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Scott feels good. He’s tipsy bordering on drunk at the wedding of the year, which for some reason is between Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander and for some other reason has no chairs.
He’d probably feel even better if there was somewhere he could sit for a minute, maybe pull Kip into his lap, but whatever.
Where is Kip? He left to try to make Rose Landry his best friend an hour ago. Or it could have been thirty seconds ago. Somewhere in between that.
He scans the crowd in search of his husband, but instead he finds the lumberjack from Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer looking around like he’s searching for something too.
“Ryaaan!” Scott waltzes up, tosses a hand over his shoulder. This dude is gay which is so very cool. Half the NHL is gay now! Well, really it’s probably more like half a percent. If that. But it’s more than what he thought before which was ‘it’s only me and I am going to die alone and my neighbor’s cat will eat my flesh.’
“Hi,” Ryan says curtly. Scott has his wits about him enough to know it’s probably a good idea to dislodge his hand from Ryan’s shoulder.
“You good?”
“Yeah, I just…” He glances around again. Scott wonders if maybe he’s looking for his pretty boyfriend, but Fabian’s very blatantly taking up half the dance floor right now. The dance floor being just a yard. This wedding kind of sucks. Ryan chuckles a little.
“Oh shit.” Scott’s eyes go wide. “I said that this wedding sucks out loud, didn’t I?”
“Yeah.” Ryan rubs the back of his neck before he goes back to scanning the yard.
“Can I help you find something?” Scott asks in the best attempt at a captain voice he can muster right now, the intersection of kind yet firm.
Ryan startles a little. “I just. I don’t know where the bathrooms are.”
“Ohhhh.” Scott nods. “That is an excellent question. Huh. I gotta go too. Here let’s…Barrett!”
Scott grabs the arm of the nearest familiar Ottawa face. Troy Barrett looks starstruck, which he pretty much always does around Scott. It both strokes Scott’s ego and makes him feel fucking old.
“What’s up?” Troy says, looking around like maybe Scott’s talking to him by accident, even though Scott addressed him by name.
“You’ve been here before, maybe! Where’s the bathroom, man?”
“I can take you to the house, I guess?” Troy says. “A couple of the guys have been peeing in bushes, but…”
Scott casts a glance to his right and watches Ryan’s face turn ghostly pale. “Nah,” Scott says. “Porcelain only.”
“Right. Okay, well, let’s try to go in and if it’s locked, I’ll track down Ilya.”
Scott’s not sure the last time he saw Ilya, actually. Or Shane. They’re probably stealing away for some alone time, like he and Kip did on their wedding day.
Because Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are married. To each other. And they have sex and stuff. Wow, okay, that’s weird.
They’re able to walk into the house no problem and after a fun little game of ‘after you’ ‘no, you can go first’ ‘Price, please pee’, Scott’s left with Troy Barrett and a wall of photographs.
Because Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander aren’t just married, they’re domestic enough to have an adorable little photo wall.
Scott scoffs at a picture of Ilya circa 2014 hoisting the Cup, smirking at the camera. He turns to Troy. “You think he practices that smirk in the mirror? I’ve always thought he does.”
“Um, I don’t know.”
Scott remembers too late that Troy and Ilya are friends, and maybe that was a little too close to shit talking.
He didn’t mean it that way, he just…he doesn’t get the guy. They’re friends now, apparently, or at least Rozanov seems to genuinely want to be. Scott’s at his wedding, for Christ’s sake.
But Scott’s not sure he’ll ever truly understand Rozanov. Shane, he can get. Scott doesn’t know him well, but it’s clear that he keeps his head down, is decently polite, and works harder than God.
But Rozanov? He’s not sure what they have in common besides being gay and playing hockey. And Kip says Rozanov’s probably bisexual, so that knocks their commonalities down by half. Or a quarter? Math is too hard right now.
Scott moves a little further down the hall toward a picture of an impossibly young, soft Ilya smiling beside a woman who must be his mother. Irina, Scott’s brain produces—his first parent who passed but not the last. Scott swallows hard. He supposes that’s one more thing they have in common.
