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“Hunter!”
It felt like everyone had been calling his name all evening, but this voice stood out. For starters, it was loud and deep — a hockey player for sure. There was something very specific about the timbre of a man who was used to commanding attention over the ice. But more telling was the lilting Russian accent that carried it, and especially the fact that it was as familiar to him as the way Kip said his name. Though this was from the number of times it had been shouted at him in the ice in this exact way, a chirp hot on it’s heels.
“Rozanov. Congrats on the nomination.”
“Eh, I have time to win again. You will have to retire before next award season so you won’t be competing next year I think.”
And there it was, he knew there was no way Rozanov was willingly talking to him without it being some kind of a dig.
“Always a pleasure, Rozanov.”
“I know, I am good at giving pleasure,” Rozanov was smirking, and Scott could only roll his eyes. Every year that went by it became less and less plausible that Rozanov’s English was bad when he made the most inappropriately insane comments during press conferences, but somehow he kept getting away with it.
“Are you just here to tell me I’m old? If so we can save it for next season.”
“No no, it was not just that.” Rozanov’s face turned unexpectedly serious, and he looked around them. It was a crowded room, and Scott had only just gotten the hang of being the centre of attention like this in a room that was packed with the greatest stars of hockey from the last several decades. Even getting MVP didn’t feel like it had left him with the eyes of the world so aggressively on him as his coming out had. He could tell, like a prickling on the back of his neck, that there were still people watching even now.
“Hey, look. Kip couldn’t make it so I’ve got the suite upstairs to myself tonight. Come up for a nightcap after. Bring your own vodka if you have to. But we’re not going to get a moment of quiet here.”
“Okay, sure. You might die of you drink Russian vodka though, so be sure to bring old man drink. I do not know what old New York men drink.”
“One day your chirp will outweigh your charm and you’ll be in trouble,” Scott said with a laugh, and he bowed out with familiar pleasantries, only to be immediately drawn into another conversation with someone else that just had to tell him all about how brave he was.
The evening was long and his brain felt like it was being put in a blender, and so by the time it was reasonable for him to stagger back to his hotel room — perhaps after one-too-many drinks had been handed to him by elderly hockey pundits determined to show they could never be homophobic — he’d completely forgotten that Ilya Rozanov would be waiting for him.
Apparently Rozanov had been watching his progress through the hall, as he joined Scott in the elevator, raising his eyebrows as Scott happily smudged the polish on the mirror by letting it hold him upright for the trip to the top floor of the hotel.
“Perhaps this is not good time to talk. I can go back—”
“No, no. I’ll have a glass of water and then I’ll be with you. Just give me a minute to freshen up. I’m sure there’s glasses for you around the minibar.” Scott opened the door into his room and gestured vaguely to the seating area that was separated from the ‘bedroom’ — which was in actuality just a wall the width of the headboard behind which the bed was hidden from the door. Then again, Scott was staying in a very nice hotel in a room that he wasn’t paying for, so he wasn’t really in a place to critique the nature of it as a suite.
He came out of the bathroom feeling much fresher after a splash of water on his face and gulping down some water from the tiny cups that hotel bathrooms always seemed to favour. When he returned to the seating area, Rozanov had clearly made himself comfortable. He was sprawled in a performative-casual way, with one leg draped over the arm of the armchair he’d claimed, and a tumbler with two fingers of clear liquid pooling in the bottom held irreverently between thumb and single finger. The whole pose reminded Scott of the nonchalance of a mob boss awaiting his underlings. It was exactly the kind of dramatic nonsense that Scott had come to expect from the Russian, and he ignored it in favour of grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and sitting on the opposite chair like a normal person.
“Rozanov. What’s up?”
“Maybe I just want to see if I have bigger suite than you. Think they give me bigger room to make up for no prizes.”
“Come on, Roz. You wanted to be here. It’s clearly somewhat serious or you wouldn’t have looked like you were being hunted by wolves when we were downstairs.”
