Chapter Text
Scott Hunter is a very brave man.
At least, that’s what people keep telling him: Kip. Their circle of crazy friends. Most of his teammates.
But right now, right here, Scott doesn’t feel very brave. He feels like a coward. Considering he’s currently hiding on the fucking rooftop terrace of a luxurious hotel in Las Vegas, Scott is very certain that most people would agree with him.
A few stories below him, the reception of the MLH awards is in full swing. Scott should be there too.
He should pose for the press with his new, shiny trophies—trophies Scott is very proud of. He won’t deny that. He should probably also thank them. They are most likely the reason why everyone Scott has interacted with so far is mustering up a modicum of decency. You don’t want to wake up to nasty tabloid headlines and a Twitter outrage after punching the gay guy in the face.
He should be mingling with investors and stakeholders, who’d lecture him for his “risky behavior” (the market, Scott, the market). Or who’d fantasize about making him hockey’s gay poster child (the market, Scott, the market).
He should be talking to his fellow players and convincing them that being gay is not a terminal disease. Also, it’s not contagious. So no need to recoil from shaking his hand.
Instead, Scott is up here.
He wishes Kip were here, too. His presence always grounds him. But Kip is in New York.
Scott sighs. Maybe he can call. He digs through his pockets and fishes his phone out; checks the time, and groans. It’s two in the morning. So five in New York. Kip is, hopefully, fast asleep.
Dejected, Scott slips his phone back into his pocket, then moves towards the glass barrier that rings the rooftop. Like New York, Las Vegas is a city that never sleeps. But the vibe is different. The neon lights of the casinos and hotels are harsher, the noise more jarring.
And even at this godforsaken hour, the air is too warm and stifling. It makes him drowsy.
Tilting his head back, he closes his eyes for a second. He doesn’t bother to stifle a yawn.
Behind him, somebody chuckles, dark and foreboding.
Scott freezes mid-yawn. His eyes fly open in sheer panic. No. No, no, no. Please, no. Of all the league’s assembled assholes—
“Is grandpa tired?” crows a menacing voice, accent thick and way too familiar. “Is past bedtime for old people, da?”
Scott doesn’t need to see Rozanov to picture his smirk. After numerous face-offs, his shit-eating grin is burned into Scott’s memory for eternity.
Slowly, Scott turns around just as Ilya Rozanov steps out of the shadows. And of course, he’s fucking smirking. With all the neon lights surrounding them, it’s even more unsettling. It reminds Scott of a predatory animal, stalking the jungle, ready to pounce.
Scott rolls back his shoulders. “Rozanov.”
“Hunter.” Rozanov tilts his head in greeting.
The thing about Rozanov is that he’s highly unpredictable. He’s an asshole, sure. He constantly mocks, taunts, and antagonizes. He’s been chirping at Scott about his old age and creaking joints since their first face-off. But Scott doesn’t remember any slurs. Maybe, Rozanov does have some standards.
Then, Scott recalls Vaughny’s warning words from the Sochi Winter Olympics a few years ago, and a shudder runs down his spine. Scott might not know Rozanov’s views on homosexuality. But he certainly knows how Russia regards people like him. It’s enough reason to stay wary.
Scott squints at Rozanov, assessing. Rozanov’s jaw is clenched, and his shoulders squared. He’s discarded his tuxedo jacket, and the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up. His hands are furled into fists. His expression is unreadable.
Unease settles into Scott’s stomach. He recalibrates.
Maybe he was wrong about Rozanov. Maybe that’s where Rozanov draws the line... gay hockey players.
Right now, Scott isn’t very sure about many things. He’s tired and a little bit tipsy, and his brain feels sluggish like a video still buffering. But he knows that neither a fucking tux nor the prospect of catching “gay germs” won’t stop Rozanov from throwing a punch.
Scott shifts his weight, adjusting. Rozanov is younger, faster, and stronger. But Scott has played hockey for nearly three decades now, and he still has most of his teeth. He knows how to dodge a punch... and counter.
But the punch never comes.
Instead, Rozanov extends his right hand. Scott stares at it, bewildered.
“Congratulations,” Rozanov says.
Scott blinks. Once. Twice. Then, his eyes flit to Rozanov’s face, searching for … honestly, he has no idea. Any sign that this is a trick. Probably. But his face gives nothing away. If anything, he looks bored.
Scott blinks again. He must look like an idiot. Or like he’s having a stroke.
Maybe he’s actually having a stroke.
Rozanov arches a mocking brow. “I know you’re old, Hunter, but you do remember how to shake hands, yes?”
