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The only difference between drag and kayfabe, in Kip's mind, was that Middle America was fine with one of them.
The only difference between kayfabe and whatever the fuck was going on in hockey was that wrestlers at least knew what they were doing was pretend. That everyone was pretending.
Obviously, he knew there was a difference between his fiancé Scott, who didn't understand abstract art and slept with the same flat pillow he'd had since his rookie season, and Scott Hunter, Captain America and one of the best hockey players in North America.
Scott knew the difference too. Called it brand image, with a shrug, like he didn't really care enough to understand the nuance even as he was complaining about the comments his agent was making about the current shift to his. Like it was much more important that he press his crooked nose into the meat of Kip's thigh and distract him from the grading he was supposed to be doing for the course he was graduate assistant for.
Synonyms, alternate search terms, variations of key words to plug into a research database.
Something he should be doing right now, instead of standing at some stupid hockey event wearing a suit that cost more than his last tuition payment. But Scott had asked if he'd be his plus one, promised that this one might be a little fun, said it with that look on his face that Kip is helpless to resist that also meant he was lying.
And if he's honest, Kip hasn't even run his current dissertation idea by his primary advisor yet, probably best not to fall too far down the research rabbit hole. Even if a night with JSTOR sounds more appealing than this.
The black and white theme feels cliche; and, while the cut of his jacket and the fit of his pants have definitely improved, Kip kind of hates that he's in a boring tuxedo like every guy he's mocked on the MET gala red carpet. Scott's hand is in his, warm and relaxed, the entire time they walk down photo alley. Reporters snap pictures of the famous and semi-famous coming to this thing, and Scott Hunter has his shoulders drawn back and his face the same impassive mask it always is in press photos.
Scott and Scott Hunter separated by an elbow joint.
Kip does his best to smile, knowing Kyle and Elena will give him hell when the photos hit Twitter if he doesn't.
Kyle will probably give him hell anyway out of jealous spite, like it's his fault Carter is king ally but not actually interested in men.
The carpet not being red feels like a missed opportunity, but the black fits the theme well. It is a hockey event, in the end, and while Scott and his ilk have the type of fame that's resulted in Kip getting offered money to do brand deals on his Instagram now, this isn't the type of event that will have real celebrities in attendance — sorry Scotty.
Which, he realizes might just make them the most interesting thing in the room. (Somehow, even though it's been nearly a full season since Scott came out and Rozanov has since revealed he's entertaining offers as a free agent).
The tablecloths are bone white, the centerpieces garish with hockey accents tucked in among flowers that don't smell right, and if the chandelier is original to the building — and not something that was added to the room to make the venue look more expensive in photos — Kip will drop out and commit to being a full time WAG.
"I love you," Scott whispers in his ear as Scott Hunter's free hand waves at someone neither of them like that's standing across the room.
Kip doesn't get the chance to accuse him of really bringing him along so he has a shield before the event coordinator is coming up to them. Shield or arm candy, imperfect synonyms that either way mean Kip doesn't really have to listen as she simpers at Scott while unsubtly checking both their hands for rings.
"All three of the top point scorers at our little event." This little event was $500 a plate, Kip thinks. Tilting his head to see if Scott agrees, he realizes what the first half of her sentence implies. Scott's eyes are darting through the crowd like they do on the ice as he looks for Hollander and Rozanov.
"It's for such a good cause," Kip offers, trusting Scott's judgment even as he's doubting his communication skills once more.
"Isn't it! There's a silent auction down the hall as well, you're an artist hopefully you'll be impressed by what we've managed to scrape together."
He doesn’t bother correcting the misconception, just like he doesn't bother telling her he's never once seen art at a silent auction worth more than the player merchandise beside it.
"I've got to circulate, but Mr. Hunter don't slip out before I've gotten a picture with all of our special guests."
Scott's smile doesn't meet his eyes, but his preference for death over a photo with Rozanov does. Kip gives his hand a squeeze, letting Scott interpret what he will from the gesture. Comfort, a reminder to stop being such a big baby about someone who's basically an annoying colleague, whatever.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"There goes our chance for an Irish goodbye," Kip jokes. Which he thinks sounds slightly better than 'how can you live in New York this long and still get pushed around like that, you play fucking hockey for god's sake.'
"Pretty sure only one of us is Irish, or have you changed your stance on DNA testing?"
"I have not."
There's a sparkle in Scott's eyes when he knows he's being charming, a quirk to his lip as he smirks. A shame Kip can barely appreciate how hot his fiancé is when he can feel the press of eyes giving way to people actually starting to encroach on their space.
"If things get crazy," Scott says, "you should go find Hollander."
"Crazy? Are you expecting a Walking Dead scenario to break out at this very nice charity dinner? Is Shane Hollander going to defend me with his rugged Canadian survival instincts?"
"He strikes me as a Boy Scout. Do they have those up there?"
