Chapter Text
The late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the Kingfisher’s windows, casting long shadows on the wall. It was the quiet lull before the evening rush. At least it would have been quiet if not for Scott Hunter sitting at the bar and ranting at his boyfriend.
“We had them in the second. 4-1. Then the third came around, and it was like trying to skate against a pack of hyenas. They were playing like men possessed. Every single one of them.”
Kip leaned against the bar. He had been there. He had watched from the stands at the sudden turnaround. Even Kip had been able to tell that there was something different about their playing style. The Raiders had seemed more desperate, more brutal. “You took them all the way to overtime though, and then Ilya—”
“Rozanov,” Scott interrupted.
“Ilya,” Kip corrected. “Got a good shot in. That’s how it goes, right?”
Scott frowned with an exaggerated pout. “I don’t like that you like him now.”
“It’s kind of hard to dislike the only player not on your team to have publicly shown support for us,” Kip reminded him.
That was true. Just a year ago, when Scott had officially come out to the public, the league had been largely silent, paralyzed by corporate hesitation. But Ilya—twenty-one at the time, Russian, under immense international scrutiny, and with everything to lose—hadn't hesitated. He’d shown up to that gay bar on Scott Hunter Night, seemingly at home in the crowd, had a few drinks, and made a scene of support.
Ilya had essentially made himself a target to support Scott. Ever since, whenever the Raiders played in New York, Ilya would inevitably slip away from his team, bypass the high-end clubs, and end up at the Kingfisher, inserting himself into Scott’s circle of friends, trading sharp chirps with Carter Vaughn and Eric Bennett, and drinking their best vodka while offering shockingly perceptive advice to anyone who asked—or who didn’t. Usually the latter.
“Besides,” Kip added, “he’s harmless.”
Scott let out a low groan, rubbing his face with both hands. "Fine. He’s harmless. He’s still a gremlin. The kid didn't even celebrate. He just skated past our bench, looked right at me, and said, 'Past your bedtime, old man? Need a lift to the retirement home?' I swear to God, he’s twenty-two and acts like he owns the entire Eastern Conference."
"He practically does," Kyle called out from the end of the bar, casually wiping down a tap handle. "What’s the media saying about him again? Oh yeah, highest scorer of the season, youngest captain in the league right now, and he managed to pull the Boston Raiders out of that slump. Give the gremlin some credit."
"I give him plenty of credit," Scott grumbled, though there was no real heat in it. He took a sip of his beer. "He’s a genius on the ice, but he’s still a gremlin.”
Kip chuckled, resting his chin in his hand. "Oh, come on. He’s our chaotic little gremlin. How was the baby last night, anyway? Besides smug?"
That was the thing too. Kip had become convinced that if Ilya was going to call Scott an “old man” and a “dinosaur,” they should just call Ilya a “baby” or a “toddler,” and then he would maybe back off. It wasn’t working so far. If anything, it had made Ilya worse. He’d even thrown a sarcastic “Dad” at Scott one day and a more teasing “Papa” at Kip. It amused Kip endlessly, though, so he stuck with it.
"Grumpy," Scott sighed, a reluctant fondness creeping into his expression. "Frustrated. He spent half the post-game press conference bragging about his rookie linesman. He doesn't fake-humble anything. He knows he’s the best player out there, and he protects his team like a guard dog. But afterward? In the tunnels? He looked exhausted. Pale."
Kip’s smile faded a bit, his brow furrowing. "Well, look at the news. Can you blame him? Of course the Raiders were playing like their lives depended on it. You Admirals might looks - what? Three players? If these accords go through." Ilya was right. The Admirals were a team of "old men". "The Raiders’ roster is almost entirely under thirty. They probably know that any game could be their last at the professional level for quite some time if this law gets passed.”
The atmosphere in the room shifted, turning heavy and somber.
The Longevity Accords.
