey, but how hockey does not seem to love him back enough.”

Scott swallows. Jesus, why did he leave his own drink at the bar? “Do you have any plans to come out?”

The corners of Rozanov’s mouth curl in a sly smile over the rim of his glass. “You are not as stupid as you look.”

“Rozanov.”

He holds up his free hand in a gesture of surrender. “Fine, fine. I will play nice,” he says, nearly gagging on the last two words. “But yes, we do have a plan. Between Yuna and Shane, it has too many steps, but we have a plan.”

Scott exhales a slow breath. “I had a plan too.”

“Yes, yes, everyone and their brother saw the kiss,” Rozanov says impatiently. “I did not know you were such a drama queen.”

“Kissing him after the cup final was not the plan,” Scott says. 

Rozanov straightens, his eyes bright and alert despite all the vodka. “No?”

Scott shakes his head. “I was going to a press junket. Sports Illustrated, Men’s Health, and the like. Maybe a few late night shows.” He shrugs. “But you know what they say about best laid plans.”

“No? I do not?” Rozanov says, brow furrowing. “What is this?”

“Oh,” Scott blinks. “‘Best laid plans’ means that, no matter how well you prepare for something, things can still go off the rails.” He shrugs. “It did for me. After the cup win, when I was surrounded by everyone else’s wives and girlfriends – I just snapped. I couldn’t not celebrate with him, you know?”

Rozanov nods thoughtfully. “Да, I can see that happening for me too.”

“Plans are good, but,” Scott runs a hand through his hair, “if they’re not working, don’t let them limit you.” He gestures to the bar through the front window. “It looks like you’ve got something special with him. Don’t let anyone, including yourselves, put up made up obstacles. God knows, coming out is hard enough without them.”

“Yes, he is very special,” Rozanov says quietly. “And there are many obstacles.”

Scott claps his hand to Rozanov’s shoulder and squeezes. “Come on, you’re a smart guy. You’ve got this. You just have to use that brain of yours for something other than chirping, for once.”

“Fuck that. I can do both.” Rozanov drains his glass. “Is not that easy to get rid of my chirps.”

Scott chuckles. “I figured as much, but an old man can dream.”

“Ha!” Rozanov exclaims, delighted. “You called yourself an old man. Is true!”

“Yeah, yeah, enjoy it now. It’s never happening again.”

Rozanov simply laughs as he tugs Scott back inside Kingfisher, shouting, “Everybody listen up! Hunter just admitted he has two feet in the grave already!”