“All yours,” Ryan says, appearing in the hallway looking vaguely lost like always.
“Right, yeah.” Scott shoots him some finger guns, which he immediately regrets, and heads in.
He finds Ryan and Troy waiting for him when he’s done. It’s not like he would get lost on the walk from the house back to the yard, but sure. Why not keep the gay hockey times rolling and stroll in awkward silence a little longer?
They’re only a few feet into their pilgrimage back when Scott hears a familiar voice saying, “We’re not supposed to be doing this, Ilya.”
“Who cares? Is our wedding day. We can do whatever we want.”
Scott exchanges a wide-eyed glance with Troy. Great. He’s going to bear witness to Shane Hollander railing Ilya Rozanov (or the other way around, more likely) and have to scoop his eyeballs out.
Except when they walk a few more feet, they stumble (literally stumble) on Ilya sitting on the grass, Shane laying with his head propped in his lap. It’s surprisingly chaste and even more surprisingly sweet.
“Look, guests!” Ilya says, grinning. “Sit, everyone, sit. Shane is upset we’re not entertaining anyone.”
Shane starts grumbling something about not being upset and Scott sits down on the grass. Wow, it’s nice to sit. He remembers chairs fondly.
Troy and Ryan sit too, probably because Ilya used his captain voice they both have Pavlovian associations with.
Scott has no such excuse. He just kind of wants to side-eye Shane laying in Ilya’s lap and try to make sense of any of this.
“Cute photo wall,” Scott says, for some reason that’s unclear even to him.
Ilya cocks his head. “You were in our house?”
Our house. Because he lives with Shane Hollander. Right. Totally.
“We had to pee,” Scott says.
“Everyone is peeing in the bushes.”
“You can’t, like, expect that of your guests,” Scott says. “Besides, there are women here.”
He realizes too late that he’s set himself up for a very easy jab, but Rozanov doesn’t make it. Maybe he’s too busy carding his fingers through Hollander’s hair. Or maybe he would never take an opening like that.
As much as he loathes to admit it, Ilya’s insults are as clean as Shane’s game play is. He hasn’t gone on some, like, epic odyssey of character development like Troy Barrett.
In all the years Scott has played against him, Ilya’s never been homophobic or sexist. Not once. It took them being outed for Scott to fully realize that.
“Is everyone having fun?” Ilya asks. “Drinking, dancing? See, Shane, I am hosting.”
“Sure,” Troy says. “Harris is never gonna forgive you for putting him on the spot with that first dance song though.”
Scott winces. Kip gave him a very pointed look when Barrett’s boyfriend picked that Rihanna song, which he knows was Kip speak for ‘we are so discussing this in depth later’. Scott’s looking forward to laying in bed with Kip tomorrow morning, eating room service, kissing lazily, and debriefing this weird wedding.
Ugh, Kip. He misses Kip.
“...like a secret society,” he tunes back in to hear Shane saying.
“We are missing Bennett,” Ilya says. “And Baldwin. And Lundin.”
“Well, we’ve got five of us,” Shane says.
It takes Scott a second to process what he means. Five out queer NHL players. All sitting here in one place. At a wedding between two out queer NHL players.
If Scott told his past self this, he’d have laughed. Hysterically. For fifteen minutes straight. It wouldn’t have been able to register as anything more than a daydream or a cruel prank.
“This is so weird,” Scott says. “I mean, I know it doesn’t make sense statistically, but part of me kind of thought I was the only one, you know?”
“No,” Ilya says. “I knew Shane Hollander was super gay.”
Shane’s eyes narrow. “We are not having this argument again.”
“Super gay,” Ilya repeats tauntingly, poking Shane's dimple until he smiles up at him.
“Wait,” Scott says, the meaning of his words landing. “Like you always knew he was gay?”
Ilya flashes Scott one of those stupid smirks. “Maybe. I am perceptive. I knew Price was gay too.”
