Chapter Text
Some men are hotter off the ice, dressed up and looking sharp. Not Scott Hunter. He is always at his most beautiful driving forward into the attacking zone, hair a pelt of dark sweaty spikes, never afraid to see Ilya coming at him. Other guys flinch or brace. Their bodies do it for them, they can't help it. Hunter's nostrils flare and he locks his jaw around his mouthguard like a muzzled wolf and his savage, starving eyes go wild and lovely as he takes the hit, as the Americans would say, like a champ.
He is Most Valuable Player tonight. Shame about the fuck-ugly suit he wears to the MLH awards. Ilya cannot believe how awful it is, dull and dry. It wrings the color from his eyes and makes him look like one of the retired players who work in the front office, strangled by their boring ties, dying by inches.
He wonders how much thought Hunter put into his outfit tonight. Did he hesitate, think twice? Worry about coming across as some kind of trendy fashion-forward fag? Or is he clinging to hope that this stolid blue insurance-salesman drag will make people think: ah yes, nothing different at all. Really, the same boring old Scott Hunter as before.
But Ilya is being unfair. It doesn't matter what Scott Hunter wears, does it? Everyone who looks at him knows already. The whole world knows. He has crossed the Rubicon. It's been twenty-seven days and nights since Hunter drew his lover onto the ice and kissed him, victorious, triumphant. Eighteen thousand fans howled and cheered as Hunter ate him alive and drank his breath in front of the Stanley Cup, NBC, Commissioner Crowell and God.
And Ilya watched on the television and thought: what world is this? This is a new world.
You are not supposed to smoke when you have badly bruised ribs. You are not supposed to strain yourself by doing too much. You are not supposed to go right back to the exact same thing that hurt you and keep doing it until you can't take the pain any more or something snaps. These things are contraindicated.
The team doctor explained all this to Ilya wearily, with a look that said he already knew Ilya would do all these things. Oh, and one more thing— you are not supposed to lie down for a long time and not move, by the way, so don't do that either.
Unfortunately, these are the four main things that Ilya was planning on doing for probably the rest of his life after breaking up with Shane, so... that's just great. Good to know.
In the old world, twenty-eight days ago, Ilya had been slowly steeling himself. There was no future. They had been so stupid, so irresponsible. Ilya had fallen in love with Shane, which was awful. Even worse, he had the horrible, creeping suspicion that he had allowed Shane to fall a bit in love with him too. He should never have let it happen. Even if Shane wasn't quite there yet, in his funny little head— even if all he wanted was more of what they already had, their new understanding after Tampa— the problem was that if they just kept going the way they were going, he would have to get there eventually. It would almost be a funny thing to tease him about, Ilya thought sometimes. You got there, sweetheart, lover, my Shane. Eventually you did. Just a little slower than me, but that is nothing new, you have always been a little slower—
Fuck you, Shane would say, tender and fierce, I got there, didn't I? and his hand would tighten in Ilya's hair—
Twenty-eight days ago that had been just a daydream Ilya liked to torture himself with. It wasn't the plan. The plan was: after the last game of the Cup final, Ilya would go back to Russia. He would let the distance do most of the work. Blame time zones, jet lag, obligations. He would probably have to mute Jane's texts, only allow himself to check the thread at designated times so that he would remember not to respond immediately. They had already been texting less because of Shane's concussion, and calling even less than that because Shane was so paranoid about phone calls at his parents' summer house. So Shane might not realize immediately that Ilya was doing a slow fade, but he would get it eventually. Ilya wished Svetlana could come with him. She would help, if he explained it to her. She could take away his phone, keep him honest.
And then. Would Shane try to demand answers? Ilya was still working on how to say it. He would say it and then he would block Shane's number if he had to. That would be the hardest part, the worst. After that— well, their lives already did so much to keep them separated. All Ilya had to do was stop fighting the current. Let it take him further and further away and all the way out and gone.
Ilya had gone back to the hotel after Shane was taken away by the medics— not right away of course. After. After they'd made them finish the fucking game, do the debrief, talk to the the fucking press. After all that. Connors had silently respected Ilya's black mood and let him go straight into the shower and hog the bathroom for half an hour, forty minutes, maybe longer. Ilya stood there and let the water beat down on his face and take away the hot, terrified tears that seemed to have no end, but even the noise of the shower couldn't block the familiar sound of Marly's fist on the hallway door: bang, bang, bang. Stupid asshole never just knocked. Ilya heard Connors' bed creak as he got up. He shook, trembled. Turned the water off and grabbed a towel and went out to hear the news.
