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The thing is, Kip hadn’t been trying to eavesdrop. He really, really hadn’t. When he was a teen, he’d developed a slight obsession with Russian literature, and so when it came time to choose language courses during undergrad, he’d of course chosen Russian. After the three mandatory credits, he’d given up on this quest and found a new thing to fixate on, but he’d still come out on the other side with a middling understanding of basic Russian. He couldn't write it for shit, but, well… The way Rozanov had been speaking—slow and precise like he was talking to a student—that made him that much easier to understand.
And now Kip is faced with the reality that he knows something he is definitely not supposed to know. And he needs to tell someone or he is going to lose his fucking mind. But he’s also not okay with outing anybody. Two anybodies. Two very gorgeous and famous anybodies.
He was not expecting anything this delicious to happen when he’d agreed to accompany Scott to All-Star weekend.
“If I tell you something will you promise to never utter a single word of it to another soul, not even hint at it, not even on the ice when you’re pissed off and tweeting or whatever—”
Scott snorts out “chirping” and continues to laugh at his expense.
“Yeah, sure.” Kip waves his amusement away with his hand and continues to pace in front of their very large, very luxurious hotel room bed. “Like I know I should take it to my grave, but at heart I’m just a messy bitch and Scott, I have to fucking tell someone. It’s going to make my head explode.”
“Can't have that,” Scott quips. When Kip gives him a dirty look he continues with, “Okay, yes. I swear I will take your secret to my grave.” He holds up his hand like the boyscout he probably was. If he ever had time for that sort of thing outside of his hockey training. “I won’t even use it for chirp-fodder. And just the fact that I could has me pretty damn intrigued I have to say.”
Kip runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the strands a bit. He figures he can’t really back out now—even though he feels a little sick at the thought of exposing a secret that isn’t his own.
Fuck it. He tumbles down onto the cushy mattress next to Scott and takes a deep breath. “So…” he begins. He sinks his fingers into the fluffy duvet and tries not to look over at Scott. “I used to have an unhealthy obsession with Tolstoy in my teens.”
When he glances over at last, Scott’s face is screwed up in an adorable look of abject confusion, but bless him, he doesn’t interrupt Kip’s train of thought.
“And, like, I had to take language classes for my undergrad degree. I chose Russian. Reading Tolstoy without losing the subtle nuances to translation? I mean—”
Scott raises his eyebrows.
“Okay, so, maybe that’s not an important detail… But what I’m trying to say is that I took, like, three Russian language courses.”
“So you can speak Russian?” Scott asks, unable to hold himself back from interrupting in the face of Kip’s struggling any longer.
“I mean, not fluently, but I can get the gist, and definitely some phrases, yeah.”
“And…” He can see the exact moment when Scott—beautiful, intelligent Scott—puts the pieces together. “Rozanov was speaking Russian at the bar.”
Kips nods, suddenly feeling tense. “To Shane Hollander,” he says, almost wishing Scott would put two and two together without him having to spell it out.
But the universe is not his friend today it would seem.
Scott shrugs. “And… what did he say?”
“It was mostly, like, names…” He lets his words trail off. He shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not his right. Rozanov and Hollander had thought they were safe in that room with no other Russians present. They thought there was no chance of being understood.
But Scott looks a little angry now. “What kind of names?” he spits out. He sits up straighter, like he’s about to defend Hollander. “Did that asshole—”
Kip cuts him off before he can work up a full head of steam. “Pet names.”
Scott slumps back against the throw pillows. “What the fuck?”
Kip sits up next to him, stealing one the pillows from behind Scott’s back to get more comfortable. He knows Scott is not a fan of Rozanov, although he seems to hate him a lot less since he approached him after the 2017 awards ceremony—he has not shared the details of that conversation with Kip. But after listening to Rozanov wax halfway poetic at Hollander all night, Kip almost feels the need to stand up for the guy.
“Russian is pretty romantic actually,” he starts, watching Scott’s incredulous expression. “And the pet names, too. Although sometimes they are just, like, cute animals.”
My angry little kitten, Rozanov had said, when Hollander glared across the room at a mouthy Detroit defenceman. Kip wonders what the story is there. He suspects it’s just your average homophobic bullshit he’s come to expect from most hockey players. Scott has told him some things, and he knows that what he hasn’t revealed is likely much, much worse.
“So what exactly did Rozanov say?” Scott asks, interrupting his train of thought.
Kip shrugs. “A few things. He called Hollander all kinds of cutesy names… my kitten, sunshine, and a few times my beloved—which, like, I thought maybe they were just fucking until that one. Calling someone your beloved sounds like a lot more than a hate-fucking situation, right?”
He knows that Hollander and Rozanov had told the press that they’re friends, actually, but it seems that it’s a lot deeper than that.
“Holy shit,” Scott says.
Kip nods at him. “Also, when Hollander sided with Carter when they were ribbing Rozanov, he muttered something like ‘betrayed by my own husband.’ And then Hollander hissed at him under his breath what sounded ‘not yet, asshole.’ Mind you, that was in English.”
