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Ilya still had three weeks until the season started. He was done with Russia for the year: he spent the summer there, listening to his father’s never-ending rants and Alexei’s insults.
He worried about his father. He hated Russia.
He owed them to be there.
But now he was free, and longing for some fun before he was once again buried between practices and matches. He could go back to the States, of course, go clubbing and find as many pretty girls as he wanted, or he could text a certain Canadian hockey player and ask to meet up. But Ilya wasn’t a love-sick puppy. He wasn’t going to bother Hollander during the break. They had their routine, only meeting up in between matches, and that worked for them. Ilya wasn’t going to ruin that by pushing for more.
But he couldn’t deny that he wanted something different. He had many pretty girls in Russia, and could have many more in the States, but there was the itch he couldn’t quite scratch in either of those places. So he booked a ticket to Spain, where no one cared about hockey or Ilya Rozanov.
Spain was perfect. The sunshine, the thrill of the gay clubs, and the handsome men who didn’t give a fuck about Ilya’s name, slowly washed away Moscow’s greyness that had settled into Ilya’s bones over the past months. He felt himself relax, uncurl a little, and it felt so right. No coaches, no Alexei, no father, just the burn of the alcohol and the weight of the bodies he pushed against the sheets, making them scream some fake name.
He only had two days left, and he wanted to make the most of it. He spent most of the day lying on the beach, the warm sand against his skin, sipping a cocktail. He got a few messages from Jane, mostly about the next season, and Ilya made sure that his replies left Hollander blushing and eager for next season. He loved imagining Hollander all flustered on the other end of the phone, the same way he became almost shy yet oh so eager whenever they fucked.
But Hollander wasn’t here, and Ilya definitely didn’t miss him, not like that, so he decided to go out once more that night, before he returned to the States, the pretty girls and an even prettier boy.
The night started well enough; the music was just loud enough, the club packed with tourists and locals alike, all looking for a quick fuck. Ilya drank, and he danced, and he flirted, truly in his element. The men smiled at him, and he smiled back, free and unbothered by anything else.
Then, he started feeling dizzy. The lights of the club were too bright, the flashing and the sounds suddenly too much. Ilya knew he shouldn’t be drunk yet. He only had three drinks, and he could always handle alcohol. And this didn’t feel like being drunk at all. It was hard to think, to move. The bodies around him pushed and pulled him, and he moved along, but it didn’t feel like he was in control anymore. His heartbeat became so loud, it almost drowned out the music, and there wasn’t enough air in the room. He needed air.
He pushed through the crowd, willing his body to move, step by step, even if his whole body felt so heavy, like he was moving under water.
The air didn’t help. If anything, he felt even more dizzy. Ilya staggered to a wall and immediately keeled over, emptying the contents of his stomach.
“Hey, handsome,” said a voice, and there was a hand on his back, and someone grabbing his ass, feeling him up.
Ilya didn’t like it.
“You don’t look so good,” the voice purred. “Why don’t we go back to your room, have some fun?”
“No...” Ilya muttered.
He didn’t want to have sex now. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep.
“Come on, babe,” the man said, wrapping his arm around Ilya’s shoulder, tugging him up. “Give me your hotel card, okay? We’ll have fun, I promise.”
“No, I don’t want-” Ilya tried to push him away, but he felt so weak.
He wasn’t weak. He couldn’t be. But now he felt so powerless, like the little boy he used to be. Weak. Useless. Easy to hurt.
“No,” he repeated, but he was already being led away, and there was so little struggle left in him.
“He said no, man,” a new voice interrupted.
A familiar one, but Ilya couldn’t figure out whose.
“Fuck off, I know him,” the man replied, and his arm tightened around Ilya.
Ilya wanted to protest. He didn’t know this man. But his tongue didn’t seem to work.
“No, you don’t. So let him go and fuck off,” said the new voice.
There was some back and forth, but Ilya couldn’t focus. His thoughts were all jumbled, a foggy mess. He knew he should say something, or do something, but he was just so tired and dizzy. He just wanted to sleep.
The hands disappeared from his shoulder, and Ilya almost collapsed from the relief, or from the dizziness, he wasn’t sure.
But there was someone to catch him.
“Rozanov, hey, stay with me,” the voice said.
Why did they know his name? No one was supposed to know his name here.
Ilya forced himself to look up.
He blinked. And he blinked again. Was he hallucinating now?
Because why else would Scott Hunter be outside of a gay club in Spain, saving Ilya?
“Shit, Rozanov, I should take you to a hospital. You look horrible.”
“No hospital,” he mumbled.
Hospitals meant questions. It meant calls to his emergency contacts. A call to his coach. A call to Moscow.
“Please,” he added, and that seemed to decide it for Hunter.
“Come on,” he said, and it sounded so gentle that Ilya wanted to cry. “We’re going back to my hotel room.”
Ilya didn’t remember how they got to Scott’s hotel. He didn’t remember much of the rest of that night. Just flashes and glimpses. Him, bent over the toilet, dry heaving because he had already vomited up everything hours ago, Scott holding him up. Hunter forcing him to drink water, talking to him. He remembered calling for his mama, and Hunter looking confused and worried, as he tucked Ilya into bed, making him rest.
He remembered being afraid, but not being able to figure out why he should worry about Hunter.
***
Ilya woke up. He felt like shit, like the worst hangover ever. He sat up, groaning, and he froze. He wasn’t in his room.
