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Scott doesn’t like the player exchange. It’s archaic, it’s legally questionable, and if it ever gets out to the public beyond raunchy rumors, they’re all fucked. Not to mention it feels dirtier when Scott’s in there. A contractually-obligated post-game blowie is one thing, but it’s a lot nastier when one of the guys is secretly gay. It’s just not honest.
Since making captain he’s had a lot more leeway with it. It’s good leadership to hand winner’s rights off to another player. Not all the time, of course -- it’s more gay to be one of those guys who never takes advantage of the exchange at all. But enough to get some breathing room, and when Scott does take his pick, he always calls on other vets. Guys he’s friendly with, usually, who’ll talk shop with him for a few minutes then get down to it with an easy professionalism. There’s nothing in the rules that says you have to get your dick wet in the room. Still, it’s better not to rock the boat, and better to do it with a buddy who’s been around a while and will look you in the eye and invite you to a barbecue in the off-season afterward.
So -- always vets, never rookies. Scott hates the idea of it. Some starstruck barely-legal straight kid, down on his knees in an unmarked room in the back hallways of the rink. Doing whatever he’s told because, shit, he made it to the show and he’s getting a seven-figure paycheck and maybe he’s in a room with a guy whose poster he used to have on his wall all through juniors. Just thinking about it makes Scott feel like a pervert. He’s made it known in the locker room that any player who picks a rookie had better have a damn good reason or be prepared for bag skates the next morning. Hell, when guys from other teams have called on an Admirals rookie, Scott’s gone in the kid’s place and made it all-around awkward. There’s standards of behavior even in the winner’s room, and Scott’s a leader. A stand-up guy.
The problem tonight is the scoreboard, flashing 2-1 in the Admirals’ favor. The home crowd going wild because they’re up against the Raiders, fuck those Boston bastards, welcome to New York, baby. The problem is Rozanov, who’s chirping like he doesn’t know he’s a rookie on a washed-up team that hasn’t touched the Cup since the fucking ‘70s. The problem is Rozanov last week, practically shouting his room number to Shane Hollander at All-Stars. The problem is the obscene noises through the wall even when Scott had told them, he’d fucking warned them he was right next door. Scott waits for months until the offseason to get his kicks, flies halfway around the world to discreet resorts in places where nobody gives a fuck about hockey, where it’s easy to get what he needs. And these stupid, reckless, fucking entitled kids are getting it on in a hotel room, at work, where anybody could hear them. It’s embarrassing. It’s dangerous. It’s just so fucking dumb.
Rozanov skates by, scoops the puck away from Scott, gets checked hard into the boards, bounces back and rockets off after the puck. Scott feels a bead of sweat slip down his back and roll into his pads. Glint of satisfaction, seeing Rozanov slammed like that.
It’s unprofessional, the way Scott’s letting Rozanov get under his skin. Sure, he’s a dinosaur. He did a couple years in the NCAA instead of being shipped up straight from the Soviet gulag or wherever the hell Rozanov’s from. He’s been chirped worse by better. He should let it roll off his back.
They’re in the o-zone now, wrestling for the puck. Rozanov in possession, Scott up behind him. Cross-check to the back, the ref’s blind and doesn’t call it, Scott takes the puck, passes to Dugas who passes to Vaughn who dumps it in the basket. The crowd roars. Dougie and Vaughn bump chests in front of the net. Rozanov heads back to center ice, leans in close to Scott as he skates by. “Cannot score clean?” he says. That shiteating grin. “Dirty old man.”
Scott should chirp back. Scott should let it go. Scott should be the bigger man. Instead he drops his gloves and lands a right hook right on Rozanov’s big mouth. Thirty seconds later they’re both in the box. Rozanov’s smiling with bloody teeth, waving to the fans. Scott’s knuckles ache. His ribs, too -- kid got a couple shots in. This isn’t how he likes to play. He needs to rein himself in. He’s supposed to be some kind of role model.
He can’t stop thinking about Rozanov. Does he take it from Hollander, or the other way around? It must be good, for them to risk their contracts and their legacies and ten million dollars a year. Somebody has to tell them to get that shit under control.
They win the game 3-1, Bennett in the net blocking two more shots from Boston. Scott should hand winner’s rights over to Benny, or to Vaughn. But, shit, hadn’t Scott scored two goals? And got the assist on another? He wants to talk to Rozanov, privately. Tell him how fucking stupid he’s being. Give him some advice, fag to fag. There’s no place more private than the exchange.
He’s worried it won’t go over well in the room. He doesn’t announce it outright, just doesn’t give the rights away. He’s the captain. He has every right to make this call. Tries his hardest to keep a level, honest gaze when the assistant coach pokes his head in and asks, “Who’s the lucky guy tonight?”