“Me?” Ryan blurts out, like there’s another Price.
“You did not,” Shane whines. Whines.
“Did too. I told you, remember?”
“No you didn’t.”
“When Price played for Boston, I said he was different.”
“Different doesn’t mean gay.”
“Is code for gay. Couldn’t say gay back then or you would run away like a scared little lamb,” Ilya says.
Shane blows out a breath. “No I wouldn’t have.”
“Okay Mr. Landlord.”
For some reason, Shane’s face turns very, very red. Scott, for his part, is just trying to do the mental math on when Price played for Boston.
2014? No, that would mean he won the cup. 2013, maybe. Or 2015? Ugh, whatever. Rozanov didn’t even imply they were together back then. If anything, he implied the opposite.
Scott just wants to know. Kip’s always reading these online timeline theories to Scott, but none of them sound right. None of them explain Shane Hollander loving Ilya Rozanov, and vice versa.
“...okay!” Scott tunes back into the conversation in time to see Rozanov on his feet, running back to the party. He casts a glance toward Hollander, who shrugs like ‘I never know what he’s doing, I just married him’.
Ilya returns a minute later with a bottle of champagne and a stack of cups. He pours one for each of them. It’s a nice idea, to toast this moment. Five of them being here, proud, themselves.
But then, Ilya lifts his cup, and says, “Never have I ever…”
Everyone groans. “Roz,” Troy says, “we aren’t fifteen.”
“No. I was not playing this game at fifteen. Too boring.”
Scott was. In billet houses, with guys describing what they’d done to girls, ignoring the way his heart was beating progressively faster and faster.
“Okay. Then why—“
“There you are!”
Scott looks up to see something beautiful eclipsing his vision. His husband. And also that dude Barrett’s dating who has bad music taste. Harrison? No, Harris.
Scott grins, reaching a hand up for Kip who practically falls into his lap. “Kip, help,” he says. “Rozanov’s trying to make us play never have I ever because he never matured past the age of twelve.”
“I am trying,” Ilya slurs more than says, “to make memories.”
“Yeah, because you’re definitely gonna remember this tomorrow."
"I am Russian. Russians do not black out. So, are we playing?"
"Yeah sure," Shane says, probably because it's their wedding day and he's looking up at Ilya like he'd say yes to any question as long as his husband was the one posing it.
“I think it’s a great idea.”
“Thank you, Harris!”
“Really?” Troy frowns at his boyfriend, who’s now nestled into his side.
“Sure. I mean, you guys make up most of the out players in the league, but how well do you really know each other? Plus, it’s fun!”
“I know Shane very well.” Ilya grins, which is disgusting, and everyone starts booing…but this Harris guy has a point. Scott doesn’t know them, not really.
He knows how they play, or tries to at least. He’s studied them closely and had a passing conversation or two. Or a million in the case of Rozanov, who seems to be everywhere at all times and always eager to get a rise out of Scott.
But he doesn’t actually know them-know them, and Kip's always encouraging him to make more gay friends. Apparently the guys at the Kingfisher who hang on his every word don’t count.
“Alright, fuck it, fine. I’m game,” Scott says. Kip raises his eyebrows in surprise, and Scott smiles at him.
“Yes, Hunter!” Ilya grins. “Shane will go first.”
“What?” Shane, whose head is still nestled in Rozanov’s lap, looks personally affronted. “I don’t—I’m not—”
“I’ll go first,” Scott says, pitying the guy. He knows what it’s like to be put on the spot by Rozanov, and he can’t imagine it’s fun even if you’re married to him. “Okay. Uh. Never have I ever dated a celebrity.”
“Hmm. What do we consider a celebrity?” Ilya says. “Because my husband is no Rose Landry, but—”
“Shut up and drink,” Shane says.
He does. Everyone in the circle does, actually, except for Scott. “Wow,” he says. “I thought at least Barrett would abstain with me.”
Troy’s eyes go wide like he’s been caught with his hand in a cookie jar on a non-cheat day. Whoops. “I—”
“Barrett!” Ilya grins. “Who? Please tell me you are not thinking of Harris. Being famous to Chiron doesn’t count.”