“Holy shit,” Scott repeats. He looks like his whole world has been revealed to be a lie. “Husband?”
Kip shrugs again. If his worldview is tilted, Scott might as well be living that right next to him.
After the All-Star game, there is a gala followed by a messy party. Hockey players sure do love a party.
Kip can only handle so much. He excuses himself to the bathroom when he starts to feel a bit lightheaded. He doesn’t even need to go, but some time away from the boisterous hockey players and they’re constant ribbing has become a necessity. If one more toothless, well-meaning idiot makes a crack about Kip being Scott’s WAG he’s going to lose it.
He’s dabbing the cold water droplets from his face when Ilya Rozanov enters the room. Instead of letting the door bang loudly behind him like the guy who’d just left, he pulls it gently closed. Kip appreciates it more than he can say. He meets Rozanov’s eyes in the mirror and gives him a small smile.
Rozanov nods in return before approaching the row of sinks, choosing one four down from where Kip has planted himself. He washes his hands, and pulls a cloth handkerchief from his pocket, wetting it and using it to wipe something off his sleeve.
Kip opens his mouth to ask if some idiot spilled their drink on him when Rozanov speaks. “You speak Russian.” It’s not a question.
Kip splutters. “Oh, no. No, not— I mean, I took some classes once like years ago. So a little, but not like—”
Rozanov mercifully cuts him off. “But you understand, when I speak to Shane.”
Fuck. Kip must have been very obvious in his watching them. “Well— yeah. You were speaking very slowly and precisely.”
Rozanov smiles as if to himself. It looks soft on him. “Shane is learning.”
“Oh,” Kip replies stupidly. But isn’t that the sweetest fucking thing?
Rozanov looks up from cleaning his shirtsleeve. “Did you tell Hunter?”
The truth must show on Kip’s face because Rozanov nods his head.
“He won’t—” Kip begins.
Rozanov nods again. “I know. I joke with him, but I know Hunter is a good guy. He would not do something like that.”
Kip smiles, relaxed now, and nods back.
Rozanov re-wets his handkerchief. “Why did you learn Russian?”
“Oh, um… I wanted to be able to read Tolstoy in the original language.”
Rozanov pauses for a split second and then laughs—one loud bark. “You are smart and boring too. You would get along with Shane I think.”
“He seems really great,” Kip says lamely. He can’t seem to get his feet under him in this conversation. Rozanov keeps throwing him off balance.
“Yes, he is great. Smartest in the league and also most beautiful. After me, of course,” he adds, almost like a reflex. And maybe it is, feeding into the rivalry, the party line.
Kip huffs a laugh and Rozanov smiles again. It dims a beat later. “But do not tell Shane,” he says, “that you know. He will…panic. He worries.”
“I get that,” Kip answers right away. He remembers Scott’s own panic, the way he was when they first started seeing each other. “He’s really famous, and the sport can be…” He doesn’t feel like he needs to fill in that information. Rozanov is a queer player, he knows better than Kip just what hockey is like.
But Rozanov shakes his head at him. “He worries for me,” he corrects. “I do not have my Canadian citizenship yet, and Russia is not a safe place.”
“Yeah, that’s—fuck, that’s a scary situation.” Understatement of the century. He feels a pang in his chest. He can’t even imagine how he’d feel if Scott was only on a work visa with the lurking fear of deportation and imprisonment, torture, and possibly death at the other end of it.
Rozanov shrugs it off. “I am not worried now that I am resident, but Shane… he is worrier. I do not like to see him that way.” Even though he’s trying for nonchalant, Kip can hear the pain in Rozanov’s voice, hear the way his accent gets thicker, how he isn’t as careful with his English, dropping articles when he hadn’t been earlier.
Kips nods and blinks back the embarrassing wetness that has invaded his eyes. “I won’t say a word, don’t worry.”
Rozanov nods again. He claps Kip on the shoulder. “You are a good guy, too,” he says. “Hunter is a lucky man.”
Kip is touched. Everyone outside of his own close circle has gushed to him about his luck at landing MLH star Scott Hunter, but never the other way around.
Rozanov doesn’t wait for his response. He turns and leaves the bathroom as quietly as he entered it.
Kip doesn’t dwell on the conversation when he returns to Scott’s side at the party, but he does notice that Rozanov and Hollander disappear soon after.
The next morning he wakes from a dream where Scott is speaking to him in Russian, calling him his dearest darling.
“Why didn’t you tell me Ilya Rozanov was such a sweet guy?” he asks, blinking up at Scott standing over him drinking his coffee.
Scott splutters, coffee spilling down his chin. He wipes at it distractedly. “Are you still drunk?” he asks. When Kip sits up in bed instead of answering, he explains. “No one in history has ever referred to Rozanov as sweet, and with good reason.”
Kips laughs and steals Scott’s mug of coffee. “We had a good chat at the party last night. He clocked that I understood him.”
