Chapter Text
Kip was lying in bed, breathing heavily. His boyfriend had just gotten home from a roadie and they’d been making up for the couple nights they’d spent apart. At least they had been until someone had started banging on the door.
“They’ll go away,” Scott muttered, going back to kissing Kip’s neck. Kip leant his head back to give him more room.
Bang, bang, bang.
“Or not,” sighed Kip.
Scott reluctantly peeled away from him. Kip took in his professional athlete boyfriend’s sweaty torso on full display, jeans hanging low on his hips. Kip had gotten Scott’s belt half-undone, but the hockey player was quickly working to reverse his hard work. Bummer.
Scott leaned in to give him a peck, “Be right back.”
Bang, bang, bang.
“I’m coming,” Scott called. Kip watched his ass as he walked away, hugged by his jeans that fit just a little too snuggly. Thank God for hockey butts.
He fell back against the mattress with a sigh. God, he’d missed Scott. Every time he went on the road the apartment just felt so empty without him. Sure, it was a nice place (a very nice place), but it didn’t feel the same without the hockey player there. Without his quiet, comforting presence, it felt more like a show-piece than a home.
Kip let his hands trail over the soft sheets. Scott’s pillow hadn’t even been touched yet. Sometimes when Scott was gone, Kip would hold it during the night to fill some of the empty space in the bed (a little pathetic, but who was going to know about that?). He always made sure it was perfectly back in place when Scott got home.
He’d been preparing the house all day for Scott to get back, making his favourite food for dinner, cleaning up the take-out containers from late-night reading obsessions. Scott had a rough run of games lately, plus the fight he’d gotten into in Montreal. Kip hadn’t had a chance to ask about it yet, Scott jumping him practically as soon as he’d gotten in the door. He was pretty sure Scott’s duffle bag was still on the floor of the entryway where he’d dropped it in place of picking Kip up to carry him to the bedroom.
Maybe Kip should prepare a little extra surprise for when Scott was done with the door? He let his hands find his belt, pulling the buckle open, fingers going for the button of his jeans—
A loud thump resonated through the house.
Kip paused.
He couldn’t hear what the person at the door was saying – Scott’s apartment was too big.
Maybe he should go see what was taking so long—
Another thump.
Muffled yelling. Kip could just make out, “—how fucking dangerous…throw it out…ice!”
He was out of bed, fingers refastening his belt, and walking down the hall without a second thought.
“Not my fault you’re fucking someone in the fucking league!” Scott yelled.
Kip came into the room just in time to see Scott’s fist fly at some guy’s head. To watch it get caught in the other guy’s hand as he held on to Scott’s wrist and twisted—
Kip once again moved without thinking, wrapping both arms around the guy pinning Scott to the wall, “Hey, get the fuck off of him!”
“Kip—” Scott tried to warn him as the other guy wrestled in Kip’s arms, trying to pull away.
Kip held on tighter, trying to dislodge him from Scott, “Get a hold of yourself, man!”
For some reason, that worked. The other guy paused and then he was bodily shoving Kip off. Kip stumbled, Scott shooting out a hand to steady him before abruptly letting go, keeping them separate.
“Who the fuck are you?” the guy asked. He had an accent. Russian maybe?
Russian…Fuck.
Kip finally had a chance to take him in and that was definitely Ilya fucking Rozanov standing in his apartment.
Kip raised his hands, taking a step away from one of the most brutal players in the league, “I don’t want any trouble.”
Ilya looked at Scott, waving his hand at Kip, “Who the fuck is he?”
Scott wouldn’t look at him. Kip’s head was swinging between them both, trying to figure out why Ilya Rozanov had shown up to their apartment to supposedly beat Scott up. What the fuck?
“Does he know?” Ilya asked.
Scott still didn’t answer. He briefly glanced at Kip out of the corner of his eye before resolutely turning his gaze back to the floor. What the fuck was going on?
“Does he know?” Ilya yelled this time.
Kip watched Scott’s shoulders hunch. He wanted to reach out to comfort him, to protect him, but there was someone else here, so he kept his hands to himself.
Scott shook his head, still looking at the floor, “No. Well, I didn’t tell him. But I imagine now…”
Ilya looked at Kip, a mix of fear and anger in his eyes.
It’s not my fault you’re fucking someone in the league.
Oh.
Kip looked at the bruise on Scott’s jaw in new light. The fight with Shane Hollander…Ilya showing up here…
Oh.
Kip tried for a reassuring tone with Ilya, “It’s fine, man. I’m not gonna tell anyone your secret. I wouldn’t do that.”
“How do I know?” the Russian glanced between Kip and Scott again. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m…” Kip tried to catch Scott’s eye again but his stayed on the floor. Ok. Clearly the truth was off the table, even under this circumstance so… “I’m a friend of Scott’s.”
