Chapter Text
Ilya had mixed feelings about his first summer without Moscow. The season just ended the previous week, but he knew their chance at the win was over weeks ago when he had to miss the first round of playoffs for a little tiny, hardly anything at all case of cracked ribs. His days have been spent nursing an aching side and spending every morning at the best Russian bakery in Boston just to hear people speaking his language for a few minutes. The pastries allowed him a taste of home without the bitterness of his family.
As a firm supporter of elderly rights, he was understandably horrified to see Scott Hunter take it all the way and lift the cup—because he was worried about him. It would be terrible to see oldest man ever to wear skates break his back on national television.
The sting was admittedly lessened by that eventual victory resulting in the gayest Stanley Cup final in history.
"Things are changing, Sveta," Ilya had murmured to his best friend, arm slung over her shoulders on the couch. "Even if it's terrible that the most gay moment in NHL is from literal dinosaur. It couldn't have been someone hot and young?"
"He is brave," she insisted with a laugh. "Maybe one day you will find a nice boy and upstage him with your own kiss on the ice."
Ilya scoffed. "You are drunk."
"And we are not in Russia," she said, pulling away to look him in the eyes. "You don't need to subject yourself to those people again. You should find someone to love loudly, Ilyusha, man or woman."
He turned back to the after-game coverage. "I do not need anyone right now, Sveta."
Svetlana simply sighed and settled back into place. "If not now, then when?"
"That is silly question. How would I know?"
"What, are you waiting on some sign?" Svetlana asked with a fond shove of her shoulder. "You are a romantic now?"
"I have always been romantic," Ilya argued immediately, puffing out his chest. "You have seen my moves."
He could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "Now we know that hasn't been the case for almost a year now. You just need to put yourself out there more. You have been a hermit lately. Even your dumb hockey player friends are worried."
"I am fine," he insisted. "Marly has medical condition where he is unable to shut his stupid mouth. The doctors say that it is often fatal. The only cure is bag skates."
Svetlana laughed once before her tone dropped to something serious. "Do not push me away. What is going on with you?"
He shrugged. "I am just trying to figure out—what now? Now that I do not have everything tying me to Russia, I do not know who I am. I do not know what to do. Clubs and women used to be exciting. Now they leave me tired."
She reached over to firmly grab his hand and squeezed, before repeating his own words. "Things are changing, Ilyusha. It's okay to want different things now that you're older. You've gone through cup wins, hard play-off losses, more than a few injuries, your family. It's okay to want to slow down."
"Then why do I have you and Marly both buzzing in my ears like little bees?"
"Because slowing down does not mean disappearing," she whispered. "Do not stop being the Ilya Rozanov who goes after what he wants. The one who turned an Olympic disappointment into a cup win as a young captain. And do not push away people trying to care for you."
"Did you become a therapist since we last spoke?" Ilya asked with a tilted chin to hide the suspicious sheen in his eyes. "It is a shame. I wanted to buy a new car."
"Ilya."
"Svetlana."
She waited him out with absolute patience, eyes narrowed into the same fierce look calculation she has had since they were toddlers chasing after each other on the ice and he was about to get tripped. Ilya finally groaned and threw his head against the back of the couch. "Okay, okay. I promise. You will feel silly for worrying about me when I win my second cup a year from now."
"You'd need to do it twice in a row like Hollander to impress me," she told him with a smirk.
Ilya grasped at his chest like he'd been shot. "Sveta! How could you say that? You are so mean to me!"
He rushed forward to tickle her as she falls back onto the couch in a fit of laughter.
After they stopped play fighting and settled in to watch a movie, Svetlana hummed thoughtfully during the credits.
"I wonder if any other players will come out now. Despite what the Commissioner may want, the NHL will be forced to make a supportive statement about Hunter. The optics are too good. White man with sad background—known for being a talent on the ice and a fair competitor—kisses his equally white boyfriend after finally winning the cup. Their moment is everywhere. Once the league supports one gay player, that opens doors. It creates opportunities when there are eyes on hockey outside of the usual crowd."