“Hey,” Harris protests. “I’ll have you know, there’s a Twitter account dedicated to my facial hair now.”
“Wow,” Kip says. “The Internet is weird. There’s one dedicated to my dimples.”
“Aww, that’s sweet,” Harris says.
“I know right?”
“So who’d you date?” Scott blurts out.
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Great question.” Scott supposes Ilya really meant it when he said they should be friends. He’s not sure Rozanov has ever agreed with him before.
“The beard account has four hundred followers,” Harris insists. “I’m, you know, a microcelebrity.”
“It’s fine.” Troy places a hand on his arm, takes a swig of his drink. “There’s no point—Adrian Dela Cruz.”
Their little circle falls quiet enough to hear a crow of laughter across the lawn.
“Excuse me?” Kip finally squeaks.
“I dated Adrian Dela Cruz. For two years.”
What the hell? Scott was flying across the world to get some head once a year and Barrett was out here slinging cheap insults while dating a literal superhero?
“Oh my God,” Kip says. “I love him. He’s so gorgeous. Are his abs real?”
Harris and Troy both stiffen a little. “Uh,” Troy says. “Yes?”
“Barrett!” Ilya lunges across the circle and gives Troy a noogie sandwich, which wasn’t something Scott was aware adults did. “Why did you not tell me this? Amazing. You date very hot men.”
“Okay—stop—” Troy pushes him off. “It’s not like you’ve told me about any of your exes.”
“He doesn’t have enough hours in the day,” Scott says, unable to resist.
“Hey.” Kip shoves a finger in Scott’s face. “No slut shaming, even if it’s Ilya Rozanov.”
“Ehhh, I think exceptions can be made,” Harris says. “How many people have you been with, exactly?”
“This is not the game,” Ilya says. “Game is never have I ever. Troy. Go.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Never have I ever…” Troy narrows his eyes, as if thinking really hard. “Done coke?”
“Troy,” Shane says. “Why?”
“Well I haven’t!”
“You know, I respect a bold choice,” Harris says.
“I never know what to say in this game,” Troy mutters.
“Terrible,” Ilya says, taking a sip. “Who here would do such a thing? We are professional athletes.” He takes another sip. Shane rolls his eyes, his cup untouched.
Kip’s the only other person to take a sip. He blushes under Scott’s gaze. “What? It was one time in college, okay? Or maybe two times. Sue me.”
“I didn’t say anything!” Scott says, except okay, maybe he was thinking it. Just a little.
“Price’s turn,” Ilya says, seemingly on a whim.
“Oh.” Ryan looks startled, like he thought everyone forgot he was there. Which is kind of fair, considering he hasn’t really spoken since they sat down. “Um. Never have I ever won an Olympic medal.”
To Scott’s pleasant surprise, no one makes fun of how relatively tame this is.
Instead, the cursory ‘fuck the NHL for not letting us play’ conversation starts up, Barrett leading the charge. Harris has plenty to say about it and Scott chimes in every now and then, because, yeah, he already has a gold medal, but it’s not like he dreamed of only going to the Olympics once.
All the while though, he’s aware of the fact that Ilya has fallen silent—mostly because he basically never does that. Shane sits up slowly, wraps a hand tight in his, presses a kiss to his temple.
Scott wonders, admittedly for the first time, if Ilya would even have a team to play for. Everything Scott worried about losing if he came out, but he never had to fear losing a whole country.
“We should get back to the game,” Scott says abruptly, cutting Harris off. Shane flashes him a grateful smile.
“Yeah. I’ll go,” Shane says. “Uh…never have I ever…God, I don’t know. This game is different when you’re not fourteen.”
“You are all so bad at this,” Ilya says. “Never has Shane ever—“
“You can’t do it for me!”
“Never has Shane ever had a foursome.” Ilya sips his own drink, frowning when no one else does. “Ugh, seriously? Threesome then, fine.” He drinks again.