Marly looked relieved. He knew a guy who worked with the Metros, a guy he'd played with in juniors. They weren't like friends or anything but— Ilya took the phone from his hand. Last text at the top of the screen was Marly and the guy a couple months back saying Merry Christmas, then ninety minutes ago Marly saying "any news?" and the guy replying ten minutes ago, "didn't hear this from me but he's ok, just a busted collarbone" and Marly saying "thanks man" and getting "yeah I know you're a soft bitch marleau" in response.
"This is news? I already knew you were a big soft bitch, Marly," Ilya had said, completely forgetting to fix his voice before he spoke. But Marly had just grabbed his phone back and cuffed him shakily upside the head and told him to put some fucking pants on, so probably it hadn't been too bad.
Under his John Varvatos jacket, under the thin silk of his shirt, Ilya's ribs are still a spongy mass of pain. He circulates at the MLH awards and he talks to people and he laughs, and the ache catches at him at unexpected moments. He reaches too quickly to shake someone's hand and it grinds in him like shards of glass. He stands very straight anyway, measuring each careful breath. He doesn't think anyone realizes how bad his ribs really are. He has a good poker face. Maybe he is being stupid. He is, definitely. No one would think anything if Ilya walked up and shook Scott Hunter's hand. If he said, quickly enough— yes, what you did changed things. Not just for fans. Others, too—
But if Ilya chokes. If someone interrupts them, if he misses his shot... no. This is too important for a drive-by. So he drifts through the party, in and out of the conversations and the shadows. There are eyes everywhere, or it feels like there are. Everyone watching to see who says what, who smiles and who is begrudging. Who shakes hands and who hugs and for how long. Maybe no one is watching and he is the paranoid one. He should have asked Svetlana to come tonight. She would have said, only if you buy me a new dress and some pretty shoes, and then dragged him someplace stupidly fancy and expensive, but she would have done it. And anyway, it's okay when Svetlana asks for things. They are friends, and Ilya owes her so much. He couldn't pay her back with a stack of Jimmy Choos that would reach to the moon.
But he didn't ask, so instead, he does what Sveta would do, if she were here. He smiles, and he keeps his ears open, and he listens. Late in the evening, Carter Vaughn comes by the bar where Ilya is lurking near Hunter. He says "Flying solo tonight after all?"
Hunter replies, calm and cool and low: "Yeah. All this seemed like a bit much, you know... Gonna hit the Kingfisher after, though."
Ilya stands very still for ninety seconds. Then he wanders off, pulling out his phone, and quickly googles. There is a bar in New York called the Kingfisher, and it has the little label that says LGBTQ+ friendly. Reviews are unclear on whether it's a gay bar that wants to be a hockey bar or the other way around, which sounds about right.
Ilya taps his phone against his thigh, thinking. Is he really doing this? He can feel his heart pounding, all the colors brighter. Adrenaline. He knows how to breathe through it, even when it hurts.
Scott Hunter has crossed the Rubicon. It didn't kill him. He didn't die. Now he is committed. Now the war begins. If he can do that, then Ilya can be a tenth that brave tonight, maybe. He can go to a fucking hockey bar and talk to Scott Hunter.
He orders another double vodka at the open bar first. His ribs are killing him.
New York is only about a third the size of Moscow. It's a nice city to walk in. The locals like to believe that they have some special quality that makes them too cool to bother famous people, and nobody minds if you walk fast. Everybody has somewhere they need to be.
The Kingfisher is actually not far from the ritzy hotel hosting the MLH Awards; half a mile, maybe. It's a hot, muggy night, low starless purple-twilight hovering over the rooftops. Ilya lights a cigarette as he walks, then carefully slips off his jacket, ignoring the twinge of strain from his ribs as he slings it over his shoulder. It's from Varvatos' spring collection, a slightly muted scarlet, soft textured goatskin that buttons all the way up to a high collar. One of the few colorful pieces in the show. Not quite Admirals red. People expect Ilya to wear this kind of thing. Nobody looked twice.
He checks his phone to make sure he's heading in the right direction. Looking at the map it strikes him as stranger still that the Kingfisher is also not too far from Madison Square Garden. Less than a mile as the crow flies. These places are on different planets, in different worlds.
Or maybe they used to be.
Ilya watched a bit of New York's Cup parade on YouTube. Lots of Admirals red and white in the crowd, of course, and so many, so many rainbows. Block after block of fans cheering for Hunter and the Admirals, perched high up on the fire trucks or walking along the parade route shaking hands and kissing babies. Half, maybe more than half the team in their stupidly badly-designed, ugly Pride jerseys. Hunter hoisting the cup to more cheers. Vaughn wearing a blanket-sized rainbow flag as a cape. And every crowd shot, every group of screaming fans had sometimes just one, but sometimes lots: the flag again, rainbow shirts, rainbow face-paint, rainbow everything.
