Archive of Our Own

June, 2009

After being given status as a legend in the hockey world, scott hunter would have never thought that a rook could make him feel this off kilter.

He’s a legend to these kids, a Captain of one of the original six teams in the league, he has a foil special edition collectors card, a jersey number that’s worn around the greatest city in the world (and top seller in the league). He has a sparkling smile that makes the league and the fans love him. He has sponsors, huge, huge sponsors…

And as he tries to congratulate the first draft pick this season, this Russian kid called Rozanov (who’s only 18), he notices how the boy looks at him. It’s a different sort of look, he’s never seen it, not from coaches, or friends or other players, it’s different. Extremely hard yet vulnerable. Like a stray dog that’s been left out on the road and having first contact with a human, not knowing whether they are friendly or not.

He swears to god, this boy looks him up and down as if he’s assessing him, and says, mid handshake, “ah. So you discovered America?”

Scott blames Rozanov’s confusion on the language barrier. “That was Christopher Columbus.” He corrects. “I just captain one of the best hockey teams in America.” He drops the kids hand and gives him an award winning smile. “Congrats on first pick.”

Rozanov’s voice is slightly earnest and his eyes flicker seemingly desperately between Scott’s own. They’re about the same height, or maybe Scott’s slightly taller, but this kid is big. “Oh.” He finally manages. “I thought you were oldest person in America?”

Scott’s jaw drops. “Oldest?”

A flicker of panic crosses Rozanov’s face as if he’s searching for something, some word that he’s definitely gotten wrong. Fastest? Strongest? Precisist (?) “Old? Almost dead?” He says, and it dawns on Scott that he truly means it. “Because you skate slow, like dinosaur.” He then smiles cheekily to himself. “Old, like you discovered America. Thank you for congratulations. I will make sure to beat you.”

Scott chokes. Holy mother of Christ. Even in broken English this kid chirps like he created chirping, a genius at assholery, a prodigy that aligns with the likes of the Kardashians level of annoyance. Scott is genuinely at a loss for words. Rozanov waves a dismissive hand at him and crosses the room to a beautiful woman with long dark curls and a backless dress.

This kid was going to be a fucking menace.

—

November, 2010

The first thing Scott Hunter noticed about Shane Hollander were his lips, it was a tad gay, even for him.

They were bent over at a face off, and Hollander had his eyes set on the ice, it was one of Hollander’s first matches with ice time, and Scott’s eyes drifted to his face. He hadn’t had the chance to meet him at the draft, but if he had, Scott didn’t think he would’ve been able to stop himself from doing something awful. Like cradle snatching a dumb, extraordinarily pretty 18 year old.

Hollander’s lips were parted and his brows furrowed in deep concentration, a sweat-slick piece of his dorky fringe was plastered to his forehead, and he was chewing hard on his mouth guard. He looked at the ice like he had something to prove.

And then he looked up, caught Hunter staring and said. “You look nervous.” With a small smirk that was enough to ruin any sane man’s life.

The puck dropped and Shane shot off like he was born on the ice.

Later, after Hollander scored, he stopped short in front of him, “you gonna teach me something Hunter? I thought you were the best for a reason.”

Scott didn’t even have the decency to reply. The kid looked so proud of himself, lips stretched over a wide smile, rosy flush on his cheeks, probably his first chirp of his entire NHL career. Scott just patted him on the shoulder. “Good shooting rook.” He said.

—

All stars, February, 2011

Rozanov has a fucking girl in the next room.

The springs in the supposedly 3 star hotel hitch and moan with each movement.

So does the girl, she whines and whimpers.

Scott’s happy when she leaves after midnight.

He’s getting too old to hear rooks doing this shit. It seems almost predatory.

(He’s definitely going to write a strongly worded email to the hotel about getting sturdier beds)

The next morning he glances at Rozanov across the room at the hotel’s buffet breakfast and tries to kill him with his mind (no he’s not 8, yes he knows it won’t work). Rozanov’s dousing pancakes in golden syrup and powdered sugar. He has a coffee that steams and he looks invigorated and young. He beams as he speaks in Russian to Varkov.

Scott rolls his eyes and turns back to his table. Hollander and Carter were talking between themselves, and now they look at him expectantly like he was meant to be a part of the conversation.

“Sorry, Rozanov kept me up half the night.” He says with a grumble.“What a dick.”

Hollander, inexplicably, turns a dark red, marring his face and exposing a new freckle Scott hadn’t seen before. It’s small and sits beneath his left eyebrow. If Scott traces that one to the cluster on Shane’s right cheek, he can paint the lines of Aquarius, mapping Shane’s face like a canvas just waiting to be drawn on. Pinned up and worshipped like his beauty deserves. Turned into statues and possessions so valuable, no one else can touch them.

