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The breeze that hits Scott’s face when he makes it out behind the club isn’t cool exactly–this is still Vegas in June–but it is refreshing. Less stifling than inside had been.
Tonight has been insane—in a good way—and he just needs a few minutes to take a breath. The subdued quiet is a welcome respite from the loud music and shouting, something Kip was a little more used to than he was. Even if it was ridiculously crazy how exhilarating he felt about being able to be with him in public. He still had to keep reminding himself that everyone knew. That his life had changed but it hadn’t blown up. Sometimes it was terrifying, but it was freeing enough to make up for it. Sometimes he feels so weightless he thinks he’ll float away.
Glancing down along the back wall for somewhere to lean, Scott’s surprised when his eyes snag on a familiar figure. He narrows his eyes at the figure smoking, trying to place him. Then his eyebrows raise.
Ilya Rozanov is still here?
He’d come with a few other guys, and sure Carter and some of the other Admirals are still here, but most of the other players left for straighter pastures at least an hour ago.
Scott wonders if he should go the other way, pretend he didn’t notice Rozanov. He’s not sure he has the energy for any sort of conversation with the other man, already feeling like he’s vibrating on the edge of something. Plus with the number of drinks he’s had and the high he’s riding, he’s pretty sure he’ll punch Rozanov if he says anything shitty, without even thinking twice. Which Rozanov probably will. He doesn’t want to taint the night like that.
No sooner has he had that thought than Rozanov’s head turns. Their eyes meet. Scott sighs and heads over.
Rozanov certainly looks the part a lot better than the others, his no doubt Euro-inspired club outfit fitting better with a gay club’s scene than anything else the other hockey players had brought to the awards. He must have been planning to be going to some other similar club. Which yes, it is Vegas, of course Rozanov was planning to go clubing.
Still, there’s something else about him that seems… off. Tense is the wrong word and so is tight. To a stranger he must look casual. Nonchalant. But Rozanov is… Scott frowns as he gets closer. He’s holding himself very intentionally. Balancing on his skates. Purposeful. Controlled. His tolerance must be crazy because he doesn’t seem drunk at all—and Scott knows he’s been taking shots with the rest of them all night.
They exchange nods once he’s closer. Scott leans against the cool brick a few feet over.
Rozanov offers a cigarette.
Scott declines.
Honestly, it's the least aggravating couple of minutes he’s ever spent with the other man—probably because his mouth is shut. Well, and this year’s All Stars game. That hadn’t been too bad. Rozanov had been in an obnoxiously cheerful mood the whole game—probably because with him and Hollander on a line together, they’d obliterated the West. It’d been fun, even if he’d known people were waiting for his line to get off the ice so the rival duo would come back on.
He’d never seen anything like it. And he’d never admit it, but they’d been incredible to watch.
“Enjoying the spotlight?” Rozanov says, unable to let a peaceful silence rest. His smirk is crooked as he jerks his head back at the club. “Scott Hunter Night, ah. A bold move, no? To make it start after your bedtime.”
Scott rolls his eyes, almost relieved at the familiar vein of chirping. “Don’t you ever get new material?”
“Why bother?” Rozanov blows out smoke. “I am lazy and the fruit is there for the picking.” Scott scoffs, shaking his head. Rozanov starts to grin. “Or maybe you are bored? Yes, yes, too much, too same. Do not worry, Scott Hunter, I will be more creative next season. Lots to pick from.”
Scott starts to roll his eyes when a sudden wave of dread shoots down his spine. He’d forgotten, for a moment, what else everyone knew now. His sexuality. Kip. Fresh targets for players like Rozanov.
“Don’t—“ he stops, hating he’d even started to say anything. He’s never asked anyone, let alone Rozanov, to pull his punches before. He knows chirping is all part of the game, but the urge is there, to warn him off of his soft spots. To make it off limits, even if he hates himself for the weakness. He winces, which of course only draws more attention to his cutoff words.
Sure enough, Rozanov’s eyes are sharp on his face, his body still.
Scott looks away first. “You never let my opinion on your weak-ass insults change your mind before,” he says instead, knowing how transparent it sounds.
Rozanov makes a considering noise. “True. Maybe you are just trying to distract me from your receding hairline. And they say you cannot teach an old dog new tricks.”
Something in Scott unclenches at his words, when Rozanov doesn’t go for the obvious new weak spot. Pathetic, to be relieved about not getting called “cocksucker” right out of the gate, even though he’d been called that and worse before. It’ll hit different, he knows, the first time on ice when someone says it because it's true and not just the first insult that came to mind.
Not that, now that he thinks about it, Rozanov has ever called him that. Has he? No, he tends to be more specific. Motherfucker, asshole, cocksucker and the like are all too generic to be thrown around on ice for the Russian Rage-Bait Machine. If anything he’s more likely to call his teammates that out of stupid affection.
The closest he’s ever come was a comment about how maybe Scott wouldn’t play so stiff if he actually went out and got laid. And even that he thinks had been followed by a comment on how bad that would likely be for his hip. Anything else has been quick volleys back to Scott’s own chirps.