In his experience, Svetlana was usually right about these things. She even predicted his cup run.
Ilya sighed. While Boston is home to a better room than most, he doubts that every player in the closet is going to be inspired to come forward. If he had to guess, most of them will probably wait the season to see how the world reacts to Hunter, maybe even longer.
"Maybe. Any of them would be better than Scott Hunter."
It would take someone exceptionally brave to take the leap.
Ilya was in his home gym lifting weights when it happened. He cursed under his breath when the music blaring through his headphones cut off, evidence he had forgotten to put his phone on Do Not Disturb. He carefully racked his equipment before glancing at the screen. The weights were much lighter than his usual set, because the trainers are insisting that he takes it easy for another week.
"What do you want, Marly?" Ilya asked as soon as he answered, but his voice is light. "I am training. You know of this activity, yes? Necessary if we want to win another cup this year."
It was about fucking time. After-all, Shane Hollander had already won two. In a row, as Svetlana likes to remind him. While Ilya failed to seduce the pretty Canadian with the pretty freckles into his bed all those years ago, he was still the standard with which Ilya measured himself against. The one thing he could always count on to motivate him to keep moving.
Hollander was synonymous with hockey in Ilya's mind.
Synonymous. Ilya learned that one from a dark-haired grad student he hooked up with a couple years ago, who had a delightful line of freckles across her cheeks that made him ignore all of her friends.
Shane Hollander was synonymous with hockey, boring press answers, and wide doe eyes that make Ilya want to shove him into a mattress. And freckles—always freckles. He wanted to fuck him, but he needed to get another cup under his belt and beat him in the scoring race. Ilya was fine—probably—with Hollander's polite distance, but he'd make damn sure he's never able to forget he's there.
Sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, always close. The two of them at the top together, even if they never meet in the middle. And they never find themselves alone in a room together.
"Bro! Did you see the news?" Marleau asked loudly, voice as animated as ever. "No, no way you would have stayed silent in the chat if you did, right? You are so loud about that dude."
Ilya narrowed his eyes. "What is this? What are you saying?"
"I mean, I figured you'd have seen it," he continued without pausing. "You've always been weird when it comes to anything about the two of you. You know his stats better than your own. Even after a bottle of vodka."
"Hollander?" Ilya asked before he could stop himself from admitting too much. Marleau rolls with it. "You are talking about Hollander?"
"He came out!"
"Came out?"
"Came out."
"Came out of what?"
There was a judgmental pause in the conversation that broke through Ilya's stupor. "Of the closet, bro. Have you forgotten English?"
Fuck English. Ilya had forgotten how to breathe. With shaking fingers, he put the phone on speaker so he could open up Instagram.
"Roz?"
He refused to acknowledge that @shanehollanderhockeyplayer is one of his most recent searches, if only because it allowed him to find it easily.
Could anyone blame him? He was just a poor Russian boy faced with the temptation of Calvin Klein ads. Evil, wonderful Calvin Klein ads.
Despite his certainty that Marleau must be lying or mistaken, there it was. A photo at the top of his feed that Ilya didn't recognize. He had already seen the ones posted right before, a thank-you for the end of the previous season and a smiling photo of Hollander standing with Pike and his family for one of the birthdays of Pike's many, many children.
But this was new.
"Yo, Roz?"
He clicked on the photo and smiled against his will at the sight of Hollander in a jersey just as tiny as he was. He couldn't have been more than five or six, holding his stick with the same intense focus that he'd retained to this day, even off the ice. Instead of distracting himself with the rest of the images in the slides, he scrolled down to the caption.
Hockey was the first love of my life. Not everyone can turn love into a profession and I have always been honored to play the greatest game in the world at the highest level. At the same time, I am a very private person in a field that puts my life under a microscope. I have always been scared of doing something wrong and losing the legacy that I have built. But even if I had to constantly hide parts of myself, I was content to have hockey.