Fuck it. Scott takes a sip of his drink. He tries to be quick about it, but he’s not successful. Ilya’s grinning so widely with all those fake teeth, it’s almost blinding. “Yes, Hunter!”
“Uh, what the hell?” Kip nudges his side. “And I didn’t get the dirty details?”
“It was in Ibiza. Years ago. And I didn’t even know we were going to—I am so not talking about this.” Scott drains the rest of his cup and Ilya lunges to fill it up again, clearly hoping he’ll get drunk enough to say more, which, no.
“I should go check on Fabian,” Ryan says abruptly, standing.
“Aww.” Ilya frowns. “Scott! Your threesome scared off Price.”
“No, I just…I should…” Without another word, Ryan practically flees into the night.
“Poor guy,” Shane says.
“I’m impressed he lasted that long,” Scott says.
“Is this what they said about you after your threesome?”
Scott flips Rozanov off, who cackles like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
“Okay, Kip.” Ilya tilts his cup at him. “Go.”
Kip straightens. “I’m trying to think of something interesting enough. Hold please. Ooh, okay, wait, we were talking about this at work last week—never have I ever used anal beads.”
“Wow,” Scott says dryly. “We have very different workplaces.”
Scott’s eyes scan the circle, and he only spots Harris taking a sip. A few of the other guys seem to notice too. Ilya applauds in his direction, the little shit.
“Oh come on,” Harris says. “It’s not a big deal. I hate to break this to you guys, but being gay is pretty different when you don’t play professional hockey.”
Kip lets out a sad sigh. “Amen.”
“Wait a second,” Troy says. “Have we found something Roz hasn’t done?”
“No. Maybe. I have a question,” Ilya says. “Do I drink if they were not used on me?”
“I guess, sure,” Kip says. Ilya flashes that stupid signature smirk and drinks.
“No,” Shane says.
“No?”
“You’re lying.” He folds his arms, pouting. Because apparently Shane Hollander doesn’t just whine, he pouts. “You’re feeling insecure that there was one thing you haven’t done so you’re making shit up.”
Ilya tilts his head. “Or you are insecure I haven’t used anal beads on you.” He pats Shane on the cheek, which quickly turns pink. “I will get them for our honeymoon, no worries.”
“No I—you just haven’t been with that many men.”
Ilya shrugs. “What is many, really?”
“I—so what? You want me to believe you were in Russia or one of the most famous guys in Boston showing up to clandestine meetings and the guy’s like ‘did you bring the lube?’ and you’re like ‘yes, and I brought anal beads’.” Shane gestures with his cup, some champagne sloshing out. Scott doesn’t know him well enough, but he has a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t be shouting about lube and anal beads if he was stone cold sober.
“Clandestine,” Ilya sounds the word out. “Such big words so you will win the argument.”
“Aww,” Harris says. “Your first argument as a married couple is about anal beads.”
“I doubt it’s the first,” Scott mutters, and Kip elbows him.
“It means secret,” Shane says.
“Okay.” Ilya heaves a sigh. He reaches a hand out again, cups Shane’s cheek like it's the most precious thing he's ever held. “Shane. Sweetheart. I know you are very, very gay. The gayest person here, probably.”
“I’m not—“
“But there’s something I need to tell you.” Ilya fixes Shane a startlingly serious stare. Shane’s back straightens. “Women have assholes too.”
“Oh. I mean I—I know that. Obviously. I—“
Harris lets out a loud bark of laughter and Scott can’t help but join in. He doubles over he’s laughing so hard, Kip next to him whispering “it’s not funny” repeatedly through giggles.
“Okay, but—“ Shane sputters. “They don’t—“
“There is still feeling there even without a prostate,” Ilya says. “Oh, poor Rose Landry.”
“Stop.” Shane ducks his head.
“Honestly, Ilya, I think you’re right,” Kip manages through his laughter. “He’s definitely gayer than Scott, at least.”
“Hey! I’m plenty gay. I own a gay bar.”
