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Scott's not entirely sure what to do with himself right now. He'd told Kip not to come - Scott was used to the casual homophobia threaded deep into the league and its players (and representatives, and managers, and fans, and et cetera, et cetera), but Kip was still… Adjusting.
If by 'adjusting', one meant experiencing the kind of incandescent rage only someone with supportive friends and family could when thrown deep into the hetero-normative, closed-minded echo chamber that was the MLH.
So Scott came to collect his award alone.
The room appeared to have split into three separate groups. Those who hated Scott and everything he stood for by simply existing, those who didn't care either way, or at least didn't care enough to glare at him or approach him, and those who would go out of their way to speak to him. To give a show of support to the first openly gay player in the league. Who, exactly, the intended audience of this show was, he wasn't sure. Probably depended on the person.
Unfortunately (although even his own use of this word was debatable to him), those in the latter section were very few, and very far between, and so Scott found himself playing wallflower. Not entirely away from the crowd, but certainly not part of it.
He hoped Carter wrapped up his conversation with whoever had managed to snag him and made his way back over soon. Scott would feel worse about forcing him to play babysitter if this wasn't how they'd already spent every high profile event for more than a few years now.
Scott is entirely focused on his phone when he hears someone walking in his direction. His eyes widen when he glances up, expecting Carter and being confronted by a different beast entirely.
Scott says nothing. A moment passes. He moves the fingers of his left hand against each other, anxiety flooding into every twitch.
There's another moment of silence. Then:
"It was brave. What you did."
Rozanov hasn't so much as glanced his way since he'd first caught Scott's eye on his way over. He settles back against the same wall Scott's been occupying, staring out at the crowd with little emotion on his face.
Scott's not surprised by the lack of expression - aren't Russians known to be pretty stoic?
What he is surprised by is the compliment. That had to be what that was, right? A little lacklustre, sure, three words - it was brave - but it was almost overwhelmingly positive compared to the shit he'd had to take off some of the other players. And management. And fans.
Christ.
Scott can't claim to know too much about Ilya Rozanov - he's kind of an asshole, kind of a prodigy, and definitely a cocky little shit-talker - but he supposes he'd just assumed he would, at best, be casually homophobic. One of the players who chatted shit about (and maybe to) Scott, but never bothered starting an actual, physical fight over it.
Maybe it's the Russian thing - he can still hear 'Russia is not safe for people like that' bouncing around in his head, thanks Vaughny - or maybe it's just that Rozanov has always been an antagonistic dickhead, but Scott would never have even considered he'd have his support in this. Certainly not that he'd have it verbalised at a very public event.
"Uh… Thanks." Scott says. He's still not really sure how to react to these conversations with his fellow players - positive and negative alike. It's all part of a script he honestly thought he'd never have to take part in, and it leaves him wrong-footed no matter how many times he has to run through it.
Rozanov shrugs, unperturbed.
There's a beat of silence. Another.
Another.
Scott's not normally one to speak just for the sake of it, but, if he's honest, genuine and entirely positive reactions to the scariest and best thing he's ever done are pretty few and far between, and he kind of wants to hold onto it. This weird little connection he now has to Ilya Rozanov.
I came out as gay and you were nice to me about it when you didn't have to be. When a lot of people weren't. A lot of people I would've called friends not too long ago.
"Um, seriously. Thanks." Scott huffs a laugh, trying to inject a little humor into his tone. "Not everyone feels that way about it."
Understatement of the fucking century.
"Fuck them," is Rozanov's immediate reply. Blunt and straightforward and entirely certain. He turns his head to look Scott dead on as he continues. "Good for you. Fuck them."
Rozanov's face is inscrutable but his tone is ringing with finality. He isn't joking, or chirping, or antagonising. He's just entirely on Scott's side here.
It's… Pretty nice. It's really fucking weird.
There's another beat of silence. Scott feels his throat tightening a little with the threat of tears, which is simultaneously stupid and embarrassing.
Then, from a few feet away: "Rozy!"
Rozanov's head snaps around at the call.
Saved by the bell. Sort of.
Rozanov leans off the wall and starts to walk away with as little preamble as he'd approached.
"I still think you should retire," he calls over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow in challenge. "You are one million years old."
Scott's eyes roll on impulse and Rozanov is gone by the time he refocuses.
So, still an arrogant little shit with a penchant for shit-talking, then. Just… Not about this.
Scott being gay is the lowest hanging fruit in that regard, and Ilya Rozanov had just made it abundantly clear where he stood about that. About other players taking advantage of that, too.
What an odd fucking world.
Scott's immediate impulse is to text Kip, of course. So he does.
Scott: I can't believe what just happened.
Scott: Ilya Rozanov is the cockiest little shit in the league. He's an asshole and he's irritating and he's always calling me old as time. He's a Russian chirp-machine who starts fights over nothing with a grin on his face. He just told me I was brave for coming out.
Scott: Craziest thing that's ever happened to me and I came out on live TV by making out with the most beautiful man I've ever met after winning the cup.
Kip's response is almost immediate.
Kip💕 hearted this message.
Kip💕: guess i'll add him to my new list of favorite hockey players :)
Scott: Please don't.