“What an asshole.” Shane murmurs, eyes flicking over to where Ilya laughs with Varkov.

He looks pretty when he’s flushed red. It suits him the same way the childish fringe suits him. Like he picked a look when he was 5 and decided to keep it like that.

Yeah. Scott thinks, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. What a fucking asshole indeed.
—

May, 2014

They’re snuffed out for their chances of a cup by the fucking Boston raiders. Ilya Rozanov looks more than pleased. It’s very, very irritating.

He skates past Scott and grins, that sly grin he does when he’s about to tell Scott that he’s old.

“Ah Hunter.” He says.

Scott looks to the sky. He composes himself with the grace of someone who has never known this sort of irritability in his life. Rozanov is a fly. Scott is a bowl of fruit. Or maybe he’s just a person and the fly has domesticated itself and keeps landing on him.

Why him!?

He almost moans to himself. Out of the entire world of hockey, why him of all people to be targeted by the Russian menace. He’s not even that old. There’s a guy playing for buffalo who’s in his 40s (granted buffalo are dog shit). Scott is merely 30, he’s still got 8 or so years left in him. Sure, recovery isn’t as good as it used to be, but he’s got time left!

“What Rozanov?” He spits.

Rozanov waggles his eyebrows, “I thought you captain best team in America.” He says.

Scott spits on the ice. Still trying to catch his breath.

Rozanov continues. “This is just embarrassing.”

“Oh fuck you, asshole.”

“Hmmm.” Rozanov pretends to contemplate. “I would fuck assshole, but is too old. Would fossilise and then break if i tried.” He grins impishly and winks. “See you next season Hunter, if you have not retired by then.”

The one thing Scott wanted was for Ilya rozanov to be homophobic. The one thing, literally one thing hockey gods. Just to know the asshole was actually awful. But Ilya rozanov doesn’t use slurs, in fact he was almost suspended last week for breaking homophobic dickhead Troy Barrett’s nose after he yelled something disgusting at one of Ilya’s team mates.

Dear hockey gods. My name is Scott Hunter and I want Ilya Rozanov to actually be a bad guy and not just an irritating child.

Dear hockey gods. Please make Ilya rozanov homophobic so I have an actual reason to dislike him.

Dear hockey gods… I’ve given up. Please tell Ilya rozanov that I actually find his chirps funny. They’re still annoying but they make me laugh.

As Scott goes to bed alone (like most nights when he’s in New York and not in Europe making a pretty boy cum) he thinks that he actually likes Ilya. He doesn’t like him on the ice, for sure, doesn’t like being in a room next to him and definitely doesn’t like him at press conferences. But there’s a sort of vulnerability he has when they actually see each other out in the wild. At that NHL photo shoot where he hangs onto Hollander, as if their Rook status means they’re both there for each other. At the allstars, at the NHL awards ceremony that year.

Sometimes Scott finds it hard to believe that he’s just a kid. 23, only 23. And then he sees Hollander and rozanov together and remembers that they really are just children with too much adult money.

They rib each other and touch each other like they're familiar, and smile when they think no one’s looking.

Looking at the ceiling in his apartment, his perfect, expensive, bed too big, fan too cold, bare walled apartment, Scott actually admires Rozanov.

When you have awful things happen to you, you recognise it in other people. Ilya Rozanov is shrouded by something dark while he desperately tries to grow into the light. Clinging to small moments of humanity and even smaller moments of ecstasy.

He looks ecstatic when he’s watching Shane. It’s strange really, the closeness two rivals have.

But Scott supposes they don’t have much but each other. Greatness is lonely.

Winning is even lonelier, after all.

—

Two days ago (after a particularly brutal loss) Ilya rozanov said something that made Scott think.

‘So you only play well when you’re at home huh.’

‘Oh fuck you rozanov.’

‘Is more fun when you’re there.’ Rozanov winks. ‘Maybe next all stars will be same room arrangements.’

He’s squinting slightly (no his eyesight isn’t going. It’s still as good as ever) at the straw+berry menu knowing full well he’ll go for a blue moon over Brooklyn with extra banana, and says out loud to Kip, “I don’t know how he would know I was in the room next to him.”

“Maybe he saw you.” Kip muses. He’s pretending to look busy and it’s so fucking cute. He’s been wiping the same part of the counter for ten minutes, picking up the jar of straws, wiping under it, then replacing it every time a customer walks in.

Scott makes a noise of disagreement. “I don’t think so.” He says. “The only reason I knew he was next to me was because the coaches had a conversation about putting rooks near vets in case they needed support. Hollander was the only person that…” he trails off in thought.