Ilya has been walking for a while and more rainbows are starting to appear, stickers and signs and flyers. Of course, Ilya realizes. The Kingfisher is a gay bar in a gay neighborhood, like parts of the South End or Fenway-Kenmore in Boston. Of course. And it's June, which means Pride, so maybe there are more rainbows than usual, more events and happenings, more people spilling out from brightly-lit bars and clubs. Men walking together. Groups of friends, many obviously gay. The way they dress, the way they gesture and laugh. Couples hand in hand, arms around waists or thrown over shoulders, easy and comfortable. They don't care if anyone sees.
He starts to gets some second glances now, walking alone, jacket slung over his shoulder, his dark silk shirt starting to cling to his body in the heat. These are not "oh wow famous hockey superstar Ilya Rozanov" second glances, either. He nears a handful of men his age, sitting and chatting on the broad front steps of an apartment building, and as he passes one of the men whistles a compliment; another calls "Girl! Love your look!" and a third reaches for an unopened bottle of beer and holds it up, adding an inviting smile in hopes of tempting Ilya to join them.
Ilya locks his face into calm indifference and keeps walking.
He's starting to think this may have been a historically dumb impulse. There aren't two different worlds any more. Maybe there never were. He's already seen a couple of guys in Admirals t-shirts or sleeveless tanks, and then oh shit he gets jump-scared as a guy steps out to cross the street a block or two ahead, big and broad-shouldered in a crimson jersey, 21 on his back, C on his shoulder— but in the next second he can see it's not Hunter. Just a tall, dark, handsome man, wearing Hunter's jersey, his colors.
Twenty-eight days ago Ilya was planning to walk away from Shane, slowly. He had no illusions that it would hurt less if he did it slow. Not for either of them. That wasn't why. It would be better that way because Shane is not stupid, and he knows Ilya— oh, how well he knows— and at some point during the summer he would realize he was being broken up with. And Ilya would hopefully still be thousands of miles away in Russia, and he wouldn't have to see Shane's face when it hit.
The next time Ilya looked into Shane's eyes, Shane would already know. He would be angry. Hurt, of course. He would call Ilya a coward and an asshole and a liar, and all that would be fair. And true. But Ilya wouldn't have to live with the memory of what Shane's face looked like when he broke his heart. He sincerely didn't know if he would be strong enough to stab Shane in the heart like that and not take it back. No, he wouldn't be strong enough. No way in hell. He would apologize, he would say, I'm sorry, I was afraid, I didn't mean it, I take it back. He would go on his knees and beg Shane to forget what he said and drag them back down into the pit again.
So it couldn't be done that way. It would have to be Ilya's way, the coward's way.
Maybe someday Shane would look back and in retrospect agree that Ilya had done what needed to be done, and that it had been the kindest thing to do. This way they didn't have to remember a horrible breakup, fighting, yelling, saying things they didn't mean. They could remember the good times— that impossible night in Tampa, or their stolen morning before Ilya had known his father passed. Even the brief moment in the hospital when Shane had been so happy, his eyes wide and bright. He had whispered, had wanted. Impossible things. A good memory, if there could ever be one, for the last time they ever saw each other.
Of course Ilya would face off with #24 Hollander half a dozen times a year for the rest of his life, or at least until hockey was over, which was really more or less the same thing in his head. But he would never be alone in a room with Shane, his lover, ever again. That couldn't happen in their world.
Or so he'd thought.
And now? In this new world. Maybe those things Shane was brave enough to ask for were not so impossible.
Maybe.
There's sweat glittering at Ilya's temples. He almost misses the Kingfisher. He doesn't walk past, but he gets closer than he means to before he realizes that he's found it, that he's here, standing in front of the bar from the pictures on Google. He wants another cigarette. Another drink for sure. A night full of bad ideas. Why not? His palms are fucking sweating.
He wants to text Shane so badly. Did you see that fucking suit? Did you see that tie? Like someone asked a small child to draw a tie. Send him the number of your stylist. But he can't say that, can't hint that he wants Shane to speak to Scott Hunter. Maybe Shane doesn't want to. Or maybe he already has, on his own. They are not a couple. These are not decisions they make together.
God, if he started texting Shane now he would never stop. Did you go to your cottage already or are you still sleeping in your childhood bedroom under your posters of Hull, Kariya, Gretzky? Are you up late talking to your parents? Are you telling them Hunter's speech touched a nerve? That you are that boy too, that man— lonely, exhausted, afraid?
What did you think, what are you thinking?
He'll never know unless he keeps his word and goes to Shane's cottage this summer. He doesn't know if he's brave enough to do that without talking to Scott Hunter first.
So, oh fuck, fuck—
Here goes nothing.