Rozanov muttered something under his breath that sounded possibly Russian, but he seemed to pull himself together after a moment, and he readjusted in the chair to now lean forward, both hands wrapped around the tumbler with a grip that wasn’t quite white-knuckled, but seemed to be offering him some form of comfort. He stared into it intensely for a breath, then looked up at Scott, his nerves settled.
“It was good. What you did. Coming out. Being… open. Free.”
“I mean, thanks man. You’re not the only one to say it, but it does mean a lot coming from another active player.”
“No, sorry I am not saying it right. It was important, what you say.” Maybe Scott had overstated Rozanov’s English skills - they seemed to be failing him somewhat now. “How you are out there on the rink and on the TV and being sure people are watching. It makes a difference, I think. To a lot of people.” Rozanov took a deep breath and his eyes turned back down to his drink. “It makes a difference to me, also.”
Scott didn’t want to leave Rozanov hanging in the silence that hung heavy between them after that last comment, but he didn’t really know what to do with that. Had Roz really just…? Eventually he managed to stutter a response.
“I’m glad, man. I wasn’t really thinking about anyone but me in that moment, you know? But I’m still glad.”
Rozanov smiled; a small, shy thing that was entirely unfamiliar to Scott. It sat gently on his face, not uncomfortable, but muscles clearly unfamiliar with such a soft expression.
“I think I am not only one who might say this. Maybe they don’t say to you because is scary. Even knowing that you understand. But I wanted to be sure that you heard from me, at least.”
“Yeah? You think there’s more than two gay players in the MLH?”
“Am sure there must be. And I am not gay. Bisexual.”
“Oh. Right. I mean, maybe I should have guessed.”
“Yes, everyone knows I am a sex god. Many beautiful women.”
“And… beautiful men?”
Rozanov blushed, the same soft smile returning to his face.
“Just one beautiful man.”
Scott recognised that look. It was the one he’d had on his face last time he and Kip had stood side-by-side in his giant master bathroom, putting away their toothbrushes together when Scott caught his own love-sick expression as the reality of them being together had started to sink in.
“Well, he’s a lucky guy. Bring him along next time you play in New York and maybe he and Kip can watch from the Kingfisher together.”
“What is Kingfisher, is bar? He will not go to a bar. Too boring. And he… he cannot travel when I play. He is so beautiful that people notice when he is gone, and he… he is not out. Too hard for his job. Like us, yes?”
“Oh. Yeah. I mean, I get it. If he ever did want to, I dunno, reach out, though, he can. Me or Kip, whatever he wants.”
Rozanov’s smile morphed back into his familiar cock-sure grin.
“And I cannot bring him in case you try to steal him from me. You are boring like him, perhaps it will make you not want your hot smoothie man any more.”
“Oh shut up, Roz. And you clearly think Kip is hot, too. Maybe I should be worried about you and him?”
“No, I think I will keep mine to myself. For now. Maybe when we are married and he cannot escape, then I will bring him to gay hockey bar in New York.”
‘Shit, marriage. This is serious to him, then.’ Scott couldn’t help but grin to himself. It was nice, seeing this softer side of Rozanov.
“Whatever you decide, you’re welcome. Here, I’ll give you my number, and then I’ll check with Kip and send you his too. For your guy, if he wants it.” Scott held out his hand expectantly, and Rozanov pulled out his phone and tapped in his pin before handing it over, opened to a new contact page. Scott typed his own number in clumsily, almost dropping the phone at least once as his hand-eye coordination decided to remind him that a few glasses of water wasn’t actually enough to sober him up after a long night of champagne toasts, and he was about done typing in his own name when a text popped up from a ‘Jane’
Jane: If you’re antagonising Hunter again, I’m going to throw all your kit in the lake and make you wear my mom’s Voyageurs jersey the whole time you’re here, don’t try me.
Scott couldn’t help but snort with laughter. Ilya frowned and reached over to snatch the phone back, catching sight of the text and frown given further.
“He is so mean to me, maybe I will let you take him away after all.”
“Sounds like he’s got your number, Roz. Montréal? Of all places? That’s a low blow.”