“Does that mean Troy is the least gay person here?” Harris asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” Ilya says. “You are all very gay, but you are also losers."
"Ilya." Shane pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please don't call our guests losers."
"I mean you are losing the game! You have not done anything. I need to…what is the phrase, Shane? On the game shows David watches when they need help?”
“Phone a friend?”
“Yes! Phone a friend. Scott, I need your phone.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t have mine. Give.” Rozanov holds his hand out. Scott considers putting up a fight, but honestly, he’s curious where this is going. He passes it over and Ilya grins at the home screen. “Aww, Kip. So cute.”
“Like yours isn’t Shane,” Harris says.
“No. Is Anya. Okay. First, we will look up Scott Hunter’s search history,” Ilya says. “Oh wow, Ilya Rozanov shirtless?”
“Shut up.”
Ilya presses the screen, laughing, and drops the phone in the middle of the circle.
“Hello?” a grumbly voice rings out. “Scott? Is everything okay?”
“Eric Bennett!” Ilya crows. “My bisexual brother, hello!”
Scott regrets handing over his phone now. Really, he should have the second he did it.
“…Rozanov?” Eric says. “Aren’t you getting married right now?”
“We’re at the after party,” Kip supplies. “Hey Eric!”
“Hi?”
“We’re playing never have I ever,” Ilya shouts unnecessarily loudly into the phone. “Kip says he has never used anal beads. Have you?”
“...what?”
“Kip, you fucking liar,” Kyle’s voice comes through.
“Oh my God, I haven’t! I told you, you can’t decide that based on vibes.”
“I can and I have.”
“Kyle!” Ilya says cheerily. “Is Eric drinking?”
“Eric doesn’t drink.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Rozanov,” Eric grits out. “It’s, like, five in the morning here in France.”
“Why are you awake then?” Kip asks. “Getting up to some fuuuun?”
“We’re getting ready to do sunrise yoga.”
“Ew, Bennett, no,” Ilya says. “You are letting me down. Go buy anal beads.”
“Oh my God,” Eric says. “Is Scott there or did you tie him up and steal his phone?”
“I’m here,” Scott says before anyone can make the obvious bondage joke, “for some reason.”
“Alright. Glad you’re alive,” Eric says. “Is Hollander alive too? Has Rozanov committed mariticide yet?”
“Hi,” Shane says. “Sunrise yoga sounds really nice.”
Ilya blows a raspberry. “Ugh, boo, you are giving him terrible honeymoon ideas.”
“Sorry?” Eric says, not sounding sorry at all. “And I’m sorry we missed the wedding. It sounds…interesting.”
“Very,” Kyle says. “Kip, you know I need all the deets. Every last one.”
“Obviously.”
“We are having so much fun. Wedding of the year, they are saying,” Ilya says. “But I understand. If you are dating a hot younger man, you have to fly him around the world so he will not leave you.”
“Goodbye Rozanov,” Eric says. “Talk soon, Scott.”
“Bye.”
Ilya blows a kiss and Eric hangs up. “No help,” Ilya says. “Who has Baldwin’s number?”
Scott rolls his eyes, scooping his phone back up. “I can’t believe you don’t even stop being a menace on your wedding day.”
“He has a reputation to maintain,” Shane says way too fondly.
“Okay, Harris,” Ilya says. “Your turn!”
“I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to go around the circle, you know. Not just have you captain us and pick at random.”
“Is my wedding day! I get to decide.”
“It’s our wedding day,” Shane mutters, seemingly to himself.
“Say something to make people drink,” Ilya says. “Please! Or I will drink this whole bottle alone.”
“Okay.” Harris flashes Troy an apologetic smile, then says, “never have I ever slept with a Stanley Cup champion.”
Troy’s jaw drops. “Seriously?”
“What? I’m putting out what I want. It’s a manifestation, in a way.” He laughs.
“Wait,” Scott says. “You should be more specific than that.”
“What?” Shane says. “Conn Smythe winners only? Drink up, Ilya.” Ilya replies with something in Russian and Shane honest to God giggles.