Something about that realization makes Scott want to push, just a little. To see if he can figure out where Rozanov’s actually at on this. He’s here at the club after all and no one really expected him to be. Not like the few Admirals who showed up and left after one drink to support their captain. There are players he’s already written off as “going to be horrendous” like most of Toronto. Ones he’s pretty sure are too professional to bring anything outside the game into it, like Hollander—who’s PR manager definitely edited his email—but who had still sent a message. Half the captains hadn’t bothered, like Rozanov.
It’s the unknowns—the players he’s spent his whole life on edge watching warily—that worry him still. “I think,” Scott decides on, “I’ve at least proven I’ve got some surprises up my sleeve.”
A startled laugh bursts from Rozanov’s chest. “Yes. Yes, you have done that. I did not think you had it in you.” Before Scott can figure out if he should be insulted, Rozanov continues around his next puff of his cigarette, “Did not think anyone did. Good for you.”
Scott wants to brush him off. He doesn’t need Rozanov’s approval or congratulations. But… There’s something about the way he says it. Scott thinks he really means it. Like he appreciates the magnitude of kissing Kip in front of everyone more than some of the others. “Thanks.” And it is nice to hear, especially from a fellow captain, one he wasn’t sure about.
Rozanov nods before frowning, like he still hasn’t said what he wants to say, but Scott’s content. What else is there for him to say? And he came to this. It’s enough. In fact, Scott’s finally cooled off enough he might head back inside and—
“I cannot do anything, say anything too…,” Rozanov says, picking his words more carefully than Scott’s ever seen him do except perhaps when he was a rookie and still hadn’t gotten a handle on answering the English press, “…public. No posts. No pride tape.” Rozanov takes another drag as Scott tries to figure out the undercurrent of what he’s saying. What he’s not saying. “I do not want you to think it is because I believe otherwise.”
Is he really taking the time to say that this congrats in a dark alley is all the support he’s gonna give? It sours something in Scott’s gut. Not that he should have expected anything but it seems distasteful to come right out and say he won’t bother with anything more. If he actually doesn’t have an issue with Scott being gay. “Oh, really?” his words come out more bitter than he meant them too, but fuck it, he no long thinks Rozanov’s gonna try anything. He can afford to call out cowardice—something he never would have thought Rozanov of all players was capable of—when he sees it. “If you want to, why won’t you?”
“Russia,” Rozanov says simply, his voice flat and unprovoked. “Propaganda laws. Promotion of degenerate lifestyle. For a public figure, it could be millions in fines. Years in jail. It would not matter if I do so in America.”
A chill runs down Scott’s spine. “Shit.” How could he have forgotten? He’d only thought about how being Russian might affect Rozanov’s opinion. Not that it might impact his ability to even say something if he didn’t. It was one thing to worry an overzealous fan or bigot might try to attack him, but for the law to be officially on their side? A fucking nightmare. Since Rozanov is straight, he hadn’t even thought of it. “Fuck, I didn’t—”
“You are not Russian,” Rozanov replies evenly, with a shrug. It's a generous out Scott isn’t sure he deserves. Maybe that might have meant something without Sochi. It wasn’t that long ago. The law was new then, wasn’t it? He’d done some research after Carter freaked him out. “Of course you didn’t. That is why I am talking to you now. To inform you of… what is it? The cage you put on a dog’s mouth so it cannot speak. Cannot bite.”
“A muzzle,” Scott replies a little numbly. Is this the most he’s ever heard Rozanov speak at once about something that wasn’t hockey? His English is better than he realized, even if he still needs a little help.
Rozanov just nods. “Yes that. I wanted to ask that you forgive me my muzzle.” He gestures with his cigarette, “I can only do things in public that can… can be explained away. That fit my image. That will not be questioned.
“Plausible deniability,” Scott supplies again, thinking about how similar it is to the way he’s had to act in the past. That must be what its like for Rozanov with his fucked up government, even over in another country. Not that the US was perfect by any means but he could get married to Kip here, if he wanted to. Not just… disappear because he posted the something his government didn’t like on Twitter.
“That, yes. Rozanov at a club, drinking and dancing, even a gay club,” Rozanov adds with a smirk, “will not raise any eyebrow, so I come here. To this. It’s the most I can do.”
“I appreciate that, man.” He puts a hand on Rozanov’s shoulder, gives a squeeze, before he lets go. “Really.”
Rozanov shrugs, breathes out more smoke, but he didn’t flinch at the gesture. “Watch Ivanov from Suns. He believes Russian shit. Homophobic asshole.”
Scott remembers the big defense-man vaguely. “He say something to you about me?”
Rozanov taps his pocket, presumably where his phone is. “We have Russian player group chat. Mostly to complain about stupid English and recommend food. Some complain about the cultural difference between Russia and America. Some of that is funny. Some is not. I don’t know who is safe, not completely, but Ivanov is not. He will try to start shit.”