“Rozanov,” Scott says, and doesn’t look around for the team’s reaction. “Eighty-one.”
By all rights somebody should push back on him. Rozanov’s a rookie. Scott’s breaking the rule, even if it’s his own rule. Instead, there’s a quiet beat, then Vaughn says, “Hell yeah, Cap. Destress a little, you fuckin’ earned it, bro.”
Wilzy chimes in, wrestling out of his sweater and tossing it in the laundry bin. “Shit, somebody’s gotta put that little fucker in his place. Give ‘em hell, Scotty.”
“Prettiest one on the Raiders, anyways.”
“Probably the prettiest guy in the whole city of Boston, you kidding me? Nothing but dogs on that fuckin’ roster.”
From there the room devolves into arguing about who’s the ugliest team in the league, why Boston girls are so fucking crazy (“Hey man, you’d be crazy too if you were picking from that gene pool”), and whether the National Guard should be sent in to address the ugliness situation in Boston. Scott stays out of it. He strips down to his base layers, tosses on a team shirt for interviews, thinks about showering but there’s no point. He’s just going to talk to the kid. Better to get it over with.
The exchange room is down a rabbit warren of back hallways, a plain door that leads to a room that doesn’t look too different from the medical and physio rooms. Clean linoleum-tiled floor, fluorescent ceiling lights like an office. A thin-mattressed bed pushed into the corner.
Rozanov is there already, slouched on the bed with his feet up. He looks at Scott through half-lidded eyes. Fuck-me eyes, Scott thinks and then pretends he didn’t.
“You are here to get your revenge on me?” Rozanov asks, a little garbled with his accent and his busted lip. There’s dried blood on his chin.
“No,” Scott says, pulls over a chair and sits down a respectable six feet from the bed. “I don’t believe in that. I just wanted to talk to you.”
Rozanov laughs, the little shit. “Just talk. Okay.” He says okay like okey, and with a tone like he thinks Scott is mentally challenged.
Scott manfully ignores the sarcasm. He’s being the bigger man now. He’s being a captain, a leader, a nice guy who doesn’t let a couple of dumb rooks throw away their careers. “You and Hollander need to be more careful. You both have a lot on the line.”
He doesn’t know what he’s expecting from Rozanov. Rage, maybe panic. But Rozanov holds himself very still, his face blank except for something unreadable that flashes, briefly, across his eyes. “What is this? This is blackmail?”
“Jesus, kid, no. I just want the two of you to stop being so goddamn stupid. I was in the room next to you at All-Stars, you think I didn’t hear you all over each other? It could’ve been anyone in the room on the other side of you, it could’ve been Roger goddamn Crowell listening to you two fucking moaning. It’s a dumb risk to take.”
Rozanov’s nostrils flare. “Was not Hollander’s idea. Always my idea.”
Always, these fucking kids. How many times have they done this? How could they be this naive? They think they can have anything they want. They’re too fucking dumb to understand how the world works. Scott feels a leash inside of him go loose. He wants to hit Rozanov again, wants to beat the shit out of him until he understands what it feels like to lose.
“Yeah, I bet it was your idea,” Scott says, meanly. “You’re just a slut for it, huh?”
Rozanov looks at him, tightens his jaw, seems to resign himself to something. “Yes, I am a slut for it.” If he’s embarrassed, it doesn’t show. That blank face, those pale flinty eyes. His game face.
Scott wants to make him embarrassed. He wants to see his face go red, wants to see him swallow and sniffle and scrape his feet. “You know what slut means? You got that word in fucking Russia?”
“Yes, we have word. You want to know it?”
“I want you to explain to me what slut means. In English.”
Rozanov gets up from the bed, pads over to Scott in his socks, sinks down to his knees between Scott’s legs. Scott can feel his breath hot on his bulge. “Slut means wants fucked very much. Slut means I am dirty.” He leans in, mouths at Scott’s dick. “Slut means I do anything.”
“Christ,” Scott groans. “I wasn’t even gonna touch you, you know that? I don’t fuck with rookies.”
“Is okay,” Rozanov says. “Let me do it, I am slut, I want to do it. Will be good for you.” Looks up through his eyelashes, so fucking pretty. So fucking nasty. He’s putting on a show on purpose, trying to play him. Scott can tell. He doesn’t care.
“Christ,” Scott says again. “Jesus, okay, go to town. Get it out.”
Rozanov’s hands don’t shake as he pulls Scott’s compression pants and jock down. He takes Scott’s cock in his hand, gives him a few lazy strokes and then his wet hot mouth. He doesn’t gag at all, just bobs up and down on it, perfect suction, perfect rhythm. The kid’s a fucking pro. It makes Scott furious. If he’d ever pictured this, he’d pictured it messy, sloppy, some inexperienced rookie with his eyes watering and nose running, choking on dick, begging Scott to cum so it’d be over. This bored professionalism is disappointing. It’s like Rozanov’s not even there. Getting away with something, instead of having something taken from him. Scott feels ripped off. How much practice has Rozanov had, to take it this easy?