"He looks like he would break into hives getting on the subway. He would probably apologize if he were being mugged." Kip does mentally note a small amount of irony in saying this to Scott who has yet to realize he avoided the same fate by telling the guy who approached them, 'no, thank you,' while walking away.
"Hollander is the kind of guy media people on other teams brag about. We had to watch a sample interview from him at our last press training day. He usually keeps to the edges of these kind of things. And he's kind of boring, nice, but he's not the kind of guy people loiter around."
True to his description, Hollander is off to the side when Kip's wandering eyes find him. In his all black suit, shirt buttoned up to the throat, he looks more vigilante than wallflower. Silver glints where there would be a tie and another flash is hanging from his pocket. His mouth rests in a flat line and his eyes trail across the crowd, darting between people with the certainty of someone who isn't finding exactly what they're looking for. His hand comes up to fuss with his hair, another bit of silver at the cuff, but that's less interesting than what his hands are fiddling with. Hockey player hair is always interesting, hidden away in helmets and sweat flattened in interviews. Hollander's curls just around his forehead, he may not agree, but Kip understands why Scott wasn't the one winning the 'hottest player in the league' votes.
Scott is still talking and Kip does his best to make it seem like he was, in fact, listening this whole time. "Especially if Rozanov comes up to bother you, he's been weirdly supportive in his own way. Running his mouth about stupid shit and the timing of that check on Kent is too weird to be coincidence; but he's an asshole and I don't trust him."
"You don't think I can handle myself?"
"You shouldn't have to." The earnestness is breathtaking, and does nothing to assuage Kip's near certain belief that Scott is still holding onto some guilt about putting them both in the closet.
"I won't let myself be cornered by any dangerous men," he teases.
More than he can say for Hollander, though he doesn't say that to Scott.
Rozanov looks every bit Hollander's opposite as he approaches him from the side. The blonde curls and the drapey, white, silk shirt would be just as at home on a Renaissance cherub as on the Russian terror smiling at his rival. They're standing too close for polite company, but the looks on their faces say whatever they're talking about isn't polite. Rozanov, all but plastered to Hollander's back whispers something that leaves Hollander grinning, sharp and mean. When he turns his head to answer his lips brush the edge of Rozanov's chin with every word.
"He's mostly a danger to your sanity," Scott adds.
"And this semester has left me with so little already."
The two of them are leaving him with even less. They're striking together, an exercise in beautiful opposites. Even with the cracks in the picture perfect mask of Hollander's public persona that Kip has in fact seen, he's still got a stony sharpness that clings to his features. He curls back into Rozanov's space as much as the other clings to his. Kip knows catty and whatever Hollander must have said into the bitable skin at Rozanov's neck must have been borderline shade if the dimpling grin that spreads across his rival's face is any indication.
"I just hope she waits 'til the end of this thing for that picture. Once those two start chirping they don't stop."
Somewhere between 'getting cornered by a former Senator's nephew, turned app designer who wanted start-up funds for his app for people willing to date closeted athletes' and 'getting grabbed by a woman who had refused to introduce herself beyond a coy, "stop joking I know you've seen my podcast" when Kip had bitten the bullet to ask', a drink became the only thing on Kip's mind.
And somewhere between forcing a smile for the couple taking full advantage of the open bar and patiently waiting for the bartender to pretend he wasn't googling how to make an old fashioned, Kip loses Scott in a sea of identical black men's wear.
A quick scan of the room leaves him with nothing but the certainty that half the men here are wearing lifts — how the fuck else does over six feet of hockey player vanish — and a glimpse of Captain Canuck instead of Captain America. Dinner service is supposed to start sometime in the next ten minutes, while Kip doubts that happens, he isn't surprised Shane is currently pinned in between his assigned table, his seat, and Mystery Podcast Host. He looks torn between regret and skipping overpriced chicken in favor of chewing his own arm off, right above where it's being grabbed by his captor, a look Kip had previously only seen on subway rats.
And Scott said he should hide with Hollander.
The annoyed look Scott will get on his face when they debrief about the night, the one where his mouth pulls flat and tight at the edges as he tries not to smile, and Kip tells him about this is all the incentive he needs to go play hero. (Should they try role play again?)
It isn't hard to cut through the room now that he's free of his date. Without the role of arm candy, it's like the people at these events can sense the class disparity. When the only attention he gets are the fleeting glances of people looking for canapes instead of conversational hostages, he makes it to Hollander long before he thinks of a plan.
Or really a reason to be at this table at all.
When in doubt, drunk girl gay rescuer is usually a safe routine.
"Shane!" It's only through the benefit of accidental voyeurism and seeing how Shane was standing before he heard his name called again, that Kip can see how this has somehow drawn the man even tighter. Mounties would weep at the iron line of his spine and shoulders; if Hollander has all his original teeth, and hasn't ground them down into stressed out nubs, it has to be because he lives in his mouth guard.
He's been to funerals where the corpse has had a more convincing smile than the one Shane is now turning on him, rictus and painful. The whole rivals thing was already pure marketing scheme in Kip's mind; but the difference between the Shane he saw with Rozanov, and the Shane Hollander who is trying to look like he isn't frantically trying to figure out if he should know the person calling his name, confirms it in billboard sized font.