“Got it,” Scott replies, risking being called senile to jot it in his notes app—more worried he’ll forget the name in a drunken haze. Rozanov doesn’t even comment which tells him how serious it is. “I’ll let my team know too.”
“How has your team been?” Rozanov’s eyes flick to him, raising a brow. “Your coach?”
“Coach was surprised, but he’s a good guy. Dealt with his own bigots. Solid,” Scot’s grateful he can say as much. “Management seems to just be avoiding the whole topic, except where they can make a quick buck. They can’t get rid of me, not after the Cup and MVP, and they know it so they haven’t even brought it up. I think they are just hoping I retire soon.”
To his surprise, Rozanov doesn’t take advantage of that opening either, so Scott continues, “And my team’s been good. Not everyone’s been perfect or anything, but enough that the ones that aren’t cool are keeping their mouths shut. I’d already come out to some of them,” he confesses, “before the game.”
Rozanov just nods. “Yes. Thought so.”
Both of Scott’s brows go up at that. “Yeah?”
“Their reactions on the ice,” Rozanov replies succinctly. He smirks, more of his usual smug air back in force. “Surprised, but not shocked, not all of them. Vaughny seemed more happy to meet your boyfriend than surprised you had one.”
Scott shakes his head. “Anyone ever tell you you’re pretty observant, Rozanov?”
Rozanov laughs. “No, when I point things out on ice, people say “you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, I’ll fucking kill you”. And that is how I know I am right.”
Scott laughs as well because, no, that sounded right. Rozanov’s chirps dig under the skin more than most other players with their cheap scattershots and swearing. It had always felt like shitty luck: that Rozanov bit where it hurt. Like of course the worst person you’ve ever met also knew you were worried about your hairline specifically. He should have known it wasn’t luck.
The laughter fades naturally and Rozanov drops his cigarette to stomp it out. When he looks back up, Rozanov’s face is intent once again. “They should not, but if any of my boys give you shit about this,” he waves his hand generally, “you tell me, yes?”
“I appreciate it,” Scott says, and he means it, but this is his fight and Rozanov just explained why he couldn’t do much. He doesn’t need to fight his own teammates over Scott. If he’s even suggesting that, which maybe he’s not. But still… “But you don’t have to—”
“I am captain,” Rozanov says, as if Scott needs to be reminded. As if he isn’t also a captain. “I would do for anyone, but you are out,” he emphasizes, “Target. That means you get special treatment—good and bad. I want to know if they say shit to you, like you would want to know if they say racist shit to Vaughn.”
“I—”
Rozanov glares like Scott’s still not getting it. “Not just for you. What if guy on my team is also liking men? My teammates will shoot at you and hit him, yes?”
Scott considers that. He considers that Rozanov considered that. “Did someone on your team—?”
Rozanov cuts him off with an exasperated groan. “No. And if they did, I would not tell you. But of course there are others. Why not one on my team? Who knows? And I cannot do anything about other teams. But Boston is my house. I will keep my team in line.”
“Right.” Scott’s still pretty sure Rozanov must know someone who’s queer—a friend or a player he’s lying about. Someone. To be this deliberate about it, to have considered these angles. Rozanov’s not known for his playmaking, but well, maybe he does more than he lets on outside his team. Against his will, Scott's estimation of the other man increases.
It’s too late and he’s too drunk to deal with it now. So Scott pivots, letting Rozanov keep whoever motivated this unexpected defense to himself. “It’s still just a hypothetical.” When Rozanov’s brow furrows, Scott clarifies, “Other gay players.”
“Hunter.” Rozanov looks at him like he’s a moron. “Are you stupid?” Well, no one’s ever accused him of being subtle. He keeps going before Scott can do more than bristle. “700 MLH players, you think you are the only one? Impossible.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The breath leaves Scott in a rush, because yes that makes sense. And yes he’s had other people say as much. Even told himself the same. But it means something else to hear another player, another captain say it. And Rozanov seems so confident. He runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah, I mean, I hope so. I’m glad fans cared about what happened. But I really hope it helped at least one other player too, you know?”
“I do,” Rozanov says, the most sincere he’s sounded maybe in the entirety of the time Scott’s known him. “How could it not have?”
Scott breathes out, lets himself believe in the simple surety of Rozanov’s statement.
Rozanov claps his hand on Scott’s shoulder, a mischievous light in his eyes as he steers them back towards the club door. “Is why despite your aching bones you must not retire for another two seasons at least, yes?” And there it goes, Rozanov must have to maintain balance for how quick he kills a moment. A hundred jackass comments for every nice one. “You must not let them chase you out—even if you are getting no more cups.”
“Shut up,” Scott says, shrugging off the hand with a familiar scowl, “just because you only have one doesn’t mean—“
“You creak when you move,” Rozanov interrupts him to say, ignoring Scott’s squawk of protest, “no wonder you have barely danced with your boy—”
“Been watching me? It’s okay, I get it—”
“You wish. Many better dancers here than you.” Rozanov shoves open the door. “Maybe since you do not want to, I will ask Kip—”
“Don’t you dare, Rozanov. Stay away from my—”
The door shuts behind them.