For months, the rumors had been swirling, terrifying and surreal. Science had advanced to a point where humans simply kept living, pushing past a hundred and fifty, closing in on two hundred years old. Society was fracturing under the weight of it, and the government’s proposed solution was a radical restructuring of the timeline of human life. They called it a "kindness"—a law to let people stay children longer, to protect them from the crushing weight of full-time labor and self-sufficiency until their minds and bodies were truly ready.
But they hadn't grandfathered anyone in.
If the Accords passed—and the morning news anchors were already treating it as an absolute certainty—the legal age of adulthood would instantly shift from eighteen to thirty.
"If it passes," Scott said quietly, the weight of his thirty-six years suddenly feeling less like a punchline and more like a protection, "every player under thirty in the MLH will get bumped down to juniors. Captaincies revoked. Contracts voided. The entire league would have to be overhauled.”
"It’s not just the hockey, Scott," Kip murmured, his hand reaching across the bar to squeeze Scott's forearm. "Think about the rest of it. The guardianship rollbacks. If you're under thirty, you're legally a minor again. Control goes right back to your parents or oldest siblings or whatever relative is closest and of age. And for foreign nationals? The rumor is they’re deporting them back to their home countries if they don't have a legal, over-thirty guardian here to claim them."
Scott swallowed hard, nodding. He knew how high the stakes were.
“Speaking of the brat,” Kyle said,“Is he still coming by tonight?”
Scott relaxed just a bit. That was right. Ilya would probably be there any moment.
Suddenly, the jazz music playing softly through the bar's sound system cut out. The television screen flashed a stark, flashing crimson banner: BREAKING NEWS.
The three men froze. On screen, a somber-faced anchor cleared his throat, holding a piece of paper that looked heavy enough to crush the world.
"We bring you momentous and unprecedented news from the capital. The global senate has officially voted. Effective immediately, the Longevity Accords have been signed into international law. The official legal age of adulthood is now thirty years old. All current citizens between the ages of eighteen and twenty-nine are hereby retroactively designated as minors under statutory protection."
The silence in the Kingfisher was absolute. Kyle stopped wiping the tap entirely, the rag slipping from his fingers.
"A grace period of exactly one week has been established for logistical transitions," the anchor droned on. "However, enforcement of safety mandates begins tonight. Effective at midnight, any minor under thirty discovered unaccompanied in a public space without an authorized adult guardian will be temporarily detained by Protective Services until proper familial or state guardianship can be verified..."
******
Across the city, inside a crowded hotel suite, the television was blasting the exact same broadcast on repeat. The moment the banner had gone up, the team had rushed to Ilya’s room.
Ilya Rozanov stood dead center in the group, staring at the screen. He felt like his lungs had been lined with concrete. For weeks, it had been up in the air. It was known and had been talked about for decades how there were people living to be almost 200. Terminal illnesses were slowly disappearing. People suddenly seemed more resilient against injuries. It should have been the happiest news in the world. The issue was that society was currently not equipped to function with so many geriatrics living healthily and happily in the workforce, and they were having to stay in the workforce. Retirement accounts could not last one hundred years. There were other issues too—regarding housing and children and all sorts of other things. All countries had found themselves puzzling over what to do.
That was how the Longevity Accords came to be. When they were first proposed, most people expressed their hatred for the new laws loudly. In the end, it hadn’t mattered. The law was passed in every single country. The new age of adulthood was thirty. Anyone under that age was a child—no longer qualified for the workplace, to own their own property, or to control their own bank accounts. There were no exception. None at all.
In just the blink ofan eye lives were destroyed. Young married couples were basically high school sweethearts. Those with children were now considered teenage parents. Their lives a strange grey area where they were old enough to have children but not old enough to sign their own permission forms at a tattoo studio. People who had been adults the day before suddenly had their bank accounts handed over to their parents. Those without parents had to find a suitable guardian or be taken into protective services.
For the MLH world, eighty percent of rosters were suddenly empty. Top players like Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were stripped of their nearly brand-new captain positions and their teams altogether, and supposedly would be sent back down to the Juniors where everything was being quickly rearranged to accommodate the new laws.
A sharp spike of ringing built up in Ilya's ears, drowning out the broadcast.