Then, maybe more surprising than getting kissed at the playoff finals, Shane relaxes. Minutely, back to something that makes Kip wish he had a prescription pad or at least some of the Xanax he'd gotten a hold of senior year, but it feels like a win all the same.
"Kip," his smile is slight but it warms his eyes, "so good to see you again."
If the surprise that Shane Hollander knows his name shows on his face it wouldn't matter because the woman doesn't bother looking away from Shane. He continues speaking, giving Kip even longer to save face, "Have you two met? Kip this is…"
"We met earlier." She interrupts.
"Well in that case, you could leave us to catch up. They'll be telling us to go to our seats soon and I didn't see your name here."
Years of wait staffing at events like this one and hearing batshit things from batshit people, keeps Kip's face schooled in the same polite, excited-to-see-my-friend again smile that he had when he walked up to Hollander. Because either the man does already know this woman or that was a crazy shot called by an athlete known for taking zero chances just about anywhere.
"I'm sitting near Ilya Rozanov," Podcast Woman agrees. Her face doesn't change but still somehow manages to take on the look of someone who knows they're getting laid later. "I hear he's an easy number to get, maybe for more than just an interview."
"Good luck." Kip says, Shane's stony silence says more.
She's barely turned before he sneers at her back. "I hope he spills her wine down her ugly dress."
"You know her well enough to sick your rival on her?"
His gaze softens, the difference between trying to kill Podcast Woman with his mind and trying to manifest her falling and breaking her neck. "I have no clue who she is. When I asked she laughed and said pretending wasn't going to get me out of an interview."
"Oh wow."
"I told her all interview requests had to go through my team and she asked why I never tell jokes when I'm talking with media. Do you have any idea who she was?"
Kip laughs, "Not a fucking clue."
Shane Hollander has a nice smile. It sounds dumb in his head, since even before Scott got him back into hockey he, and every other breathing person in the world, has seen Shane Hollander on a billboard at some point. But the tiny uptick at the corner of his mouth feels devastatingly real in a way that makes Kip's palms sweat. He's a once in a generation player and the weight of his attention is intense in a way that Vaughn's bright smile or Bennett's steady presence very much aren't.
"Sorry I'm being rude." Shane says like reflex, continuing before anyone can say anything, "It's nice to meet you for the first time, Kip. I feel like I've already revealed that I've read all the interviews Scott's done about you."
"It's nice to be recognized, makes me feel like a celebrity."
"You're a student though, right?" Shane says with a certainty that implies he already knows. "What's your dissertation on?"
"Oh nothing yet, really."
"But you have an idea."
"Sort of." Kip is well aware that this is a social nicety, the kind he gets regularly when the only thing he's really known for is being Scott Hunter's scholarly beau. He also knows that anyone not in academia likes to ask the question, and when they're given the answer he gets to watch as their eyes slowly glaze over with thoughts of why did I bother asking? and what should I make for dinner tonight?
Sometimes he's willing to engage with that, sometimes he appreciates that no one is really that interested in him beyond his spectacle and brushes off their obligatory pushing.
But for some reason, Shane Hollander isn't taking his cue to move on to what he really wants to know. Kip's non-answer has long fallen from the air and left only an awkwardly stretching silence as Shane just keeps staring, waiting for the answer to his polite, not-really-a question.
Leaving Kip no choice but to say, "I haven't cleared anything with my advisor, but I'm interested in the commodification of minority identity in the modern art space."
Shane tilts his head to the side, face placid but a spark of something in his eyes, and somehow Kip thinks he's watching performed politeness fracture into genuine interest. "How does that overlap with advertisements? Or is the commodity the artist and not the art? Not that ads are necessarily art…"
It is charming how much he sounds like every art undergrad the first time they disagree with a professor, "It's an interesting facet of the concept, I'm sure you're familiar with it on that side of things. I can only imagine."
"It's something I let my team handle, that's one of the perks of a momager, I guess, I trust her to determine what parts of me are for sale."
The blunt candor of the response shocks Kip so much he doesn't know how to respond. Maybe he's a little guilty of falling for the mask too, there's a sharpness to Canada's Golden Boy that he hadn't expected. It's tempered by the blush that rises to his face when the silence stretches out in front of them.
"Sorry," he says, "that must be like the equivalent of people coming up to me to talk hockey strategy at these things."
"Well, I wasn't going to say it." Kip teases, watching with a kind of glee as that blush deepens just a bit. "No, it was an interesting insight, I appreciate it. But that does let me change the topic without seeming like such a dick."
He waits for acknowledgement, barely a tip of Shane's head, before he asks, "Neither of you have anymore games against the Admirals this season, what are you doing here?"
The grin that cuts across his face is black cat sly and much closer to the Shane that had been hiding in the corner with Rozanov. "Ilya and I are starting a charity this summer. We've been trying to make more appearances at events like these this season, change the narrative from rivals to friends. And it helps us decide what we don't want to do."