Rozanov gave a dramatic sigh. “I know. But he is so perfect in bed that I must overlook his family’s loyalty to bad Canada teams. Perhaps one day he will come around and support better team.”
“Good luck with that. And hey, at least he gets hockey. Kip still barely knows which end of the rink is which, but he’s enthusiastic when I’m winning which is nice.”
“Is true, he knows more about hockey than anyone. Except his mother, I think. I do no know, I have not met family. I do not know if we.. if it is there.”
“Has it been long? That you’ve been together?”
“It has been, I think you say ‘on and off’ for a very long time. Since I first come from Russia.”
Fuck, that was nearly a decade ago.
“Shit man. That’s intense. But uh, yeh I think if you sleep with lots of people who aren’t him that’s going to send some mixed messages. Maybe stop doing that if you want to make a real go of it.”
Rozanov was frowning at Scott, but Scott realised it was more in puzzlement than anything. Shit, yeah. His English was good, but that was probably an obscure phrase.
“I mean, if you want it to be real — if you want it to last for you guys, you have to be clear about what you want. Most guys like monogamy in the long run, no matter how good you are in bed.”
“What is ‘monogamy’?”
“Oh, means just having one partner.”
“Da, yes. I think I have done that. This season, at least.”
“Well, that’s a good start.” Scott found that he was actually enjoying talking to Ilya Rozanov of all people, and he didn’t really want the evening to end. But the long night and the busy day were starting to catch up to him, and he found that instead of answering back to Rozanov, he opened his mouth wide in an impressive yawn.
“Ah, yes. I forget. You are old man that must go to bed early. I think you will have a bad morning anyway.”
“One day you’ll be thirty and then I will laugh and laugh.”
“Sure thing old man. I will get out of hair and let you have boring old man video sex with your guy.” Roz said, downing the last of his drink and tucking the vodka bottle back under his arm. Scott stood and led him to the door like the good host he was. He was about to open the door for Rozanov when the Russian turned around and looked at Scott with the same serious expression that had inspired Scott to invite him up in the first place.
“I know that you are not bad man, Scott Hunter. But you also know that nobody can see. If you have to retire then that is shame because you love hockey, but you are old. Have long career already. I have only a short time in the league. I am good, but maybe people are too horrible for me to stay. And I cannot be best player in Russia if people know that I…” Rozanov’s courage seemed to fail, and Scott couldn’t help but lean forward and grasp Rozanov buy his shoulders, enveloping him slowly into a bear hug like he was some kinds of scared animal. The tension in Rozanov’s shoulders was as hard as if he was still wearing his pads.
“I won’t say anything about you. To anyone. Not even Kip, if you don’t want me to.”
“I think maybe you can talk to your boyfriend. After all, having secret is lonely.” Rozanov backed up and smiled at Scott, who decided to ignore that it was a little watery. Rozanov clearly did not want to be in this conversation any more.
“I knew you were secretly paying attention when I was speaking.”
“Yes, well. I need to have something to help me sleep on the plane home. After all, I already know all the things you say. Very predictable Scott Hunter.”
“You know what, I think you might be the only person to tell me today that I am predictable.”
“Even when you are doing big crazy thing that is not boring, everything else you do must be extra boring to match the evens. I mean… the scales. What is phrase?”
“God, you’re such an asshole. And I think you mean ‘balance the scales.’ Fuck me, you’ve got me writing your chirps now, it’s definitely time for bed. Go on, go home. Call your guy and tell him how you feel.”
Rozanov nodded and put his hand on the doorknob.
“Thank you, Scott Hunter. For the one big not-boring thing that you have done. Nearly makes you interesting person.”
And with that, Ilya Rozanov danced out of the door and off to find his own room.
Scott stood slightly stunned in the middle of the doorway for a long moment, his mind whirring, before he shook himself and started thinking about his own bed.
Scott threw off the rest of his suit, letting it fall crumpled to the ground, and picked up his own phone out of the jacket pocket to text Kip back, ignoring a half-dozen messages from others who were 'so sad' they hadn’t caught up with him at the party.
Scott: you’ll never guess who I just sat down for a drink with…