The events of last night flooded him at once, or at least the bits and pieces he did remember. The club. Feeling the worst he had ever felt. The pushy guy, trying to take him back to the hotel. Scott Hunter.
Scott fucking Hunter.
“You’re not dead,” said Hunter, and Ilya flinched at the sudden new voice. “You had me worried there, Rozanov. Here, drink this,” he said, passing a water bottle to him.
He looked worried. Worried was better than disgusted or angry, Ilya decided as he chugged the water.
“Hunter,” he croaked once he was done drinking.
His voice sounded like shit, his throat sore and painful from all the vomiting.
“I owe you. Thanks for...” Ilya trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.
“Don’t mention it,” Hunter shrugged.
It kind of annoyed Ilya how decent he was acting.
“You were roofied and pretty out of it. You need to be more careful, Rozanov. This is dangerous,” Hunter said, and Ilya instantly knew he didn’t just mean date rape drugs.
Ilya’s back straightened, and suddenly he felt hyper aware. Hunter knew. Hunter knew, and Ilya was at his mercy. He didn’t like the feeling.
“Hunter. You can’t tell anyone, yes? I...Russia. They do not like this. They would...”
Maybe Hunter didn’t care about Ilya’s career, but he could be persuaded if it were his life that was in danger.
“They would hurt me. Or worse. Please,” he hated the way his voice sounded a little too close to begging.
Scott looked a little sick.
“I wouldn’t. I won’t. It would be kind of hard to explain, anyway. Hey, I saw Rozanov outside of a gay club I also happened to be partying at? I don’t think the MLH would be real happy with me either.”
Ilya was at a loss for words, which didn’t happen often. Scott Hunter, partying at a gay club. In Spain. Alone.
“You’re gay,” he blurted.
“I thought that was kinda obvious by now,” Hunter said, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “I’m gay. You’re gay. Neither of us will say a word to anyone.”
“I’m not gay,” Ilya corrected him automatically.
“Sure, Rozanov,” Hunter rolled his eyes.
“I’m...how you say...I like both. Bisexual, yes?”
“Oh,” Scott said. “That...makes sense. With your reputation.”
“Yes,” Ilya nodded. “It is...easier, with women.”
He sometimes wished he could be content with only women. It would be so much easier. No sneaking around. No fake names. No thinking about freckles he could never kiss in public. No ending up in Scott Hunter’s room after getting roofied at a gay club.
“Lucky you,” Hunter murmured under his breath.
“I live up to my reputation, yes. But it seems the virgin rumors about you aren’t true, Hunter.”
That earned him a laugh.
“They still say that? God, they would sooner assume anything than a player not being straight.”
“I never believed. I only said that maybe with your old age, you got impotent.” Ilya grinned.
“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Hunter laughed, and there was no heat behind his words. “I fuck plenty during the summer.”
“Oh, real shame we didn’t meet before I got drugged. You could have showed me your skills,” Ilya wiggled his eyebrow.
Now that the tension was broken, it felt easier to joke.
“I would rather fuck a boiling pot of water than you, Rozanov,” Scott looked disgusted.
“You clearly have shit taste then.”
Hunter laughed, loud and happy, something Ilya had never heard him do before.
“Fuck, this feels good. I’ve never....Never really talked about this with anyone.”
That sounded...lonely. Ilya knew lonely. He knew secrets. But at least he had Svetlana. And maybe Hollander, too. Who did Hunter have?
“Do you think there are others in the league?” Hunter went on, not noticing Ilya’s change of mood. “I know that statistically there should be, but before yesterday, it felt like it was only me.”
Ilya thought of Shane Hollander. The way he also hid. How scared he was. Maybe it would help if he knew about Hunter. But this wasn’t Ilya’s secret to tell. So he just shrugged.
“Maybe. Probably. No one says anything, so hard to tell.”
“Yeah,” Scott nodded. “You're right. Not like we can be open. Hockey or men, I guess. Never both.”
This laugh wasn't happy at all. Ilya didn't like it.
“Give me your number,” Ilya said, driven by a sudden impulse.
When Scott hesitated, he just rolled his eyes, grabbing the phone from the other man’s hand.
“Relax, Hunter. I promise I won’t try to seduce you. You're too old for me anyway. I would be like opposite of pedofile.”
“You do know that I’m barely older than you, right?”
“You're practically ancient. Here,” Ilya handed his phone back. “Now you can text me. We can speculate who is gay in the MLH. I’ll help you find a pretty boyfriend to take care of you in your old age.”
Scott seemed a bit stunned, looking at his phone as Ilya gathered his things. He still felt like shit, but he had a flight to catch.
“I have to go. Plane going soon. But Hunter, how you say, don’t be strange, yes?”
“Don’t be a stranger, you mean.”
“That, yes. You save me, now I need to return the favor.”
“I don’t need saving, Rozanov,” Scott rolled his eyes, but there was something in his eyes.
Loneliness. Hope. Longing.
“Sure you do. So text me. We can make gay group chat.”
“It would be a very small chat with only the two of us.”
“Maybe soon bigger. We’ll see.”
“Take care, Rozanov,” Hunter said, and he seemed to mean it.
“You’re not my grandmother, Hunter, even if you’re same age,” Ilya quipped back, but then he added, in a more serious voice. “Thank you. I will not forget.”
And he didn’t.
Ilya was loyal to his friends. And Scott Hunter definitely became a friend that night.
Now he just had to figure out if he was allowed to tell Jane about this.