There's a curl to his nose as he says it, looking around the room at what is currently on display. A laugh bubbles out of Kip, delighted that it turns out Shane Hollander is kind of a bitch. "The all black makes sense, this is espionage."
"That's the same thing Ilya said."
Half-masked, and with Shane's dry tone, it's hard to be sure; but Kip is pretty certain that's meant to imply a bit more about Ilya than what he said.
"Hollander," the man himself wanders over to them now, "so rude of you to start pretty boy club meeting without me, will have to regroup after we go take a picture for organizer with bad taste."
Shane's mask has melted by degrees, an unabashed fondness plain as he looks at Rozanov when he says, "It was nice to meet you in person, Kip."
"Likewise," he says for politeness more than any misconstrued idea that he's actually being listened to anymore. Not when the two are already bickering on their way over to where Scott and the organizer are waiting.
Somehow, despite attendance at the event being enough for twenty, large tables to be arranged in a semi-circle around the checkered dance floor, Scott and Kip ended up placed between the one that held Shane and the one that held Rozanov. The off-center spacing of the tables, and the arrangement of their seats, putting Kip in the perfect position to watch both Shane and Rozanov's faces as a broad sweep of a hand smacks into a wine glass. Rozanov has the reflexes of an athlete. He catches it just slow enough that it sloshes over the rim and into the lap of Podcast Woman.
Kip grabs Scott's thigh as he watches Shane lick his lips before tucking his smile back between his teeth. Rozanov meets Shane's eyes from across the room, heated and promising something. Kip feels crazy looking at it being reminded of the tension of their face offs. Shane's eyes drop back to the bland chicken on his plate, and Kip is ready to write this off as a figment of his imagination, when Rozanov catches his eye now and winks.
Scott is going to have five tiny bruises on his thigh. But that doesn't seem to bother him. "Everything okay?"
Rozanov has already returned to his story, Podcast Woman has disappeared somewhere. There's really no way to explain what's going on without sounding insane.
"Just wondering what the bathroom situation is like here. Think anyone would miss us?
The soft drop of Scott's mouth and the flush of embarrassed desire are doing nothing to stymie the feelings hockey's greatest rivals have jump-started for Kip. He hasn't snuck off for a bathroom quickie since undergrad.
"What did you have in mind?"
Nothing crazier than anything else that had happened so far that evening.
Running his hands down his sides, around his hips, Kip is making sure his shirt doesn't look like it's just spent fifteen minutes shoved under his armpits when he hears them announce that the silent auction will remain open for another hour.
Even better than staggering their exits from the bathroom is returning to completely different parts of the event.
The art scattered between memorabilia is exactly what he expected it to be. Bland, inoffensive art pieces that home decorators pick out for single hockey players who have just gotten their first big payout and need to show it off in how they live. It's the kind of art that gets donated the moment that player has a WAG with, if not taste, a new vision for how their house should be laid out; and the art rarely fits the design scheme. It's the kind of art that is now valuable not because of what it is, or who painted it, but the provenance it now has. Even that value only exists on tables like this. That this banal still-life once hung in the home of a middling, third-line defender from New Jersey is only a selling point to anyone who knows who the hell Smithy even is.
It won't hold value. Unlike the stick signed by both Hollander and Rozanov that's sitting right beside it.
He feels, more than sees, someone come up beside him as he's looking over the, frankly, eye watering amount the stick has been pushed up to. The painting beside it hasn't even had an offer beyond the opening suggested bid, and Scott may be the one at the bar right now but Kip isn't exactly sober.
"Do you think they extended the auction because they're hoping some of this ugly shit gets bid on now that only billionaires and the financially insane can afford the phallic representation of hockey's least believable rivalry?"
The laugh he gets is a surprise.
The comment was meant to be funny, to the three people who think he is — none of whom are here — and to alienate anyone else; it's late and he's tired of playing show-pony. The deep chuckle is amused and coming from someone still standing close enough that a conversation is going to follow.
He cuts his eyes down first, but it doesn't take much more than a glance at the wide-cut, white trousers to know who it is.
And when he's turned enough to make eye contact, Ilya Rozanov is looking back. "You are the smart one, Kip Grady, I can tell. Questionable taste though."
"How do you figure?"
He shrugs, a smirk on his face, "The boyfriend, the suit. Scott Hunter knows the depression is over, yes? He doesn't have to… what is it, pinch pennies? And anyway he survived the asteroid that killed his comrades surely a little recession he can survive on his salary."
"Maybe he keeps me plain on purpose, so no robber baron tries to steal me away."
"This is the," he mimes, like he's twirling a mustache, charmed grin on his face, "with the train tracks, yes?"
"Any scoundrel," Rozanov's brow furrows just enough that Kip realizes that might not be a word he's come across before, "villain, or ne'er-do-well really. He doesn't like to share."
"A shame we did not meet earlier, I love playing the bad guy with pretty partner."
