Chapter Text
Scott is nursing a beer in a rowdy New York bar when he first notices Ilya Rozanov properly. The rookie is nineteen, barely a man and yet he’s already firmly cemented himself as a hockey ‘great’, everyone wants a piece of him, especially when it comes to pitting him against the number two draft pick - Shane Hollander.
Ilya’s reputation precedes him, many already certain he will one day be inducted into the hockey hall of fame. It’s why Scott had been so shocked earlier, when the Admirals had demolished the Bears 6’1. Surprised at Rozanov’s - for lack of better words, bad playing. The man had tripped over his feet, made sloppy passes, and missed several shots. Even his characteristic chirps were weak and lackluster, whiny and mean over the clever quips Scott’s used to.
It’s why Scott is similarly shocked when he sees the boy - hours later - in one of the booths at the very bar he’s sitting at. Some rundown, barely legal institution with a reputation for strong booze and weak regulations, slugging back vodka at a rate that makes Scott’s own liver twinge in anticipation.
The only reason Scott is there is so he won’t be recognised, to avoid the incessant harassment from eager fans wanting a piece of him to go home and tell their friends about. What confuses him is that’s never seemed to bother Rozanov, if anything the kid seems to live for it, body count confirmed over 500 if the press can be trusted - Which just leaves Scott all the more confused, it’s not like the Russian’s reputation won’t afford him illegal alcohol at some better venue.
He watches Rozanov intently, enough that the bartender is definitely giving him the eye, but doesn’t go over - the boy has a reputation for being vicious and if Scott wanted his lights punched out he would have accepted one of Carter's weekly offers to join his wrestling club. Still Scott makes sure to keep an eye on him, keeping a tally of the fresh shots the boy calls over.
Ilya is slumped over the table of the booth, resting his head on his arm, hand fidgeting with the little glass of vodka next to him. Scott’s sure that he’s seen him doze off at least twice, waking himself each time with a startled shudder. When he turns his head Scott gets a glimpse at his eyes - tired and misty, staring aimlessly into the drink as though it will tell him its secrets, chewing the bottom of his lip in a way that makes Scott wince.
He’s so painfully little that Scott has to fight the urge to walk to the table and scoop him up. Choosing instead to bide his time, keeping a close eye on him until whomever his caregiver is rocks up to look after him - lest he goes over and spooks the boy to bolt.
When his caregiver does arrive Scott will be sure to give them an earful - who in their right mind lets a dropped little drink straight vodka? In a bar like this? After a soul-crushing loss? Rozanov might be trouble but he deserves better than someone who’ll leave him to rot, Scott couldn’t forgive himself if he said nothing.
As the clock ticks on Scott cuts himself off from the beer, increasingly concerned that the mysterious caregiver won’t arrive. On Ilya’s seventh shot it occurs to Scott that his caregiver probably doesn’t even realise he’s out. If the way Ilya talks on the ice is any clue he has a bratty streak the size of Texas, Scott wouldn’t put it past him to have snuck out, giving his carer the slip.
Scott is finally preparing himself to approach when Ilya suddenly stands up, swaying slightly as he finds his feet, toddling clumsily in the direction of the bathroom. His gait is so unsteady - whether due to headspace or the heathenous amount of vodka he’s been drinking - that Scott is sure he’s going to fall straight onto his bottom, but he somehow makes it through, disappearing down the corridor as Scott rushes to follow.
“Blyat” - Scott hears the muffled curse as he enters the bathroom, watching as Rozanov desperately fights with the button of his jeans, tears beginning to gather in his eyes as he fails miserably.
“Hey,” Scott says gently, cursing himself as Ilya jumps anyway, turning defensively. He relaxes a bit when he sees it's just Scott though, going back to wrenching at his button almost immediately.
“Why- why you are here?” Rozanov demands, his English fragmented and annoyed.
“Well I live here” Scott replies “I like this bar, I’m a regular. I think the more interesting question is why are you here? even if you weren’t dropped you’re not actually legal to drink.”