Shane knew right? Rozanov told him, blatantly and obviously, straight to his face while he blushed and chewed on his mouth guard.

Kips eyes snap up. “Shane Hollander knew?”

“Yeah. Rozanov kinda chirped him and it sounded like his room number. He was 1221, and I was 1222, so I told Hollander that I was rooming next to Roz.”

“And then you heard him having… Y’know, with a woman?”

Scott nods, slightly dumbfounded.

Kip laughs and rubs a hand over his forehead. “Oh, they fucking.”

Scott almost chokes on air. “What the fuck Kip!?”

“What!?” He exclaims, “They are most definitely fucking.”

That follows him until his match in the evening. It’s a silly little vice, a clawing at the back of his brain. Kip is in his fucking head. It’s very annoying.

And when Hollander stops in front of him after the final whistle, he can’t help himself.

“Hope next time you play you decide to show up.” Hollander doesn’t smirk this time, he fully beams. His freckles bunch up to his eyes and he holds his stick like he’s a kid learning how to skate and not a professional hockey player.

Scott spits on the ice.

Hollander copies.

“Cheap.” Scott says. It’s after the final whistle, there’s no reason to humiliate him further. It’s really fucking annoying, and very much not like Hollander.

“It’s the truth”.

And then he feels it. That’s not something Shane Hollander would say, Shane Hollander would say ‘good game’ Shane Hollander would say ‘ see you soon’.

Shane Hollander would never tell him to show up. Shane Hollander used to call him mr Hunter, he was scared of drinking alcohol in front of him and probably had at least one or two of Scott’s jerseys from when he was a kid. Maybe even a player card and every limited edition release copy of it.

He’s starting to sound like Rozanov. That’s what hits him.

He’s starting to sound obnoxiously abrasive and Kips words (- they are definitely fucking-) fall to the forefront of his mind. And it’s burrowing its roots further, deeper. It’s curling around his cortex and embedding into the sulci of his brain. Every dip, a reminder of Rozanov, and every crest, Scott’s own apprehension.

“You’re starting to sound like him.” He says. He’s not even in his body, just pissed the fuck off, for the first time in forever he feels like a stupid kid. Willing to take dirty chances and willing to feel the consequences.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Hollander asks.

As they’re pulled away from each other, Scott a bloody nose, and Shane a bruised cheekbone, those roots embed further.

It can’t be right. Shane is the goody two shoes of the league, he cannot possibly be into men and shacking up with the notorious womaniser that is Ilya Rozanov.

He asks Kip to gloat if he’s correct and slowly pushes down his feelings. It’s hard to though when it presses itself against his ribs every time he sees Shane and Ilya in the same room.

—

June, 2017 

Scott’s life has changed a lot recently.

For starters his boyfriend broke up with him. Then he got back together with his boyfriend, then won the Stanley cup, then kissed his boyfriend on the ice following his Stanley cup win.

It’s euphoric. It’s awfully euphoric and Kip’s family and friends become his in an insane twist of fate and luck.

The admirals celebrate at the kingfisher and everything smooths out for just a moment. It’s perfect seeing everyone in his life just coexist. Even being in the same room, just seeing Kip and his brothers in the same room makes him so unbearably happy that he feels sad at the same time.

Sad that his parents can’t see this. Terrified of the future. Deeply in love with his boyfriend.

Kip’s talking to Bennett. It’s just such a queer merge of aggressive heterosexuality and acceptance. It’s almost gut wrenching.

He never thought he would see this.

That’s when he gets the email, and he’s slightly too tipsy to read it.

It’s so strangely worded, for a second Scott doesn’t think it’s from Shane Hollander.

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: June 30th, 2017 at 9:15PM
Subject: Congratulations

---

Dear Hunter, Congratulations on winning the cup. What you did was extraordinary. Privately I can’t disclose much, but I want you to be happy with your partner. We’ll beat you next year. .

Best,
Shane Hollander

‘Privately I can’t disclose much.’ What a peculiar phrase.

It has no relevance to the overall sentiment of the message, it’s just an oddity. A space oddity, he really needs to add a lot of Bowie to his pregame mix, he’s a queer icon, scott should definitely start supporting more queer creators.

“What are you reading babe?” Kip asks. He comes up behind him and snakes his arms around Scott’s stomach, leaning his chin on his shoulder.

Scott can see them in the mirrors on the back of the bar.

“Just an email from Hollander.” He says and wow, he has definitely had too much to drink, he slurs his speech slightly and comes to the realisation that he’s too old to be drinking like this.