“Fuck you,” Scott snaps, and some of the tension finally eases. His brain resumes functioning, and he scrambles to grab Rozanov’s outstretched hand. Shakes it. Mutters “Thanks” before he lets go and spins away.
This is surreal. Completely surreal. And awkward as hell.
Exhaling, Scott grips the rail of the glass balustrade for support. He tries to focus on the skyline. There are lights everywhere, pulsing and glaring. There’s the wailing of sirens and the laughter. It should be enough to entertain him. It isn’t.
Scott’s eyes flick back to Rozanov, who’s digging through his pockets until he produces a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He fishes a cigarette out of the pack, puts it between his lips, and lights it.
Scott wrinkles his nose in disgust until Rozanov offers the pack to Scott. Scott’s eyes budge. He stares at it, baffled. “I … I don’t smoke.”
“Boring,” Rozanov says in a singsong voice. He snaps the pack closed and pockets it again.
Yep. Totally surreal.
Rozanov draws on his cigarette. “You came alone,” he says, exhaling a plume of smoke. “You did not bring your boyfriend?”
“No, he’s in New York.” And Scott misses Kip deeply. He wishes he were here.
Theoretically, Scott could have brought him along. The invitation the league sent him a month ago made that very clear. The invitation also made it very clear what would happen afterward. Bring your boyfriend, and we will smile and congratulate you … and then we’ll throw both of you to the press and watch while those rabid vultures devour you whole.
So, wisely, Kip has stayed in New York, and Scott has a return flight at six in the morning. All Scott has to do now is survive another hour before he can finally head to the airport.
Rozanov hums thoughtfully. “Maybe is better, yes?” He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the edge of the balustrade. His eyes grow distant as he gazes at the illuminated fronts of hotels and casinos. For a moment, Scott thinks that Rozanov understands. He’s been in the business long enough. He’s been subject to the media’s whims and harsh judgment often enough. Surely, he understands.
But then Rozanov flashes Scott a wolfish grin. “Many, many hot men around. Your handsome boyfriend could figure out that he can do much better than prehistoric Scott Hunter.”
Nevermind. Scott scowls at him. “Fuck off.”
Rozanov’s stupid grin widens, and Scott feels the sudden urge to punch him. Weirdly, it also makes him relax. It’s the most relaxed he’s felt all evening.
“Does it bother you?” he asks. “Losing to someone like me.”
Rozanov’s smirk vanishes instantly. His gaze flickers briefly, then his eyes are trained on the skyline once more. He takes another drag on his cigarette. “Very.”
Scott quirks a challenging brow. “Because I’m gay?”
“No,” Rozanov says, waving his hand dismissively. “Because you’re old. Ancient. A fossil.” He looks utterly horrified, which is very satisfying for Scott. “I lost against last dinosaur on Earth.”
Scott barks out a joyless laugh.
Rozanov scowls at him, twirling his cigarette. “Yes, yes. Is very embarrassing for me,” he grumbles petulantly. “But you used your win for a good, important cause. So I forgive you.”
Scott scoffs and rolls his eyes. “How generous.” And a good and important cause, huh?
“Yes, yes, I am very generous.”
“And so humble.”
“That too. I’m a very nice person. Nicest player in the whole league. It’s a curse. And because I am nice person, I will crush you next season. Send you home early to cuddle with your boyfriend on the couch. Then you can watch on TV how I win all the awards and trophies.” Another of Rozanov’s trademark smirks. “Is win-win, right?”
“You’re an asshole.” Despite himself, Scott’s lips twitch with amusement.
Of course, Rozanov notices. He grins triumphantly. “Da. Are we stating facts now? You’re old—”
“The joke’s getting old, too.”
“Ah, so admit you’re old, then?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“And you’re broing,” Rozanov continues, undeterred. “Terrible chirps.”
“You aren’t—”
“And very, very brave.”
“For fu—” Scott, ready to hurl another insult, cuts himself off. “Wait, what?” He stares dumbly at Rozanov, who very deliberately does not meet his eye.
“You heard me, Hunter,” Rozanov says quietly.
Scott did. His brain just can’t comprehend. Over the last couple of weeks, Scott’s been called brave by numerous people. But only a few really meant it. Scott has the distinct feeling Rozanov is among those.
“Thanks,” Scott replies. “It means a lot to me. Even when it’s coming from you.” Especially when it’s coming from you.
Rozanov hums. His gaze remains fixed on the skyline, eyes glazed and distant. His cigarette burns, forgotten. Eventually, he stubs it out; flicks the butt away. He straightens and plunges his hands into the pockets of his pants.
“See you next season, brave, old man,” he says before turning away.