Ilya frowns
“What? What are you saying Hunter?”
“I’m saying you shouldn’t be here.” Scott says easily “Where’s your caregiver Rozanov.”
Ilya looks confused for a moment before swearing loudly in Russian, Scott realises why when the man starts to cup his crotch, tears spilling over.
“Woah, woah” Scott reassures, stepping forward and unbuttoning Ilya’s pants with ease, pulling both them and his boxers down so that the baby can focus on making it to the urinal. “it’s okay buddy, I got you.”
As Ilya goes, sobs hiccuping out softly, Scott bends down, nudging Ilya’s foot up so that he can peel him out of his wet underwear, relieved to see that the boy's jeans are mostly dry.
He rubs up and down Ilya’s back as he goesin an attempt to offer some comfort.
“Why do this?” Ilya asks tiredly, when he’s done leaning back against the bathroom wall looking like he wishes he could just stay there. He gestures to where Scott is now running his boxers under the tap, scrubbing and rinsing them of urine.
“What?-” Scott remarks confused before catching sight of the boxers in his hands. “Oh, you can 't stay in wet undies bub, you’ll get a rash, this way they won’t smell when you take ‘em home, yeah?”
When Scott’s satisfied they’re thoroughly rinsed he begins to ring the moisture from the fabric, twisting as water drips into the sink.
“Did you remember a change” he asks when he’s finished, placing the underwear flat over the edge of the sink. “or are we gonna have to get creative?”
Ilya just blinks at him,
“What?”
“I meant do you have spare-”
“-No” Ilya interrupts, “I know this, I just- Why do you ask? I am adult.”
To Scott’s amusement Ilya sounds genuinely confused, looking at him like he’s just sprouted another head.
“I don’t think you are an adult right now, Rozy” Scott says with a smile, “that’s okay though, you gonna tell me who looks after you?”
Ilya blinks at him again,
“Uhhh…” he sighs and rubs at his brow. “Hunter, maybe you are not understanding, I am adult. I look after myself.”
It’s Scott’s turn to blink
“What?” he gasps “You- you- No one looks after you? You look after yourself?”
Scott can’t remember the last time he was this horrified. Who has allowed this? he’s going to have to call the NHL, report a little without a caregiver, figure out how the fuck he managed to get away without one for so long oh god this is going to be a mess.
“I-” Ilya stares at him confusedly “Why would I not? Am not little? is normal, no?”
At that Scott thinks his mind reset’s
“You’re not little” he repeats blankly back at Ilya, the boy still standing in nothing but his shirt, lip bit to pieces, looking a maximum of four years old. Scott laughs “Sure, Roz, and the sky is red.”
Ilya’s face darkens,
“Look Hunter, I do not know what you want.” he stomps his foot against the ground petulantly. “Thankyou for help, but I go now,” and because he can’t resist himself “I drink lots of vodka, like adult, I am.”
He stomps forward towards the door with a huff and Scott has to lurch to grab his elbow.
“Ilya,” Scott says firmly, “even if you weren’t little, which you definitely are, I couldn't let you out bubs - you’re not wearing any pants.”
Ilya who had been starting to claw at Scott's hand suddenly stops, looking down upon his naked lower half with a frustrated growl.
“Give me my jeans Hunter” he huffs, trying to push past to retrieve them from the ground. Scott stands in his way, fixing the boy with a stern glare.
“I’ll give you your jeans, Roz, but unless there’s someone you’d like me to call, you’re coming home with me. We need to get this sorted”
Ilya lets out an exasperated sigh.
“I am not- fuck off Hunter! I am not little. Let go.”
He starts to wriggle again in Scott’s grip, smacking at Scott's hand uselessly.
“Alright” Scott says amicably, before turning Ilya over the sink, bringing his free hand down hard against the globe of the boy’s bottom.
He doesn’t want to smack the Ilya but he does anyway, not seeing any other way to get him to listen to sense when he’s this upset. He lands his palm about a dozen times, waiting until the boy’s legs stop kicking and he’s lying still before letting it drop.
