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“Having fun?”
Kip turns with a start towards the amused drawl behind him, wondering why he keeps letting Scott drag him to galas full of rich, hockey-affiliated people who apparently love to sneak up on him.
For a moment, he’s worried he won’t recognize the person who’s just approached him so colloquially, but when he registers the face in front of him, swooping angles and slicked-back curls, he freezes. No, he knows this face quite well—Scott’s tendency towards expletives whenever it appears has made sure of that. The Russian accent, the lazy smirk, the intense eyes that are currently pinning Kip like a piece of prey.
He hears the echo of Scott’s voice in his mind, talking about predator instinct, and distinctly regrets his life choices.
Ilya Rozanov arches an eyebrow, and Kip shakes himself out of his stupor.
“Uh—depends on what you define as fun.” Thank goodness that the years of snarking at Elena have honed his dry humor. He sneaks a glance in Scott’s direction, heart sinking when he spots the throng of well-tailored people surrounding him.
(Speaking of. Ilya Rozanov is very well-tailored. He cuts a sharp silhouette in his really-fucking-expensive looking suit, outlining the easy, confident tilt of his body. It’s kind of intimidating.)
It’s fine. Maybe Rozanov doesn’t even know who he is. At the very worst, Rozanov is a homophobic asshole who wants to make Kip squirm, and he’s had plenty of practice extricating himself from uncomfortable conversations at this point. He can hold his own.
Rozanov tips his head back and laughs.
“Boring, yes?” He leans forward, like he’s telling Kip a secret. “Boring can be good sometimes."
He sighs, easing back.
"But this is not one of those times.”
Kip laughs a little. There’s nothing condescending or mocking in Rozanov’s tone, and he feels some of the tension drain out of his shoulders.
Rozanov offers him a hand. “Ilya Rozanov.”
“I know,” Kip says automatically as he shakes Rozanov’s hand. “Kip Grady.”
“Oh? Hunter mentions me a lot?” Rozanov grins wide, and there’s something boyishly mischievous about it, so unlike the brooding image he seems to usually present, that instantly endears him to Kip.
He’s getting the feeling that Rozanov is not, in fact, here to be a homophobic asshole.
“He calls you an asshole, yeah,” Kip shoots back, allowing himself to relax into a grin.
“What? For worrying about old man’s health?” Rozanov holds his hands up in mock innocence. Then those intense eyes are fixed on Kip again. “But forget Hunter. You are young and interesting, Kip Grady. You are in school, yes?”
“Yeah,” Kip agrees, and feeling the chirp that’s coming, quickly adds, “Grad school. So not that young.”
It reminds him briefly of his somewhat baffling conversation with Shane Hollander a few months before. If he had a nickel for every time a top tier hockey player knew a surprising amount about his life…
“What are you learning?”
Kip blinks. Most people who ask him this do it with automatic politeness, blank-eyed, and he can usually tell his answer will go in one ear and out the other. Rozanov is waiting for his response with his head slightly cocked to the side, looking strangely…invested?
“History. I’m a huge art and social history nerd, so yeah. I’m actually writing an essay to do with professional athletes and gender norms right now.”
“Oh?” Rozanov raises his eyebrows, waves a hand as if gesturing for him to continue.
Kip snorts.
“You do not want to get me started on history. I’ll be talking until this place is empty.”
“Whatever words come from such a pretty face cannot be more boring than listening to MLH officials yap about branding of the sport,” Rozanov says solemnly, and Kip chokes mid-sip through his drink, incredulous. He can see the corner of Rozanov’s mouth quirk up with satisfied amusement.
What the fuck.
Kip’s mind is starting to make connections against his own will. He shuts it down before he can come to any conclusions. These hockey players are making it real fucking hard for him to mind his own business.
This is, he reminds himself, the man who is known to flirt with anything that moves. Who is photographed with a new woman every week.
If Rozanov notices the way his eyes narrowed briefly, assessing, he doesn’t let on, breezing past the moment.
“I am serious, Kip. I cannot listen to one more word about ‘sportsmanship conduct’ and ‘friendly competition’. I will go crazy.”
Sportsmanly, Kip corrects in his mind, but doesn’t say anything because he’s not a smartass.
“Not really your style,” He agrees instead, thinking back to the messy brawls and vicious checks he’s seen Rozanov deliver, sometimes against Kip’s own boyfriend.
“No, that is more Hollander’s style,” Rozanov says absently, and he’s reminded of the heavily dramatized commentary and petty Twitter wars he’s come across on the rivalry between the 2 players. Kip can see where some of that competitive frenzy comes from. Both of them are…intense.
Rozanov swirls his drink in his cup, takes a slow, thoughtful sip.
Without preamble, he suddenly focuses on Kip again, saying more sternly,
“You will let me know if anyone in Boston gives you or Hunter any shit, yes?”
“Oh, uh—I haven’t heard anything so far,” Kip responds, caught off guard, “but thanks.”
Scott dislikes the aggressive way Boston plays, and he almost always comes back from a game against them sporting new bruises and grumbling about his smarting pride—especially when it comes to “Rozanov, that little shit”—but he had admitted grudgingly that at least none of the many chirps thrown his way had been directed at his sexuality.
Rozanov nods. His expression is unreadable. Kip gets the distinct sense that he’s being closed back out, a window shuttering on the glimpse of animation and amusement that had played out on Rozanov’s face earlier.
“Good.”
Rozanov is distracted now. Kip tracks the practiced-casual flick of his gaze to the familiar outline of Hollander, who is smiling and nodding along in that disconcertingly blank, media-polite way in a loose circle of expensive-looking suits.
A possessive arm wraps itself around Kip’s waist, and he turns to smile reassuringly at Scott, who has materialized beside him to warily stare Rozanov down.
“Rozanov.”
Rozanov’s gaze snaps back forward, and that trademark easy smirk slides back onto his face.
“Hunter.” He clicks his tongue a little condescendingly, and Kip has to fight down a smile as Scott’s arm tightens around him. “Your boyfriend is far too interesting for you. Very smart, except for his taste in hockey players.”
There’s a startled pause, and then Scott lets out a half-indignant, half-disbelieving laugh. Kip feels him relax a little.
“Alright, Rozanov. You trying to offer up yourself instead?”
Kip could have told Scott that the attempted chirp (and probably partial test) would do the opposite of getting under Rozanov’s skin. Rozanov simply smiles enigmatically, and shoots Kip a wink.
“Goodbye, Kip. Was good to meet you, you will have to tell me more about this gender norms paper sometime.”
He turns on his heels, and then he’s gone, sauntering towards the group of sponsors still gathered around Hollander.