Chapter Text
New York, January 3, 2017
Scott
There are certain teams that Scott dreads playing against. Hockey is hockey, by and large, and home games always carry a certain comforting air of familiarity in the ice, the fans, the locker rooms, but Scott has found that there are some teams that insist upon themselves to such an oppressive degree that games against them are things to be endured, more than played. Boston, for the last few years, at least, has been one of those teams.
Not for the same reasons as most of the other teams in that category, Scott has to admit. Toronto and Vegas tend to pass slurs around the ice as if they have specific drills for it in practice. Philadelphia and Vancouver forego technique for brute force, embodying the philosophy that it's easier to win hockey games if you've sent a third of the opposing team's starters back down the tunnel with the medical staff. Boston is, admittedly, a physical team, not afraid to check hard and drop gloves, but that's not what Scott hates about them.
No. What Scott dreads about playing against Boston is that he knows he'll be forced to spend the evening face to face with the the League's Number One Pain in the Ass, Ilya Rozanov.
Rozanov is mostly harmless— Scott is fairly certain. If he wracks his brain, he can't recall a single instance of Rozanov resorting to bigotry or the sort of cheap blows that he hears falling from the mouths of other players in the league. He's obnoxious and loud, and his play style is aggressive enough to provoke all but the most level-headed players into the occasional penalty, but Scott has to begrudgingly admit, he hasn't actually seen or heard Rozanov do anything actually malicious.
That doesn't mean he has to like the guy. In fact, it's more than enough grounds to actively dislike him, for exactly 60 regulation minutes, give or take an overtime period three times each year. More, maybe, depending on preseason games, playoffs, and the All-Stars game.
So— fine, Scott can't stand Ilya Rozanov for a grand total of ten or so hours each year. He's able to balance this out by largely not thinking about him for the remainder. He tells himself this as he skates to center ice, preparing for the first puck drop of the night. He doesn't need to worry about Rozanov. While Scott's performance lately has been inconsistent, to say the least, it's not like Rozanov's has been much better. The last few weeks have been— well, disastrous would be harsh, but not totally inaccurate— for the Boston captain. Scott anticipates that he'll be even punchier than normal, full of stupid little chirps, doling out extra checks whenever he thinks he can get away with them.
He skates to center ice and prepares for the drop. He tells himself he's going to ignore Rozanov, he's not going to let him get under his skin. In fact, he won't even acknowledge him across the face off. He gets in position and braces for the first idiotic chirp of the night.
Nothing comes.
Scott glances up, curiosity getting the better of him, and is surprised by what he sees. Rozanov barely looks as if he's even there. His eyes are almost vacant, fixed on the frozen surface between them, his mouth drawn and tense. There's a lack of vitality there that is more unnerving to Scott than anything else would have been; Ilya Rozanov, for all his faults, is nothing on the ice but unapologetically, gregariously alive. Tonight, he seems like a reanimated corpse of himself, acting out the motions of a hockey player long after the soul has left the body.
It's not a great game.
The Admirals manage a win, at 2-1. Scott is responsible for one of the goals, and he can't help but feel an embarrassed sense of relief. It's been a few games since he's put any points up, and he is grateful that at least for one day, the morning pundits won't be going on and on about whether Hunter has lost his edge for good. Although, he can't fully ignore the tiny voice in the back of his head telling him that, had Rozanov been on his game tonight, the scoreboard would probably have looked different.
He doesn't like winning because other guys played like shit. Still, a win is a win.
Scott leaves the rink with every intention of going directly to his apartment, despite Vaughn's half-hearted entreaties that he come out for a few drinks. He and Vaughn both know it's more of a kind gesture rather than a serious invitation. He's tired, they're only three days into the new year, and the clouds above Manhattan are dusting the streets with diesel-scented snow.
Scott makes it into his apartment and drops his bag in the hall. He goes to his kitchen, pours himself a glass of water, and drinks half of it as he paces the apartment, feeling prickly and restless.
He enjoys spending time with his teammates, truly. After ten seasons with the New York Admirals, his teammates have become his brothers. Most of them he even considers friends. But— Scott swallows a large sip of water, wincing at the chill as it hits the back of his throat— there is an undeniable gap that exists between them, a deep, yawning chasm with no way across. On one side stands not just his team, but also the entire league and an army of loud, faceless hockey fans. On the other side, stands Scott.
He can never cross that gap; it's too far to jump. If he tries, if he takes a running start, leaps as hard as he can, his fingertips might brush against the other side before he falls, dashing his body against the unforgiving ground miles below. So he stays planted where he is, separated by inches that feel like miles, while the rest of the world smiles back at him, unaware that the gap even exists.