“Friend?” Ilya raised an eyebrow with a sneer. He looked at Kip, then at Scott. Kip tried not to hunch into himself, tried to keep his back straight and head up. He didn’t care about what Ilya Rozanov saw.
He tried not to care that Scott clearly did.
At least until Ilya’s expression changed to understanding. Shit.
He hadn’t even thought what it would look like to someone else if they found a half-dressed man in Scott’s apartment. If Scott was also half-dressed.
Kip’s stomach dropped as Ilya turned to Scott and said the most damning words, “You too?”
Scott finally looked up, but at Ilya. Not at Kip.
Ilya nodded, “Ok.”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Scott pleaded, voice desperate. Kip just stood there, next to him but still so far away.
Ilya scoffed, “Do not worry Hunter. I will not throw secret in your face during game.”
“I-I know it wasn’t cool—”
“Not. Cool?” the Russian spoke slowly. Deliberately. With menace. “You almost out him in front of whole arena. Is more than not cool.”
Kip’s eyes snapped to Scott in surprise. He wanted to ask if that was true, if Ilya was making that up. Surely Scott would never do something like that, let alone to another player, except…
Scott still wouldn’t look at him.
“You know what happen if people find out,” Ilya continued. “If players find out.”
“Yes,” Scott mumbled.
“Then you keep your big fucking mouth shut.”
Scott’s jaw clenched, “Understood. We good?”
Ilya walked straight up to him so their faces were level. Kip made to step forward, wanting to get between them—
Scott finally looked at him, stopping him in his tracks.
Ilya sneered in Scott’s face, “Come near Shane again and I will knock your helmet off next game.”
Scott didn’t say anything back, just let Ilya step up to the door to leave.
Before he did, he turned back. His eyes raked over Kip with what was probably normally a very flirtatious smirk stretched over his face. Right now, it just added to Kip’s apprehension.
“Nice meeting you,” the Russian leered at Kip’s half-exposed body, “friend of Scott.”
Kip didn’t say anything, just looked at Scott who was still looking at the floor.
Ilya turned to Scott one more time, “See you next game.” And then he walked out the door.
It shut with a click, leaving them in silence. Scott raised a hand to his jaw, feeling the tender skin where Ilya’s fist had connected. Kip wanted to reach up and make sure it was ok, but he also needed to ask, “You almost outed another player?”
Scott’s hand dropped from his face as his eyes finally found Kip. They were sad. Deeply, deeply sad. And ashamed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t trying to do anything with it.”
“But you still said it.”
“It was stupid. I didn’t mean it.”
“Those are excuses, Scott.” Kip wasn’t sure why he was getting angry on behalf of some random MLH player, but all he could picture was Scott’s face at the art gallery. His fear. The panic attack he practically had until they’d been back behind the closed doors of his apartment. “Excuses don’t change that you did it.”
“I know,” Scott sighed.
“Why?”
“I…” Scott ran a hand over the rapidly-darkening bruise on his jaw. “Honestly, I was just in a bad mood. I’d had some bad games and Hollander kicked me while I was down. So I kicked back.”
“Sounds like you did more than kick.”
“I know. I’m not proud of it.”
“You could’ve said anything else to him. You could’ve came at him about something appropriate.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t have to drag that into it.”
“I know. Kip, believe me, I know.”
But just because he needed Scott to truly understand how bad that could’ve gone, he added, “You did it because you wanted to scare him?”
Scott dropped his eyes back to the floor, entire body hunching inward as he admitted, “Yes.”
“Why? Why was what he said so bad?”
“It wasn’t,” Scott sighed. “I overreacted.”
“But why does it bother you so much?”
“Because they’re so young. They’re so good. But there’s this thing that could cut them off at the knees and I don’t know why I said it. Honest. It was a low-blow – beyond a low blow.” Scott dragged a hand through his hair. He looked tired. Like he did before they’d started dating.
“You know, they have all the same fears I do and I think in that moment, I was already being so mean to myself – I keep beating myself up every game that doesn’t go my way – that when Hollander came to rub it in, I just went with the thing that I knew would hurt me the most. I don’t think I even thought about how it could hurt him.”
“Oh Scott,” Kip took a step forward, hand coming up to trace Scott’s jaw, fingers light over the injury. “Why don’t you talk to me about this?”
Scott leaned into his hand a little, “Because I don’t want to drag everything down.”
“You’re not dragging things down. Scott, I want to know if you’re hurting. I want you to talk to me.”
Scott tilted his head so his forehead met Kips, “Ok.”
“Ok?”
“Ok.” He leant in for a kiss which Kip happily granted.
Kip gave him a light smile, “Better you talk to me than airing everyone’s dirty laundry on the ice.”
Scott huffed, “Yeah, I’ll keep the washing at home.”
“Good,” Kip’s hands trailed up to Scott’s broad shoulders, squeezing the muscles there as Scott’s found his waist to pull them closer together. “Because I don’t want to see you getting into more fights.”