“All done. You gonna be a good boy now?” he asks, raising his hand to rub Ilya’s back.
He hadn’t spanked that hard, just wanted to get through enough to stop him leaving. Though from Ilya’s sobbing, one would have to assume that he’d taken a riding crop to the boy. His heaving sobs leave his breath shuddering, half screaming with every fresh cry.
“M-m-mean!” he bawls, reaching back to cover his bottom with both hands, despite Scott’s clear indication he’s finished. “Not do anything wrong. “‘m big boy”
Scott sighs,
“You're not a big boy, bubba, but that’s alright. I'm gonna take you home and we can have a sleep. We can talk it through in the morning, okay?”
Scott stands Ilya up, lifting him to sit on the sink so Scott can thread his legs through the holes of his jeans. He’ll have to go commando for the moment, his boxers too wet to wear, but on his freshly spanked bottom that might be a blessing.
“I not like you,” Ilya says, voice small and weary.
It’s obvious that he’s trying to recover dignity with his notorious sass. But, It falls flat, instead of the cutting remark he was aiming for he just sounds slightly whiny, purely a toddler in need of a nap.
“That's okay Rozy ” Scott replies with ease. standing Ilya up briefly to close his button. Before hefting him up and into his arms, quicker than the boy can think to argue. “I don’t like you either.”
—
Ilya doesn’t know why he lets himself be carried to Scott Hunter’s car. choosing to put it down to the vodka that his only act of protest at being effectively assaulted and kidnapped, is to use the man’s shirt as a tissue and whine uselessly.
He’s just so tired, he thinks as he lets the man buckle his seatbelt. For weeks he’s felt nothing but the pound in his head and the ache of his bones - no amount of rest seeming to quench the thirst of fatigue. He supposes he should have guessed that the MHL would be a dramatic step up from junior hockey - he just hadn’t expected that step to feel so much like a chasm.
He comes to his senses as Scott’s sitting in traffic.
“‘m fine here” he hears himself slur, voice embarrassingly weak. “Leave here, will go back to hotel” he presses his finger against the window leaving a smudge pointing to the sign for the subway.
He frowns when the other man makes no indication of stopping, moving forward as the light finally turns green.
“We talked about this bub” Hunter says, his voice disgustingly sweet and alien like it’s been all evening. “we’re gonna have a snooze at my place. We can talk in the morning.” effectively silencing Ilya by flicking on the radio, turning to the kids station with ease.
Ilya feels annoyance bubble within him. He’s a grown adult he should be allowed to leave! He doesn’t want to talk to stupid Scott Hunter, have to admit to the hockey legend that he’s maybe not as cut out for this as he thought he was. Considering the bad blood he’s bought for himself with his chirps Hunter will probably just laugh at him, tell all his friends until word of Ilya’s uselessness spreads and he finds himself straight on a plane back to Russia, forced to face his father and tell him all his predictions came true.
“Nyet!” he shouts, before remembering the man doesn’t speak Russian, switching to english to shout again, “No! Not go!” he punctuates the statement with a firm kick to the back of Scott’s seat, eliciting a grunt from the older man.
“Hey!” the man barks, speaking at him sternly, but Ilya’s too focused on trying to get out, continuing to kick Scott’s seat as he wrestles with the door handle, unsuccessfully attempting to wrench it open.
“Let me out!” Ilya cries “Please, I be good, lemme go”
He’s ashamed to hear how small he sounds, the whine in his voice making him cringe - tears running down his face and his papa screaming in his head. He’s distantly aware of Scott speaking to him, hears something about making himself sick, the nickname bubs which simultaneously make Ilya want to curl up in the mans arms forever and kick him til he cries. He doesn’t really register any of it, pummelling his feet into Scott's back like his life depends on it, to him - it does.
After a while his voice turns hoarse, his legs stilling with fatigue as the drive continues, cries descending into sobs as the New York city streets whiz by. He doesn’t realise that they’ve stopped until a hand appears from nowhere, making him jump as it snakes past him, undoing his seatbelt and lifting him from the car.