He sets the glass down on the counter harder than he means to, wincing at the sharp sound. Fuck, he gets miserable around the holidays. None of this even matters, not right now. He still has at least a few years of good hockey ahead of him. He wants to focus on the game, on being the best he can be. The last few weeks notwithstanding, the Admirals have had a strong start to the season, and it's never too early for Scott to begin thinking about playoff chances. He has no time right now to think about sex or romance, so what difference does it make if he's gay?
It doesn't matter if he's gay, because he's not planning on doing anything gay. That's such a small part of who he is, and does he really need to share that with anyone else? His team— his family, they know almost all of him. They know the parts that matter. It's fine if they don't know the rest.
He should go to bed.
He really could use a drink.
Scott mentally runs through a quick inventory; he thinks there's a can or two of beer left in the fridge from the last team gathering he'd hosted shortly before Christmas. And he's fairly certain he's got a bottle of vodka gathering dust in a cabinet.
They aren't particularly appealing options.
The solitude of his apartment has taken on a life of its own, watching him stand tensely in the kitchen. He could use a drink, yes, but more than that, he needs an escape. He needs to not be alone with his thoughts in this fucking fortress of an apartment that he has so carefully edited to present the image of the Scott Hunter the rest of the world knows: the apartment of a comfortably heterosexual man.
He should really go to bed.
Eventually, his feet make the decision for him. He turns and finds himself being carried back out of his apartment, down the elevator, through the lobby, and out into the cold January air. There's a bar a few blocks away— a dive bar that looks like it forgot to go out of business a decade ago, kept afloat by the patronage of a rotating few handfuls of sad fucks nursing glasses of cheap whiskey while a dingy TV alternates between ESPN and Fox News.
Scott isn't too proud to admit that he's counted himself among those sad fucks on more than one occasion over the years. It's a good place to be nobody; despite the sports that play on repeat on the TV, no one has ever approached him with anything remotely resembling recognition.
It's the anonymity that he needs tonight; a place where he can be a nobody while he numbs his brain with alcohol to drown out the silence waiting for him at home. He pulls open the door and steps through it, the stale warmth strangely comforting. He begins to shed his jacket as he scans the room.
It's as he expected. Four, maybe five sets of hunched shoulders are scattered around the bar. The TV shows what scant highlights there were from tonight's game— Scott is frankly surprised they managed to scrape together much of anything for the reel. The footage cuts to four men sitting behind a desk, who begin to express roughly the same sentiment. Scott ignores it, and, beginning to feel assured that he will be able to stew in peace, approaches the bar. He orders a beer, and then, before he can think better of it, a shot of whiskey. He's not much of a drinker during the season, but the holidays seem to get harder every year, and anyway, tomorrow is a day off.
He tosses back the shot, thanks the bartender for the beer, and turns. There are plenty of seats at the bar, but tonight he longs for the dark, sticky comfort of one of the four battered vinyl booths against the far wall. Only one is occupied; perfect. Scott makes a beeline for one of the open ones, when he stops, suddenly, squinting disbelieving eyes at the man scowling down at a mostly-empty rocks glass.
"Rozanov?" he says, almost without meaning to. Surely he's mistaken and will probably be told to fuck off. Or, even more alarmingly, he is correct, and then he is certain to be told to fuck off, and possibly punched in the face. The man shifts, eyes drifting from his drink up to Scott and— well, there's no denying it. The captain of the Boston Raiders is drunk in Scott's neighborhood dive bar.
"Fuck," the response is slow, the delayed reaction of molasses spilling out of a jar carelessly knocked over on the kitchen counter. "I must have overdone it. I have summoned the Ghost of Hockey Past."
Scott could just leave. He could turn on a heel, and leave this drunk asshole to discover on his own what consequences are.
Because he's stupid, though, because he's nothing if not a responsible captain even when the drunken idiot in question isn't even one of his own teammates, and yes, because a small part of him can't help but love a good train wreck when he sees one, he sits down instead.
"You played like shit tonight," he opens with, not trying to hide the smirk on his face. "Pressure of the season getting to you?"
"It must be nice," says Rozanov contemplatively.
"What?"
"Playing hockey without the pressure of any expectations from your fans. They know you are too old to bring them the cup now, so as long as you don't break a hip and die mid-game, they will leave satisfied, yes?"
Oh, well fuck you too. Scott grimaces and makes a noise that he hopes sounds like a laugh.
"Worry about your own fans, Rozanov. I'm sure Boston isn't too thrilled that Hollander's been holding that cup over your head for the past two seasons."
At the mention of the Montreal captain, Rozanov's face does something odd, too quickly for Scott to fully register, but long enough for him to take note of it.
"I don't want to talk about boring fucking Hollander. I will fall asleep on the table right now if you mention him again." Rozanov signals to the bartender, and Scott takes the opportunity to glance around the dingy, largely unoccupied bar.
"You here by yourself?" he asks in what he hopes is a casual tone.
"No, Hunter, I'm here with all of my invisible girlfriends." Rozanov deadpans, spreading his arms out sarcastically.