Scott grabs Rozanov by the hair, pulls him off. “You do this a lot, huh?”
Rozanov tips one shoulder, noncommittal. “I run mouth, play hard. I am little rookie and foreigner. It is turn-on for many players, I think.”
That wasn’t what Scott had meant, had been thinking about the thing with Hollander, but of course Rozanov spends a lot of time in the exchange. Scott is sort of surprised he’s so clear-eyed about it, understands so well why a guy might want to put him in his place.
“And,” Rozanov adds, hint of that cocky grin, bared teeth like he’s not on his knees right now, “I am very handsome. Is not news.”
Scott needs to shut him up. This is how Rozanov works. If he’s talking he’s winning. He needs to understand that he’s not fucking winning.
He drags Rozanov back onto his dick. Hesitates a second and then pushes him all the way down. Rozanov gags a little and then — Jesus — lets Scott in, relaxes his throat and takes it. Now this is more like it. The noise is obscene, glug glug glug as Scott throatfucks him. Scott holds him there, deep as he can go, his arm around the back of Rozanov’s head, curling in over him until his chest touches the top of his head. He keeps him there as long as he dares, lets him up for air and then shoves him back down. “Yeah, that’s so fucking good, you’re perfect for this. Made for this, god, open your fucking eyes, look at me.”
Rozanov, pinned at the base of Scott’s dick, lips stretched, blinks his eyes open and looks up at Scott. His throat flutters. His busted bottom lip has split back open. He’s drooling blood. And he’s finally crying, those reflex tears from having his throat fucked into over and over again. Scott’s dick twitches. He hauls Rozanov off him again, pushes him farther down to suck on his ballsack, rubs his dick over Rozanov’s face while his mouth is busy. He taps streaks of precum across Rozanov’s forehead, into his eyebrows. He’s going to mess this kid up, send him back to his team fucked-out and destroyed.
This is what you get, Scott wants to hiss, this is what you get for being queer. This is what you get for wanting Hollander bad enough to risk everything. This is what you get when you get what you want.
He wishes he could go for longer. He wants to see Rozanov splayed on the bed, split open, not so fucking stuck-up anymore. He imagines kicking Rozanov in the stomach right now, the sad little sounds he might be able to force out of him. Instead he jacks himself hard and fast, gets a fist in Rozanov’s sweaty curls and holds him where he wants him. “Open your fucking mouth,” he grunts, and Rozanov does, and Scott jizzes on his tongue, his lips, his eyelashes, all over that hatefully pretty face.
He cums so hard he has to squeeze his eyes shut, whites out for a second, and when he opens his eyes again Rozanov is in front of him still, face dirty with jizz and blood. He’s watching Scott. He looks very young, suddenly, and very tired. “You will keep secret now?” he asks. It sounds like it hurts him to talk.
Scott's softening dick hangs limp over the elastic waist of his compression pants. He feels sick and sad and sorry. “Yeah, bud. Don’t worry about it.”
Rozanov studies him for a second, nods brusquely, gets to his feet and finds the pack of wet wipes on the side table. Scott watches him clean his face. A gold cross glints on his chest. Scott hadn’t noticed it before. Wonders if Rozanov is religious. Wonders if he’d pictured his pro hockey career going like this. Do they tell foreign prospects about the winner’s room? It would be cruel to ask him now, with the pile of crumpled wet wipes mounting on the floor.
Rozanov glances between Scott and the door. His face is mostly clean, but there’s a couple drops of cum splattered on the neck of his shirt. His shoulders are curled inward, just a little. He’d played hard, in the game. Deserves a rest.
“You can go,” Scott tells him. And, pathetically -- “Hey, no hard feelings, right?”
Rozanov, one hand on the doorknob, turns to look at him. Scott feels uncomfortably examined. Feels pitied, almost, and starts getting angry again. The kid has no right to look at him like that, like he knows something. But Rozanov shrugs, then, and turns away.
“Is just the game. Goodnight, Hunter.”
The door shuts quietly, with a click, behind him. Scott is alone. He cleans Rozanov’s blood off the underside of his dick with a wet wipe. He’ll stay at the rink late tonight, spend some extra time on the exercise bike. He needs to clear his head. Tomorrow’s a new day. Tomorrow he’ll be captain of a top team, a good guy, a guy who looks out for the rookies and keeps a handle on his temper. Everything else can wait for the offseason. He won’t let himself get out of line like this again.