“I will make it a point not to.” Scott gave Kip another sweet kiss. “You still love me?”
Kip pulled back a little, “As long as you don’t do anything like that again.”
Scott’s eyes turned serious, “Never. Kip, I would never.”
“Good,” he gave Scott another peck. “Then I still love you.”
Scott hummed happily into their next kiss, deepening it quickly. His hands moved to Kip’s thighs, picking him up easily to carry him back to the bedroom.
A thought came into Kip’s head as Scott dropped him on the mattress, “Do you think they’d maybe want to talk about it? Now that we all know? Maybe we could be friends?”
Scott gestured to his bruising jaw, “I don’t think Rozanov has friendship in mind.”
“But maybe we could reach out?”
Scott just laughed as he pulled off Kip’s pants, shaking his head, “I don’t think you know Ilya Rozanov, babe.”
---
THE NEXT DAY
“Hi, how can I help—” Kip’s customer service smile dropped when he saw who walked in the door to the shop, “—you.”
“Ah,” Ilya Rozanov made a big show of looking around at the tables and chairs, the counter Kip was standing behind, the blenders lined up against the wall. He walked slowly, casually, up to the counter, placing both hands on the surface and leaning in a little. “What is good?”
Kip tried to keep his composure. Tried to act like this was just another customer. It wasn’t like the guy had purposely found where he worked, right? He’d probably just been walking around the neighbourhood and gotten thirsty.
He nodded at the menu in front of him, “Anything, I guess.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow, “You do not have favourite?”
“Um,” Kip took in Ilya’s overly friendly smile. “The blueberry one?”
Ilya looked down at the menu, finding the item, “Blue Moon Over Brooklyn.” He chuckled a little at the name.
“Uh yeah, the names are all a little over the top.”
The Russian pursed his lips before nodding, “Great. I take that one.”
And because he was already so flustered by the man who tried to beat up his boyfriend for him beating up his boyfriend finding and coming into Kip’s work, he admitted without thinking, “I usually add banana too it though.”
A great big smile stretched over Ilya’s face, “Perfect.”
Kip went to make the smoothie, trying not to squirm as Ilya watched him the whole time, never looking away. He didn’t even flinch at the loud noise when Kip turned on the blender.
Kip resisted the urge to text Scott while he waited for the blender to stop. When it did, he took his time pouring the cup, trying to psych himself up for interacting with the hockey player again.
He approached the counter with caution.
Ilya reached out to take the cup but with a spur of confidence, Kip held it back. “You’re not gonna like, make this a regular thing, right?” He tried to make himself look intimidating (and definitely failed. The other guy was a six-foot-something Russian hockey player and he was a five-foot-seven New York gay with an arts degree). This guy had come into his house. He shouldn’t feel weird about that. He hadn’t even done anything.
Ilya shrugged as Kip handed over the cup, dropping some cash on the counter, “Depends on how good is smoothie.”
Except he didn’t even take a sip before walking out the door.
What a weird fucking guy.
---
A COULPLE MONTHS LATER, OFF-SEASON
Shane Hollander pops up on Scott Hunter’s tv screen during the commercial break of the movie he’s watching with Kip. He’s set against a city-scape background with a deep blue night sky, his hair perfectly styled, easy camera-ready smile showing off bright white teeth.
“Hey, isn’t that the guy you got into that fight with?” Kip asks, sitting up a little from where his head is resting on Scott’s shoulder. “The one with the crazy boyfriend?”
“Uh, yeah,” Scott says. He’d given Kip the full recap of the fight after Rozanov had left and they’d finished their…other activities. Kip had been understanding, offering Scott a place to open up about the fears he’d been having. Not just about his sexuality and their relationship, but also about his career, his ability to perform, how many years he had left in him.
It had actually been rather cathartic.
“Hollander does a lot of these commercial things.”
On the screen, Shane holds up a cup with a purple label. “My favourite pre-game routine?” he asks the imaginary audience. “A Booster Juice smoothie.”
Scott frowns. What were the odds Shane Hollander would be doing a smoothie commercial? He thought the guy mostly stuck to luxury stuff like watches and shit.
“And for a limited time, you can get my favourite order from the new menu: the Brooklyn Blueberry.”
Kip sits up all the way.
“Is he talking about…?”
Shane takes a sip of the smoothie with a satisfied smile, “Mmm, delicious.”
“No,” Scott doesn’t even sound convincing to himself. “There’s no way Rozanov would fuck with us that much.” There’s no way Hollander would steal his smoothie recipe.
“Really?” Kip is definitely not convinced. “Cause he seemed pretty—"
“Hot tip,” Shane catches a piece of fruit thrown at him from off-screen. He holds it up to the camera, “Add banana for a little extra sweetness.”
And looking dead in the lens, Shane Hollander fucking winks.
Scott is going to kill Ilya fucking Rozanov.