"You think I'm pretty? What a compliment from a man with six teeth that aren't his."
"They are so mine, paid good money for those teeth. They are even in my head not in ortodonticheskiy reteyner like some people."
"I wouldn't know."
"Dentures all come out, yes? Must be one perk of dating senior citizen." His eyebrows waggle, but unlike some of the players Kip has interacted with he doesn't go any further with the imagery.
"Wouldn't you like to know."
A look of consideration flickers across Rozanov's face before it settles into something performatively despondent. "Ah but we never will know. My lover they are the jealous type will probably sense we are having this conversation."
"Love a jealous guy."
"Scott Hunter marks you up?" Ilya asks, a naked curiosity on his face.
"Wouldn't you like to know." Kip repeats.
"Don't be so stingy, I tell you about the gifts my jealous Jane leaves." The name is the only place his accent slurs dragging the starting sound out into something less alliterative and more damning.
And for the first time ever at one of these events, he's upset when he hears the sound of Scott approaching. "Please don't tell me you've already bid on something. I didn't give you my paddle number, you always say you hate everything at these things."
Rozanov stays quiet at Kip's other side, out of character enough it seems to help him go unnoticed by Scott.
"Why would I need your number? I have my own."
"Kip, please, I get enough shit from the guys that you're paying your own tuition. Let me get this for you."
"Why would your boyfriend want Smithy's ugly castoffs?" Rozanov interrupts before Kip has the chance to dig his teeth into the college argument again. Scott startles beside him and a hardened Hunter expression takes over, like Rozanov has tapped his stick on the ice before a face-off.
Like a face-off, Rozanov keeps going. "The team doctors should use this as proof he is blind, finally get him off ice for good."
"What do you know about art, Rozanov?"
"Enough to know your boyfriend was looking at my stick."
Put him on the first line, his reflexes are sharper than the fucker in Toronto. He's got a hand pressed firmly against Scott's chest before he can finish taking a step toward Rozanov. The smug grin on his face directed at Scott says the phrasing was deliberate and just the beginning.
Kip can see the quip poised at the end of Rozanov's tongue, the one that's going to put an unpleasant end to this night when something worse happens.
"Ilya, I know its you running that bet up. I don't know why, I make more than you."
Scott gets proved right.
There's no other word for what happens, Ilya melts. And that's who the man standing next to him is now, Ilya. All of the antagony flees his face and all that is left is something soppy and happy. Grinning as Shane takes his side, it turns out Shane Hollander really is the person Kip needed to save the day.
"Yes, yes, Mr. Rolex with the diversified portfolio." Ilya says through a smile that can only be called besotted.
To a man wearing an expression Kip has only seen on YouTube clips of kittens hissing in bathroom corners. "If you'd changed agents when I told you to."
"I know, dorogoy."
"I'm just saying if you're going to dress like a Slavic fuckboy all the time you should at least get paid for it."
He can feel Scott startle at the words, but Kip doesn't dare look away from the show to see what's happening on his fiancé's face. Maybe those would be fighting words from someone else, or on the ice, but Ilya looks flustered and delighted. The white of his outfit bringing out the pink on his face. "Put the claws away kotonok, you know it gets me hot. We're with company."
"It's just Scott and Kip." Shane says with barely a flick of his eyes in their direction.
"Oh just Scott?" Ilya challenges.
"Is like mating call."
"That accent is horrible." Ilya looks delighted. Face stretched into a smile so wide it must hurt. It's the familiar kind of flirting, retreading old arguments to make the other person smile.
"What is happening?" Scott asks. He's still against Kip's hand and a quick glance back reveals eyes darting back and forth between the pair opposite them, like Scott is going to be held personally responsible for throwing them in the sin bin if they step a toe out of line.
And this is his line, arriving so perfectly Kip wonders if it's possible that Shane Hollander scripted this. "They're starting a charity."
"Is that a… A..?"
Hockey's greatest rivals speak at the same time.
"Euphemism." Ilya offers.
"Double entendre." Shane supplies.
"Oh, French!"
Shane scoffs. "Barely. Which you would know if you learned from St. Simon instead of Marley."
"Bah." Ilya swipes away Shane's concern with a dramatic wave of his hand. The fact that it conveniently puts his arm around Shane's shoulder, Kip is sure isn't coincidence.
"Just saying you might know more than ménage à trois."
Ilya rolls his eyes, "I know as much French as you do Russian."
"And why the hell is Marley teaching you zhestche, pozhaluysta?"
The force of Shane's deadpan look and flat toned question leave Ilya backtracking, "Maybe your Russian is better."
"Fucking better be."
"Who are you?" Scott asks with a disbelief that is maybe warranted but still a little overwrought.
"Tch it is hard when they are sun downing," Ilya says, "I have advise if you need Kip."
"Fuck off, I'm serious."
He is, is the worst part. Scott is sweet but when he's flustered he never does get a joke.
"It's Rozanov and Hollander, grandpa, you remember."