“ good?” Kip muses and then smiles at him that beautiful way he does. Teeth aligned and those gorgeous smile lines in his cheeks. He’s so beautiful. He really tugged Scott in and decided to find a way to nestle in his heart. God he’s so precious and imperfect and warm and complex and his person.

Kip will forever be his first love, and Scott would have never had it any other way. Truly.

Scott turns and kisses him with his whole being, like he’s breathing his life through to kips, watching them mingle then merge in a passionate spiral.

No one bats an eye, his team are dispersed around them and Scott kissed the man he loves without a single hesitation and his friends not even caring enough to notice.

Fuck.

He’s so fucking happy.

—

July, 2017 

The NHL awards in August are far more interesting than they have been in previous years. kips in the audience (Kips in the audience!), his speech goes well, he drinks probably too much but doesn’t care, and as the night dwindles, he sees Rozanov as he’s getting another beer.

He’s as smug as ever and ribs Scott for being a cradle robber. Scott is not a cradle robber. Kip is a respectable 4 years younger than himself. Granted, he looks younger because he doesn’t put himself under as much pressure as Scott does, but that’s a conversation for another time.

Then there’s a sobering moment. Scott’s had a few too many beers and Roz is obviously on the vodka and then…

“I think…” Rozanov says, deeply contemplative, “that you are very brave. And I think that you have changed something. Well for me at least”

Scott feels something sting deep in his soul. It’s when he meets Ilya Rozanov’s eyes that he sees himself there. Cracked between two worlds.

He never had this as hard as Rozanov probably has. He never grew up in a country that could arrest people for being queer,but it’s never been easy, it’s never been good, and he sees it in Ilya. The pain of European flings, the secrecy, the hiding part of yourself. The locker rooms. The ice, the parties and the clubs, the overwhelming fear…

The loneliness. The absolute loneliness of coveting a part of yourself.

He sees Ilya finally.

There’s an unspoken moment between them. One where Rozanov has admitted something in silence and Scott needs to meet him there.

Rozanov’s queer. He thinks. Rozanov just let me know he’s queer.

“I think you should be proud.” Rozanov says. “And I think you need to help make things better.” He breathes out. “Some of us don’t get the chance to be brave.” He whispers.

Scott nods. Then he looks at Ilya, properly looks at him for the first time since they met and he was 18 and still had a bit of the baby chub.

He’s still just a kid. He’s only 25 and yet he’s so much older than he seems.

“I hope you get the chance.” Scott says quietly.

Ilya nods. He turns his head away and blinks aggressively, the base of his palm meeting his eye.

He looks skyward, and wipes under his eye with his finger.

He exhales deeply and looks back at him.

“Thank you.” Ilya says with a nod and bloodshot eyes. “I will tell him that too. That he is allowed a chance to be brave.” Ilya cracks a grin, “when I marry him we won’t feel worry anymore. About prison and deportation.” He says. “But you made it easier for us.”

Scott laughs because he’s not sure what else he should do.

He stands opposite Ilya. He shakes his hand.

“See you next season, Rozanov.”

Ilya laughs. “Oh I thought in speech you implied this was your last.”

There’s a warmth that settles in his chest. An ache in his heart that finally lets him feel full. “You’re an asshole.”

“Da, yes, but I’m someone’s asshole.”

Scott grins the rest of the evening. He effervesceses with something unique and can only chalk it up to not being alone.

And no. Rozanov didn’t almost make him cry.

(He swears that to Kip on his way home and Kip calls him a liar)
—

It’s years later when Ilya and Shane are outed.

This guy called Brad blasts it on twitter (which Scott doesn’t have because it stresses him out) a video, blurry, but still incriminating evidence of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov making out in Hayden Pike’s back yard.

Fucking Pike! It’s really not that hard to not out someone, god, he’s never accidentally outed someone and he’s fucking gay! Someone needs to sit pike down and explain how to be an adult. Scott met his wife once (maybe Jayden or Jocelyn) and she was excellent company and very bright. She had a masters in biomed and talked about her field like she missed it. Maybe he needs to be a fucking stay at home dad (because he’s shit at hockey) and she should be doing the earning.

Pike would have words created for him purely because of his idiocy.

Kip’s fist pumps the air. “I fucking called it.” He yells. “Ha!”

Scott needs a lie down.

“Babe you need to send them something.” Kip continues. “Maybe some fruit? A box of lube?” He jokes with a light laugh.

Maybe some fucking earplugs for Hollander. He thinks. Rozanov is irritating as is, he can’t imagine anything worse than dating him.

“Yeah, I’ll think about it.” He says.

In the dusk, when the air has cooled and their apartment doesn’t feel as suffocating, Scott Hunter writes an email.