Except Scott Hunter did something brave last week, and I don't just mean bringing the cup back to New York until I can take it off his hands next season. His actions made me realize that as much as that moment meant to me, my own bravery could mean something to someone else.
I'm gay.
Ilya's attention was pulled away from the rest of the thick block of text with a harsh cough. "Hello! Earth to Rozanov!"
"Yes, yes, Marly," he grumbled, but most of the edge was replaced by shock. "This is real? Hollander is gay? And everyone knows this?"
"Yeah! Can you fucking believe it?"
"Why now?" Ilya asked mostly to himself. He was not surprised that Hollander was gay, considering the way he looked at Ilya like he wanted to eat him the night of the draft. But he was surprised that he'd told the world.
"I dunno," he responded dismissively. "It was definitely brave of him though. Even after Hunter, it takes huge balls to do that. I don't think the room in Montreal is what people would call a safe space."
He was still too stunned to even consider that.
"Is it because he is in relationship?" Ilya asked, once again under his breath. Unfortunately, his speakers captured his voice perfectly. "Is that why now? Boyfriend or husband? What is male WAG? H—HAB? Does he have boring HAB waiting to wear his jersey?"
"Uh," Marleau stammered. "You read the post, man."
Ilya rolled his eyes. "Ugh! No, you interrupt me while I read!"
He could practically hear the eye roll in his voice, and it made Ilya grin despite himself. "I didn't see anything about him being in a relationship. And if you really think about it, it'd totally be SAP. Spouses and partners to keep it all inclusive and shit."
Ilya continued reading through the rest of the perfectly boring caption himself while Marleau entertained himself with wondering out loud if he should call back the girl he dated last year who worked as a social organizer in Boston and liked to lecture him about things like toxic masculinity while wearing next to nothing. Ilya thought it was maybe another form of service to the community.
Hollander thanked his parents and two of his teammates, and even Rose Landry, but there was no mention of any romantic partners. He even skimmed the translation in French at the bottom.
"Wow," he whispered quietly once he finished. "I didn't think Hollander had it in him."
"That's what I'm saying! It was probably smart to do it in the off-season. Maybe it will make the media less rabid when we get back. I know Hunter has spent the last week doing interviews."
"Rabid? Like fast?"
"Nah, that's rapid. Rabid like frothing at the mouth. Rabies, you know? Does Russia have rabies?"
He nodded to himself. "That's a good way to describe reporters. But I think they will tear into him no matter what."
There is a hum of consideration. "Maybe we should reach out? We did the same thing for Hunter."
My fucking thoughts exactly, Marly.
"Yes," he agreed immediately. "Bears should all tweet in support. We should be happy that there is now at least young gay representation in league, and not old dinosaur giving them a bad name. Hockey fans would eventually think all gay men have bad knees. A new stereotype. Bad for the community."
Marleau's laughter flooded his home gym. "You are crazy, Roz," he managed after a moment. "So you're saying it's a good thing?"
Ilya hesitated for only a moment before choosing chaos. "What, you don't have eyes? Shane Hollander is obviously better than old man Hunter. Model boy on billboards. Boring, and only second best player, but hot."
"Yeah, I guess you're right," he said with a bright laugh. "He is sort of the most attractive guy in the league when you put it like that. They voted for him like three times and everything."
He resisted the urge to argue with Marleau for agreeing with him. "This is true," he said with a purposeful lightness. The fact that he voted in those polls would remain a secret he took to his grave.
Marleau didn't hesitate at all, the bastard. "So you think Hollander is hot and a credit to the gay community? Is that what you're going to say in your supportive tweet?"
Ilya's entire body vibrated for a moment at the thought. "Do not be silly, Marly. Is this the tact that you show your women? I see now why you are so unlucky in love."
He laughed again. "You're crazy," he repeats, before his voice trails off for a moment. "You gonna reach out privately?"
"It would be polite," he said slowly. "Good sportsmanship. He should know that the best hockey player is not a homophobe."