“No,” Scott says. “Never have I ever slept with a Stanley Cup winner the year they won said cup.”
“Oh ho ho.” Kip claps, immediately catching onto what Scott’s doing here. He takes his own sip.
“What are you saying?” Ilya asks. “Are you trying to hide that you slept with Bennett?”
His joke isn't enough of a distraction. It’s too late. The way Shane's gone white and is tapping on his cup says it all. He and Ilya exchange a weighted look, a whole silent conversation passing between them. Ilya gives a small nod and finally, finally, Shane sighs. "Okay, yeah, fine."
He takes a sip.
A dramatic gasp rolls through the circle. “Wait, what year was that?” Kip asks. “I hate Boston too much, I repress their success.”
“2014.” Harris grins. “You were together in 2014?”
“Holy shit,” Troy says, at the same time that Scott says, “Jesus Christ.”
“Uh.” Shane casts Ilya another glance, blushing behind his drink. “Yeah. That’s when we got together.”
Scott tilts his head, does his best Ilya Rozanov impression, and looks right through Shane. “You got together sooner.”
“No,” Ilya says. Another look passes between them, one that Scott can’t read but is sure he himself has shared with Kip hundreds of times. Ilya says something in Russian and Shane gives his own tiny nod. “No, this would make no sense. Why would everyone think we are rivals if we started sleeping together before our rookie season?”
“Oh my GOD.” Harris practically collapses into Troy’s side. “I’m gonna faint. Did I just faint? Did I black out and hallucinate that?”
“Wait. So all those years…" Scott says slowly. "Shit, all those all star games…”
“We weren’t,” Shane stutters. “I mean, we weren’t exclusive for awhile. Til ya know…” He gestures vaguely at Scott.
Scott blinks at him. “Til what?”
“Oh my God, Hunter,” Ilya says. “You do ten interviews a week about how you changed the world and when people tell you it makes a difference you act all surprised?”
“I,” Scott says. Because, well, yes. It’s really hard to conceive that there’s an actual couple here, married, in part because of him.
For years, he lived in total isolation, nothing more or less than a hockey player. Now, he gets messages from people all the way from peewee to the NHL telling him he changed things. That he changed everything, even.
He doesn’t know how to wrap his mind around the fact that his love for Kip doesn’t exist in a vacuum. That him kissing his boyfriend was like a rock dropped in a pond and the ripples go so far out that he can’t see them all. That he never will.
“I just about died when you guys kissed,” Harris offers into the silence that Scott’s throat is too tight to fill. “I mean, seriously. I don’t even play hockey but to see myself in a sport I’ve felt on the outskirts of my whole life. Wow, man. I was screaming in my living room.”
“Yeah,” Troy says. “Same. Well, except for the not playing hockey part.”
After a thousand and one stories like this, Scott should probably know how to respond. He doesn’t. He just smiles gratefully, savors Kip leaning heavier into his side, as much a part of this piece of history as he is.
“I didn’t even know it was possible,” Shane says. “Which sounds so ridiculous when I say it out loud. But I just…I don’t know.”
“Yeah, I think on some level, I knew there had to be other gay players,” Troy says. “I kinda just thought we’d all be waiting forever for someone else to go first.”
“Yes,” Ilya says simply.
It’s funny. In Scott’s entire career, this has been the only time his peers have been happy to lose to him. To sit back and watch the spectacle and wait.
He’s just happy they didn’t wait forever. That he’s not the first and only. That they’re here, with him in this, even if Barrett’s a reformed dick and Rozanov’s a little shit and Hollander probably is by extension.
“Thanks guys. I’m glad it did something. I just…couldn’t not kiss him in that moment.”
“Yeah. I know,” Hollander says softly. Scott hates to admit it, but he’s always been jealous of Shane. A wunderkind with three fucking Cups and too many awards to count, good enough to turn a subpar team into a dynasty. But now all he feels is pity. Every time he hoisted that Cup, he couldn’t even look into the crowd for a glimpse of his person.