Shane barely has to move the arm that's tucked in against Ilya's side to smack him in the chest. It would look like a reprimand if not for the smile just barely hinted on his face. "Remind him we were the rookies that broke his shot accuracy record."
"Oh yes, good." Ilya uses his arm to pull Shane in just a little closer.
But Scott isn't having it. "No, seriously what the fuck is happening? Is this-? You hate each other?"
The two turn inward, barely a shift of their shoulders angling themselves away from everyone else and toward each other. A huddle doing its best to avoid the outward appearance of one. Shane asking in a whisper too biting to actually be quiet. "I thought you said you talked to him?"
"I thought you said he already knew?"
"I'm starting to think I maybe over-reacted."
Ilya's eyebrows climb to his hairline, delight plain on his features, "Shane Hollander? Over reacting? To simple comment and blowing it way out of-?"
"Proportion and fuck you, not even close to equivalent situations." Shane's scowl is performative at best as he once again swipes at Ilya.
"Seriously, if this is some homophobic long game." Scott doesn't raise his voice, but his tone is unmistakably one that belongs on the ice, it's a warning from one captain to two others.
Kip had been content to sit back and watch the two of them go back and forth like a cattier Abbott and Costello where Scott is playing the ironic straight man against them. Now, he realizes he maybe missed his cue.
It is harder to read Captain Hunter than it is Scott, and the comment that Kip should have interrupted has snapped something closed in Hollander's face. The Rozanov in front of them, and there is no mistaking that this is Rozanov and not Ilya, has a sneer half-curled on his face. Kip could understand how facing off against this four times a year might have made Scott nervous when thinking about him meeting Kip.
This is what happens when not everyone realizes that they're just playing pretend. How three adult men have managed to make it this long, in a career that makes a very big deal around people getting shuffled between teams, while still believing that the people opposite them are who they play in the media is astounding.
The Scott Hunter whose after-game press Kip watches behind the bar resembles his fiancé as closely as the one getting railed by Bennett in the fanfiction Kyle sends him.
Which, as someone with a minimal number of traumatic brain injuries and an ounce of critical thinking, he'd thought it had been clear that this was the case for Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov as well.
But like every TA with an ounce of optimism, an 8AM class, and a few too many required readings, he has over-estimated the audience in front of him. Which means it's time to provide some guidance.
So with his hand pressed more firmly against his fiancé's chest he takes his cue to guide the conversation where the students need it led. "You'll have to excuse him, despite several marathons he still struggles to notice drag when he sees it."
"Ah yes, I am a Bianca Del Rio so you understand why your boyfriend and his delicate feelings don't like me." Rozanov softens but he hasn't fully thawed. Kip will credit that to the stiff, blank-faced way Hollander is still standing under his arm.
Scott tenses beneath Kip's hand ready to comment, and wouldn't that be something when Kip was pretty certain that Scott didn't know what was being referenced, when Shane interrupts. Turning as completely as he could toward Ilya without putting his back to the others he says, "You texted me no less than ten times when you saw Katya on the subway and you're telling me you're a different girl."
"And I have my own struggles," Ilya tells Kip, with a smile he somehow manages to direct away from Scott even though they are standing beside each other, "can't get him to watch anything with me if he can't bitch about interior design."
"You begged me to watch Real Housewives with you."
"Yes, and it is a gift every time. I love listening to man with more lamps than tables talk about how people with no taste shouldn't be allowed to have money." It should sound like a chirp, but Ilya says it with such blind devotion that Kip finds himself mad at Scott for a second.
"You know I don't like the big light."
"Of course, solnyshko."
Fuck Shane Hollander was a lucky bitch. Did Scott look at him like that? Like Kip was the answer to his entire existence?
Fuck, of course he did, what was he thinking. He'd have to review the footage on the drive home. Obviously, this was the reason he kept all of the gifs and videos of their on ice kiss saved to his phone.
Still, it was something special to see, the two of them.
"So hockey's biggest rivalry is fake? Like wrestling, but it's" Scott gestures at the couple across from them, "so drag."
So close.
"It's performance, Hunter, come on. You can't let your boyfriend be the brains and the beautiful face."
"The what?" Shane challenges.
"The… Sorry." He says immediately. Moving on quickly like that might put him back in Shane's good books, "Personas. That is the drag not the gay. Gospodi, you think Price is actually scary enforcer off-ice? You cannot be Mr. America perfect guy all the time. Right, Kip?"
"So you're an asshole on the ice and off the ice you're gay."
"Ah, incorrect, no. I like both all the time. Off the ice my boyfriend, he is gay."
Shane rolls his eyes. "Ilya is one of the smartest, kindest, most loving people I know."
"Malysh!" Ilya looks like he'd like the floor to swallow him, equal parts mortified and delighted.
"Fine, sure, you're a teddy bear when you aren't telling anyone who will listen how you'll fuck their mothers." Scott says, "Your team likes you and All Stars never ends in disaster so I guess I can buy that. But Hollander?"