The traitor snorted in disbelief. "Sure."
"What?" Ilya growled even as he lips drew into a pout. "What is with this, this—this tone!"
"I'm just saying," Marleau said casually—too casually. "If you're going to shoot your shot at the prince of hockey, you shouldn't miss."
Ilya gasped in horror, even as he was secretly delighted. Considering all that his friend had seen, and participated in, during their wild party years, he shouldn't exactly be surprised that Marleau had guessed Ilya liked men.
He didn't have to hide it. Scott Hunter had a boyfriend and Shane Hollander was out of the closet. Meanwhile, his father is dead, and he had cut off all ties to Russia. For once in his life, he could go for something he wants off of the ice.
"I would never miss," he insisted with bluster. "I am the best hockey player."
"I dunno, man," Marleau teased. "He is really pretty. And some might say Hollander is sort of the best hockey player. Talk about a hard guy to impress."
"Those people would be stupid and wrong. Too many concussions maybe."
Marleau snorted. "I don't think you really have a leg to stand on there, man. Once when you were really fucking drunk and maybe a little high, you started ranking his goals in the order of the hottest. The rookies actually joined in. You told us that his skating was so beautiful that it made you cry three separate times and then listed them. You called them the podium finishers."
His face flushed fast enough to make him dizzy, and he could not be more thankful that he is having this conversation over the phone. It took off some of the pressure and stopped Marleau from seeing his face in that moment.
Fuck it. Ilya stood by his ranking of hottest Hollander goals, drunk or not. There was a reason his YouTube suggestions are locked down tighter than the Kremlin. He never forgot to log off his TV in case one of the boys comes over, rolling his eyes when they boo for forcing them to use their own account.
"He has very neat edges," he eventually tells him, because there is nothing else to say in his defense. In fact, he had very neat everything, and Ilya was dying to mess it up. He wanted to see the man who never drops his gloves lose control.
"Oh, I'm sure you were admiring his edges when we started going to the rooftop bar with the excellent view of the wet t-shirt billboard."
"They have good vodka. The view is bonus."
"How did I ever think you were straight?"
He shrugged where he couldn't see him. "I am bisexual. I could not say anything for a very long time. If news leaked, I could not have gone back without being imprisoned or beaten or worse. To make an example out of me because I am a public figure. Now it does not matter. I will always be Russian, but Russia is not home for me."
He kissed his mother's grave goodbye on his last trip, and now he will never return. His hand clutched at his gold cross instinctively.
"I'm glad you can tell me now. You'll always be my captain, man. Even if you have the most insane taste I've ever seen."
"Freckles," he said, as if that explained everything.
"Shit," Marleau swore, because it did explain everything. While Ilya had never stuck to one type of hook-up on purpose, there may have been a little bit of a pattern if one cared to look too deeply into the stats. "Is he just your type or what? You've been on that forever."
"Remember, Marly, we met in juniors."
He sucked in a sharp breath. "You mean that—"
"Sweet little Canadian comes up to me in a stupid beanie and tells me that I should not smoke there. He was very boring when he shook my hand twice in one minute, and I liked it very much. I liked his freckles even more."
Ilya breathed out one of his fondest memories with a small smile on his face. It felt strangely nice to tell someone about it. It's not like his teenage crush ever really went anywhere.
But now it could, a voice whispered in his head that sounded like Svetlana.
"Cap," Marleau choked out with clear surprise at where their teasing turned into something very real. "You're serious. Does this mean what I think it means? Are you really gonna try to pull Shane fucking Hollander?"
A smile stretched across his face, even as he scrolled through the dozens of people begging for just one chance under the latest post. They were sprinkled in between the occasional hateful comment and the flood of sincere congratulations and rainbow hearts.
Shane Hollander was gay, single, and out of the closet.
Talk about a sign. This one practically had neon lights and his name on it.
"What is this try? If anyone is going to pull Shane Hollander, it is me."
Because he's Ilya fucking Rozanov. If he sees an opening, he's going to take the shot.