A child. He was twenty-two years old. Yet with a single stroke of a pen, he was legally a child again. His bank accounts—the massive, life-altering contracts he had signed—would be frozen, accessible only by a legal guardian.
A cold wave of nausea hit him so hard he nearly dropped to his knees. He clenched his hands into fists. His breath came out in ragged, shallow gasps. If he was a child, his legal guardian was his father. The hold his father had on him was now legally backed by the government. Before it had been only his own guilt and perhaps misguided loyalty as a son that gave his father any real control over his life. Now that had all changed. This law gave a man who didn't even know his own name half the time due to dementia, but whose lucid moments were entirely dedicated to screaming at Ilya, calling him lazy, worthless, a parasite, the control over every piece of Ilya’s life. And if Alexei acted fast enough and had their father declared unfit then guardianship would fall right into his hands.
They will take my money, Ilya thought, his chest tightening until it physically pained him. They will drag me back to Russia. They will lock me in that house. I will never play hockey again. I will be nothing.
"Cap! Cap, look at me, breathe."
A pair of hands gripped Ilya’s shoulders, forcing him out of his thoughts and back into the room. Ilya blinked through a haze of panic, his vision clearing to reveal Cliff Marlow.
Around them, the hotel suite had turned entirely chaotic. The other younger Raiders were racing around.
"My mom's not answering her phone!" one of the rookies shouted has he wildly paced the room. "What do they mean by 'protective services'? Are they going to put us in a facility?"
"I'm calling my agent," another argued, his voice cracking. "He's forty-two, he can sign for me, right?"
“There’s some form. Some kind of- voluntary thing. I don’t know.”
Ilya forced himself to push down his own worries. The panic was clawing at his throat, but he was still the captain. He had to be.
"Quiet!" he barked, his voice carrying enough authority to cut through the hysteria. The room went silent. Ilya swallowed down the bile in his throat, looking at his rookies.
"Connors, your parents are in Boston, yes? Call them right now. Tell them to get on a flight or a drive to New York. Do not leave the hotel until they are here. Carmichael, call your older sister. She is thirty-two, she can claim you. Go. Do it now."
They scrambled for their phones, desperate for direction.
Only Cliff didn't move. He kept his grip on Ilya’s arm, pulling the captain toward the quiet corner of the suite near the window. "Cap. Rozy. You need to stop worrying about them for a second and look at the screen."
On the television, the news anchor was expanding on the guidelines.
"...Foreign nationals under the age of thirty who do not possess a locally verified, legal adult guardian will face immediate repatriation to their countries of origin starting at the end of the week. However, the Department of Lifespan Transition has announced an emergency loophole: The Universal Sponsorship Form, colloquially being called the 'Blue Form.' During this grace week, any individual aged 18-29, who does not wish their guardianship to automatically go to their eligible next of kin, may legally sign over their own guardianship to a willing, verified adult over the age of thirty. This will function legally as an expedited, permanent adult adoption..."
Cliff looked at Ilya, his eyes wide and urgent. "Rozy, you're in the most danger here. You're a high-profile Russian national. If Protective Services scoops you up at midnight, they won't wait for your dad to fly over from Moscow. They will put you in a facility and send you back to Russia to be processed there, and who knows how long that could take. You need to get to your family fast before anyone can claim that you’re evading.”
Ilya’s attention wasn’t on the news about deportation. Well, it was. It was just that he was focuse don the part that directly followed that announcement. "The Blue Form," Ilya whispered to himself, his mind suddenly clearing with a cold, desperate sharpness.
He would get the form first. He would worry about who could sign it after.
"I have to go," Ilya said bluntly.
"Rozy, wait! The midnight curfew! Do you even know if any flights are-" Cliff called out, but Ilya was already heading for the door.
He didn't print the form at the hotel. He didn't have time. He knew the electronic kiosks at the local transit stations were already dispensing the physical blue documents for those trying to secure their futures. He would get one in hand, and then maybe he would somehow know what to do next.