“Oh bubba” Hunter says, wiping the tears from Ilya’s face with his thumb. “Oh you’re such a sad boy, huh?”
Ilya’s too tired to do anything but nod listing into the man's shoulder in hopes of comfort.
“Not like. You just take,” Ilya whines - failing not to enjoy the gentle pattern the man was tracing on his back. Between that and the vodka, his inhibitions are lowered enough he doesn’t care to hide his thoughts. “Scary.”
Hunter hums thoughtfully and the vibration is nice against Ilya’s chest - warm and careful in a way that reminds him of his mama.
“I understand why you’re scared bubs,” Scott tells him seriously - pulling back slightly to look him in the eye - “I couldn’t just leave you there though, you’re too small to be on your own at the moment, okay?”
Ilya shakes his head. He doesn’t understand what Scott keeps going on about, he’s not small he’s 6 feet and he’s not little either. Papa had always said he’d rather a dead son than a little one and Ilya’s alive - classified as a caregiver at 16 much to his own relief.
“Not little” he tells Scott “‘m caregiver” before deciding this whole evening has been bad enough to allow himself the indulgence of sticking his thumb in his mouth, relishing the calm that suckling it brings over him.
Hunter frowns, face all screwed up as he looks firmly into Ilya’s eyes like he’s analysing or studying something within them. It makes him sort of uncomfortable so he leans forward burying his head back into the man’s shoulder still sucking his thumb harshly.
“You’re a caregiver?” Scott asks voice rich with something like surprise, Ilya nods.
“Uh huh,” he tells Scott seriously. “Am super good, look after Sebby sometimes, is fun.”
“Huh” Hunter says,
“So am not little, see?”
Hunter pulls back again blinking between his eyes and the thumb in his mouth
“I’m thinking maybe that’s not quite true though bubba” the man says gently before quickly adding “how about you come inside and have a snooze at mine and we can figure it all out in the morning? does that sound good?”
Ilya knows he should refuse, should tell Hunter to go away and call a cab back to his hotel - but he can’t help it, the offer does sound good and the pattern being traced along his spine is so soothing.
“Okay” Ilya finds himself saying before he can even think it through properly, “just for tonight though.”
Then he’s flopping his head back down onto Scott’s shoulder and allowing himself to be carried inside.
—
As Scott carries a regressed Rozanov into his apartment he gets a foreboding sense that he’s just opened Pandora’s box.
The weight of the tired boy in his arms feeling more akin to the fulfilment of a prophecy than what he’d originally hoped it to be - briefly helping out a neighbouring teams rookie, maybe buying the admirals some good blood after a landslide victory against the MHL’s most cutthroat team.
The bear's rookie is very clearly small. Despite his protestations the haze in his eyes and thumb in his mouth leave Scott with no doubt in his mind that Ilya is little.
The only problem - one Scott’s realising with rapid horror - is that Rozanov himself appears to have absolutely no knowledge of this.
When he’d first denied it in the bar Scott had assumed he’d been fucking around. He could understand a rookie telling a quick fib in an attempt to escape the consequences of his evening escapades, hell he’d done it himself at least a dozen times in his day. Scott could hardly blame the boy, but the longer he spent with Rozanov the more everything just seemed off. the baby’s protests less the haughty argument he’d assumed and more a frightened complaint, confusion apparent in all of his actions.
“What’s going on with you, hey?” He says more to himself than Rozanov, the boy dozing lightly against his chest. Scott presses a kiss to his forehead. "Don't you worry bubba,” he tells him softly. “Daddy’s gonna fix it.”
He doesn’t mean to say it - if you'd have told him two hours earlier that he’d ever find the hockey sensation cute, let alone refer to himself as his daddy - Scott would have denied it until the cows came home. But now, curls nestled into his chest, there’s something immediately natural about it. A feeling of rightness that Scott just can’t deny. Something in him that aches to give the boy on his chest, his hockey rival, Ilya Rozanov, anything he could ever ask for.