"Shane is acting much of the time. Uses little systems to talk to people so no one knows he's really huge asshole."
"If he's been… bumping uglies with you long enough I'm not surprised. A certain amount of asshole has to be sexually transmitted."
Kip can't help but curl his nose at the phrasing. You can take the gay out of the locker room..? No, probably not fair to blame that.
"Nothing we do is ugly," Shane says, "look at us."
Yeah, can't blame the locker room or a lack of queer community, he has a feeling Shane and Scott are on pretty equal footing in that regard. Ilya, he might join Scott in blaming. He looks like he's barely holding back from high fiving Shane for that clap-back.
"You are his only career instigation penalty and the reason he had to pay after-game fight fine, you think he isn't an asshole?"
"I blamed you for that one too. Wait…"
"Told you he was too busy figuring out how to be old and gay to realize why you were mad." Ilya brings his free hand up to poke Shane in the cheek, grinning like he actually has won an award as it gets slapped away immediately.
"That's not even close to how that conversation went." Shane denies. He's pink up to his ears but he keeps the stubborn set to his face. "That fight wouldn't have even happened if we'd played them first. You took things too far."
"Ah yes, I forgot that I told Hunter that our pillow talk was all about how weird it was he was putting up post-Europe, gay-sex vacation points so late in the season."
"That was your interpretation of the spreadsheet I showed you," Shane corrects.
Ilya winks when he looks to Kip, so they're both going to ignore the easy joke Shane left there, okay.
"My interpretation. You are the one who brought up Vaughny. Said Hunter could have something after Sochi. This before I even mentioned Ibiza, and you say maybe he met someone there."
"For someone who says I can't read anyone off ice, I thought it might be rude to talk about Scott's dating life in front of Kip."
"He is dating Ötzi's brother I think he knows statistically he was not the first."
"And if he'd brought up Rose?"
"Actually," Kip never misses a cue to stir shit, "I was wondering—"
"Ah! Okei, okei. I'm sorry." Ilya waves his hands between them, and Kip graciously doesn't ask if Rose is as much of a fruit fly as her dating history suggests.
Shane probably wouldn't know anyway.
"Great. You're both equally annoying. A match made in my personal hell. Was there a reason you decided to reveal that now?" Scott asks.
His mouth is puckered and the sour-grape expression is a poor way of hiding that he is at least a little pleased at what's happening. Scott can try but he's not immune to the love behind a truly knowing read. If it weren't from a place of care, it'd be a chirp.
But maybe Shane is bad at reading a room, the question brings back his serious face. "It's been brought to our attention-"
"Mama Yuna said," Ilya interrupts
"-that it might be helpful to have some people in our corner when the charity starts. So it doesn't look like a publicity stunt or a cover-up." Shane's jaw flexes, grinding his teeth against the end of the sentence.
Ilya cups the back of his neck, massaging at the obvious tension, but saying, "Having people who know everything so it's not so hard to defend us," doesn't seem to help Shane's stress.
They bully forward. Shane explaining their strategy with a simple, "Which means being less… more..?"
"Yes."
Scott looks touched. "And you picked me?"
"Ah no," Ilya obviously deflects, "we picked Kip Grady. You are an unfortunate… what is it?"
"Ilya, quit teasing." Shane's tone is reprimanding, his smile is not. "You know it's side effect."
"Ah yes, but you're so pretty when you are correcting my English."
A darting glance through the near empty room and Shane curls in closer to Ilya, bringing up a hand to rub a small circle on his chest. "Like you even need it anymore."
Scott sighs, "Did you consider that getting to know you might make someone want to defend you less?"
"Scott!" The other two laugh and Kip can feel the real dynamic start to settle between them all.
"I was kidding. Mostly."
"I'm getting tired of just being likeable," Shane admits. Ilya takes the hand that had been resting on his chest and holds it in his own. "Has it been nice?"
"Nice?"
"Getting to be you and not just what everyone thinks you are?"
"Oh," Scott's breath hitches. Kip wonders if maybe there's another version of Shane that Scott sees sometimes when he looks at him.
"Yeah, Rook, it's been good." His voice is hoarse, scraped out of him. Shane's eyes train themselves on the floor and Ilya pretends to look out at the other room in a flimsy excuse to bring his lips to the top of Shane's head.
A silence settles around them as they each take in what that means. For them, for the future, for who they want to be. From the ballroom the voice of their host carries, warning them all that the bid sheets will be collected in just a few minutes.
Shane and Ilya pull apart, letting a respectable distance mark their change back to Hollander and Rozanov. They all know that final warning will send people out to check their luck.
"We have been here long enough to leave, yes? I want to see this suite you booked at the Ritz."
Shane passes him a keycard that Ilya quickly tucks away. "You go first. You got the room number?"
"Yes, my thoughtful Jane has sent it three times now. She must be eager." Shane glares, but doesn't argue. At this point in the season, Kip wonders how often they even get to see each other. He pulls Scott closer, grateful he's able to at all.