"Whatever, man." Scott makes a move to stand up, but Rozanov calls towards the bartender.
"Ah, yes, another round for me and another chamomile tea for my elderly friend here."
"It's a fucking lager," protests Scott irritably.
"Whoa, a lager? Slow down Grandpa."
"I'll have another shot, actually" Scott says to the bartender, aware that he's rising to the bait and letting it happen anyway.
"Better. Now, sit and drink. We can be pathetic miserable fucks together."
"Fuck you, who says I'm miserable?" Scott says, bristling at Rozanov's bluntness.
"Oh, is your team invisible too?" Rozanov makes an exaggerated sweeping look around the bar. "Or are you here alone? After a win? At midnight on a Tuesday?"
"I live nearby, I just wanted a drink."
"Ah." Rozanov says, clearly unconvinced. The bartender sets their drinks down on the table in front of them— a tumbler of amber liquid for Rozanov, and a shot for Scott. Rozanov picks up his newly refilled drink from and raises it sarcastically in Scott's direction. "Cheers to your win tonight, Hunter. Who knows? Maybe this will be your year after all."
Ilya
His eyes slide open, feeling as if someone had dusted them lightly with sand the night before. Oh. Fuck. He rolls over and his brain belatedly joins him, roiling like unsecured cargo on a small ship in open waters.
Ilya swallows down a wave of nausea and breathes through the throbbing in his head.
Fuck. Okay.
He is in a hotel room in New York. He played against the Admirals last night. He lost, because he is terrible at hockey these days, because—
Another wave of nausea hits him, this one too strong to hold in. He makes it to the toilet, barely, and as he finishes heaving the sorry contents of his stomach into the bowl, his brain drifts aimlessly, slowly settling into place.
He'd been somewhere… shitty. Some shabby bar somewhere, the kind of place you go to drink to forget about things.
He had wanted to be alone, but… he'd been talking to someone.
Hunter.
Ilya forces his eyes open. He lifts his head from where it was resting on his arm, on the seat of the toilet.
Hunter.
He was drinking with Hunter.
Ilya scans back through the scant memories of the night before. He tries to remember what on earth they could have talked about— it's not like they are friendly, or have anything even remotely in common. They must have talked about hockey. Of course they did— that's the only thing they have in common. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure they did. They definitely talked about the cup, he remembers that.
His stomach continues to twist unhappily around itself as he's met with a new unpleasant realization. He'd been feeling so goddamn pathetic about Hollander, so sad and lonely that he'd accepted attention from Hunter, of all people. On any other day, he would have sent him away with a few sharp edged words. On any other day, he never would have even been in that dump. Ilya slowly settles back, resting his back and head against the bathroom wall, and considers whether this meets the criteria for his own personal rock-bottom.
"Roz? You alive?" The voice came muffled through his hotel room door, but unmistakeably belonged to Marly. Ilya groans and lets his head drop forward, regretting the movement immediately, before reluctantly forcing himself to stand. He shuffles towards the door and pulls it open.
"Marly. If you are not here to kill me, go away."
Marly ignores this and steps into the room, two coffees in his hands. He sets one down on the desk and runs an appraising glance over Ilya. His poker face has always been shit, so Ilya knows he must look as though he spent the night in the dumpster out behind the hotel.
"How ya doin', cap?" he asks, doing a terrible job of sounding casual.
"I feel like I got run over by a fucking cement truck, idiot. What do you want?"
"Yeah," laughs Marly, barely apologetic about it. "You were, uh, pretty out of it last night."
Ilya glares at him murderously.
Marly raises his hands in surrender. "Okay! Sorry! I was just giving you shit," he says, laughing again. "I just figured I'd bring you a coffee. Thought you could use it."
Ilya says nothing, but nods tersely. Marly shifts his weight, then moves towards the door.
"Okay, well, if you're good, I'm going to head out. Coach said to keep an eye on your phone— the snow is worse than we were expecting, it could mess with our flight time."
"Okay. Thank you for coffee."
He closes the door behind Marly and groans. Where the hell is his phone, anyway? He drags a hand across his face and crosses the room to where his clothes from the day before lay in. pile on the floor. He bends down, wincing, and picks up his jeans, fishing the phone out of the pocket. It's dead, of course.
Ilya curses and plugs it in next to the bed, then forces himself back into the bathroom to clean himself up. He emerges ten minutes later, feeling marginally more human, and slowly lowers himself back onto the mattress with his coffee.
He plucks his phone up off the bedside table and groans at the notifications he'd apparently ignored all night long. Slowly, he goes through, dismissing almost all of them. Suddenly, a new message notification pops up at the top of his screen from an unknown number. Against his better judgment, Ilya taps it, and feels his stomach drop again.
Unknown number: hey. This is Scott.
Unknown number: Hunter.
Unknown number: let me know when you get this.
Unknown number: we should really talk about last night.