“A decade huh?” Scott says. “A fucking decade.”
“Yes,” Ilya says again, gentler this time, rubbing a finger over Shane’s wedding band.
“How did it even happen?” Harris asks. “I mean, you hated each other.”
“No,” Shane and Ilya say in sync, then both blush.
“I mean, he was annoying,” Shane says. “He is annoying. But…”
“Yes, and you are boring. But…”
But.
He sees their whole careers through rainbow colored glasses now. The rookie of the year showdown. Face offs won and face offs lost and being in fucking Russia together and shit, that year Marlow literally knocked Shane out of the playoffs.
But they love each other.
Every press conference. Every scuffle on the ice, every second off it. They’ve loved each other.
“Wow,” Scott says, realization hitting him all over again. “The entire city of Montreal owes you an apology. Hell, the whole country does.”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Many.”
“It’s fine.”
“No.” Ilya looks down at his husband (Scott’s mind barely even trips over the word now), his mouth pulled into a tight line. “You gave them everything. Everything. One trip, one mistake, and they throw you away like you are nothing? I will never forgive them. Never.” He clenches his fist that’s not holding Shane’s hand tight.
“It’s their loss,” Harris says. “I mean, we have Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander now.”
“And Troy Barrett,” Troy stage whispers.
“Who?” Harris grins. “I’m just saying, we’re gonna win a Cup. And then another. After all this time…”
“Mmm, no,” Kip says. “But I love your optimism!”
“Alright,” Scott cuts in before this gets any more heated. Hell hath no fury like a WAG, regardless of gender. “Let’s make a pact. Montreal doesn’t win a fucking game against the Admirals or the Centaurs this season.”
“They already won’t,” Ilya says. “They do not have Shane Hollander.”
“I just mean, let’s play clean. Don’t stoop to their level, avoid stupid penalties, make them regret what they did to Shane by not giving them a single advantage over us.” He levels Ilya a hard stare, knowing there’s a good chance he’ll live in the penalty box when they play Montreal.
Ilya nods. “Yes. Toronto too. Choosing Kent over Barrett was very dumb.”
“Hell yeah.” Harris gives a little fist pump. Troy smiles, bashful. It’s weird that he ever pretended to be a jackass honestly.
“Okay, so we’re agreed. Knock out Toronto, knock out Montreal,” Scott says. “Then, we’ll play each other in the playoffs and you guys can become the first couple to share a devastated kiss after you lose.”
Immediate jeering follows, which Scott anticipated. He laughs it off. “No,” Rozanov says. “Our kiss after winning the Cup will be so epic, people will say ‘who was that other guy again? Scotch?’”
“Uh, Troy and I will be giving you a run for your money,” Harris says.
And wow, how weird is it that there’s three openly queer guys on one NHL team. That the goalie Scott won his own Cup with is currently doing yoga in France with his boyfriend.
“Alright,” Ilya says. “My turn, finally.”
Scott had honestly forgotten all about the game.
“How are you gonna go?” Troy asks. “Haven’t you done, like, everything?”
“No,” Ilya says, and then, smiling, “never have I ever been gay.”
The whole circle sans Ilya sips their drinks. “To being fucking gay,” Harris says, holding his cup out.
“Yeah,” Scott says. “To being fucking gay.”
They all hold their cups out (Ilya too) and Scott downs his, the others following suit.
“Okay. This is too sappy. Let’s go dance, come on.” Ilya stands to his feet, holding a hand out for Shane.
“It’s your wedding day,” Scott says. “It’s supposed to be sappy, you know.”
He expects a comeback, but Rozanov keeps surprising him. He wraps an arm around Shane when he stumbles to his feet and says, “Yes. You’re right.”
“Wow,” Kip says when the others have gone back and it’s just them on the grass, looking up at the stars and stretching their legs a little longer. “Ilya Rozanov said you were right. Has hell frozen over?”
“No.” Scott traces a thumb over Kip’s cheek. “I think he’s just in love.”