"You just want me to leave so you can make sure you get Ovechkin card," Ilya continues, saying the name like it hurts him.
"It's a signed, grade ten rookie card! I don't say anything about your Crosby cards." The accompanying glare makes it hard to tell if this is an old argument or the jealous prelude to whatever is going to happen in that hotel room.
"Fine," Ilya huffs. "Nice to meet you Kip Grady. Hunter, see you when you lose in the playoffs."
"In your dreams, Rozanov."
"I have much prettier things to dream about." He winks at Shane before leaving.
"Does he ever let you get the last word?"
"Only when his mouth's full." Shane's smile is guileless as Scott chokes on his inhale. He barely waits for him to catch his breath before announcing, "I'm going to head out too."
There's no way Ilya has even had time to make it to the valet, let alone get his car or a cab. It's cute, Kip thinks.
"Going to check on your card?" he asks.
"As long as he thinks I'm getting it, that's what matters. He'll be jealous all night thinking there might be another Russian about to join the binder."
And because he's trained Scott so well, he asks the nosy follow up question so Kip doesn't have to. "Who else is in there?"
"Just Ilya, but he knows better than to get to comfortable. The challenge is part of the fun." It's not hard to tell that this is the end of their talk, Shane is getting antsier the longer Ilya is away. He can't blame him.
Shane Hollander reaches out to shake his hand as Shane says, "It was nice to meet you after reading what Hunter has to say about you, Kip. Make sure he gives you both our numbers. I want to hear more about your dissertation and Ilya needs someone who understands reality TV."
"Good luck with the charity, Rook."
Shane smiles, bright and unmasked. "Thank you, I think it's going to be amazing." And with a parting bro nod, he leaves.
He's moving fast, but still Shane is probably barely out of earshot when Scott moans, "This is horrible."
"Scott Hunter!"
"I'm going to have to defend Rozanov. I'm going to have to be friends with Rozanov!"
"No," Kip corrects, "you're going to be friends with Ilya."
"Right. Drag." He's nodding, in thought a thousand miles away. He'll get there.
This, like everything, is something Kip is willing to give him time for. More than ever he can feel how the worst of it is over for them. Scott can have the rest of their lives to figure out personas if that's what it takes. At least they can do it together.
Lost in his own thoughts, Kip almost misses Scott leaning over the table they'd been blocking to write down a bid.
"Scott Hunter, if you buy that hideous painting I'll divorce you."
"Maybe you should, Christopher Grady, I'd like to remember getting the pleasure of marrying you."
Crossing his arms over his chest, he pouts, "Don't be cute."
"Impossible." Scott taps the plaque that's been attached to the shaft of the signed stick. "There's a rumor floating around that Rozanov is signing with Ottawa next season; and I'm starting to think that might not be so crazy."
"Okay…"
"It might make a nice wedding gift one day, a stick from their last, playoff series face-off as rivals."
"Should we start carrying good vodka at the Kingfisher?"
"Why?" Scott asks, eyes squinting with his confusion at the subject change.
"Just thought your new best friend Ilya Rozanov might appreciate it when you're hanging out."
The glare Scott sends him is loaded, but only a little annoyed. "Watch it."
Yeah, it's about time they head out too. "Or what? You'll punish me?"
The man looking at him is all Scott, cute and sexy and turned on and sweet, his fiancé with none of his lingering captaincy. The man he was going to marry. The man he was going to let pretend that he's being forced into befriending two guys he clearly already cares about.
He finishes scribbling down his bid, a number Kip will not be looking at for the sake of their future marriage. "They've got our address, they'll mail it. Let's go home."
Home. They get that, they haven't talked about it, not enough, but Kip knows Scott is floundering with the loss of brand image. Trying to navigate what it means to have gone from Scott Hunter to Scott Hunter, people saying his name with a change in respect and with fresh expectations as new players across the league start to risk coming out too.
But now they get home. They don't have to sneak around or avoid restaurants or text each other room numbers under fake names for one night a month if they're lucky. And maybe they were already lucky that they didn't have to hide that way in the first place.
Drag, brand image, mask. Imperfect synonyms.
It occurs to him, a mask can be something protective as well as shielding. The closet had been suffocating for him, a crutch and an anchor for Scott, but experiences aren't all universal.
Still, he saw that naked desire on both Shane and Ilya's faces. When the shields were down, masks half-dropped, that want for what they could see across from them was there and obvious. And he wants it for them. But he knows their situation is different from his and Scott's. The outrage of middle America will hit them hard if the charade falls at the wrong time, and he's not naive enough to pretend there aren't still real consequences for being what they are.
Home can be a person in a hotel room, but home should get to be a place too.
"On the way text Shane and Ilya, see if they have time for brunch before they have to leave. I want to show off the new dining set I thrifted and they were clearly fishing for couple friends."
Scott drops a kiss to the back of his hand, using his grip to pull Kip in closer. "You're the only person I'd let Rozanov into my house for."
"Good thing I'm inviting Shane's boyfriend Ilya then.