Scott’s eyes widen in alarm. “Did he threaten you?”
“God no—I said he’s sweet, not homicidal. He explained that Hollander is nervous, scared for him because Russia is so unsafe for queer people.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Seems like they’re waiting until Rozanov gets his Canadian citizenship before coming out.”
“That makes sense.”
Kip hums his agreement and takes a sip of his stolen coffee. He hopes that paperwork comes through soon and they don’t have to continue to hide what is obviously a very serious relationship.
They see Rozanov and Hollander once more before leaving San Jose, running into them at the hotel’s fancy breakfast buffet. They somehow end up sitting together without anyone suggesting it, being some of the only players up at the early hour.
Kip ends up across from Shane Hollander, who is charmingly awkward as he eats a big pile of scrambled eggs and fruit, pushing them far from each other on the plate when he notices his orange slices leaking juice near his eggs. Rozanov watches him with a fond expression that makes Kip want to kick him under the table. Talk about giving the game away.
Hollander catches his eye from across the table. “Scott says you’re in grad school, Kip. What do you study?”
“Oh—art history.” Kip blushes at the proud look that comes over Scott’s face.
“Cool,” Hollander says. “What’s your dream job, once you graduate?”
“I don’t know. I’ll probably end up a professor.” He shrugs. That’s the safe answer he usually pulls out. But at Hollander’s earnest interest, he feels compelled to be more truthful. “I’ve always wanted to work at the MET. Oh, that’s the—”
“Metropoliton Museum of Art, I know,” Hollander cuts him off with a laugh that sounds a bit self-deprecating. “I know I’m a hockey jock, but I actually really enjoy art galleries. You should come with Scott to Ottawa some time, visit the National Gallery. I used to go there a lot with my dad as a kid. There’s this huge sculpture out front by a Quebecois artist—this enormous spider called Maman.” He smiles a bit shyly like he’s embarrassed by how much he’s said.
“I’m not a big spider fan,” Kip says with a laugh.
“It’s pretty unnerving, honestly,” Hollander continues. “Especailly with that name. I mean, if it’s the mother you have to wonder where its babies are lurking, you know?”
Rozanov tilts his head in Hollander’s direction and asks, “What is unnerving?”
“Like… creepy. Freaks you out, gets under your skin,” Hollander answers. It comes across as routine for him to explain things like this to Rozanov.
“Ah…” Rozanov takes a drink of coffee and smirks at Hollander. “So you are afraid of spiders.”
“No. Shut up… Anyone would be with a spider that huge.”
“Uh huh.” Rozanov’s smirk grows and Hollander bristles next to him.
“Okay, mister wolf bird,” he mutters under his breath.
Rozanov wiggles in his seat like he’s pleased with himself and skewers a sausage with his fork.
“Rozanov is scared of loons,” Hollander explains.
“I have reasons,” Rozanov says.
Hollander rolls his eyes and turns to look at him. “If you’re going to be worried about Canadian waterfowl, you should fear the Canada Geese, not the loons.”
“Canada Geese I respect,” Rozanov argues. “They come at you like: I am asshole. I will fuck your shit up. There is no hiding in the dark, screaming at each other over the lake, making plot for murders.”
“Loons don’t murder.”
“How do you know? Have you asked them in your bird talk, seen proof in their little red devil eyes?”
When Hollander just stares at him with a blank expression, Rozanov throws his hands up dramatically like he’s proven his point.
Hollander looks back over at Kip and Scott. “Rozanov is scared of loons,” he repeats in a deadpan.
After they leave, Scott leans in to steal a strawberry off Kip’s plate as a cover to whisper in his ear. “So those two are really a thing, huh?”
“Absolutely,” Kips whispers back.
Scott sits back in his chair. “Huh.” He picks at the coffee stir stick on the side of his saucer and twirls it between his fingers. “Weird.”
“That too,” Kips agrees. Weird is a perfect description of their whole thing.
“Do you think it’ll last?” Scott asks. “If you were a betting man?”
Kip shrugs. “A hundred bucks says 18 months before they can’t handle the bickering anymore.”
“Six,” Scott counters.
They shake on it.
Two years later, Kips receives a wedding invitation via text. He texts back: How did you even get my number?
Rozanov doesn’t answer the question.
Tell Hunter his lack of faith in us means he has to buy a very big expensive gift. Shane needs a new espresso machine. He only likes the fancy ones.
Kips shows Scott the texts. He sighs deeply and opens his phone, typing top of the line espresso machine into the search bar. “Fucking Rozanov,” he mutters under his breath.
Kip finds for his part he’s very happy to have been proven wrong. But he’s also not the one on the hook for a $5,000 espresso machine.
He points out the best one of the bunch and Scott adds it to the cart.
What’s your address? he texts to Rozanov. Scott will have it shipped directly to you.
What he gets back is a string of cry-laughing emojis.
He bites his lip to hold in his laughter. Maybe Scott doesn’t need to see these messages.