Transphobia is about to be signed into law in the UK. We can fight this.
I am begging the UK trans community and its allies to attend the Mass Lobby at Parliament on June 25th, 11am-4pm, organised by Trans Solidarity Alliance.
Last year we broke the record for an LGBT+ mass lobby of Parliament. Will you help us break it again? Join us on 25th June 2026 to demand be
The new EHRC Code of Practice pushes trans people out of toilets, hospital wards, and community spaces. It normalises gender policing based on appearance and stereotypes. It becomes statutory guidance in the UK by the end of June.
Trans people are now legally their assigned gender at birth and must join gendered spaces accordingly, but if they are perceived as their lived gender, they can also be ejected from those spaces. The guidance says: either break the law, or don’t pass too well.
A mass lobby is where you invite your MP to discuss your concerns with you in-person. Ask your MP to:
Demand full parliamentary scrutiny, debate, and use their free vote on the EHRC Code of Practice.
Support any motions rejecting the EHRC guidance. As of June 4th, Labour MP Nadia Whittome has submitted a prayer motion - Early Day Motion 240.
Write to Bridget Phillipson, the Minister for Women and Equalities about our concerns
Your MP does not have to be an ally, they do not have to respond to your email for you to show up and greencard them (details below the cut.) What matters is that as many people as possible show up.
I cannot stress this enough: Showing up in person matters. It is much more effective than petitions, emails, and letters.
It is a horrible, stressful time, and I am so sorry if you're trans and live in the UK. But I was at last year's mass lobby and the line for greencarding alone stretched around the back gates. It was a record breaking mass lobby and made us impossible to ignore. Let's do even better this time. Details under the cut:
Worried about what to say?
Bring your personal worries about transphobia being signed into law, and trans friends being excluded from public spaces. You are a living person who deserves dignity. Remind your MP of that. You will also get guidance and brochures from Trans Solidarity Alliance that outlines our demands. This is mine from last year.
Money issues?
Trans Solidarity Alliance provides a travel bursary that you can sign up for via the link.
Got a refusal or no response from your MP?
Come anyway! You can request a same-day appointment with your MP through a process called greencarding. They will come and see you if they’re already in Parliament. Even if they don’t, they’re made acutely aware of your cause because you showed up in person. This is my greencard from last year.
Here is the EHRC Code of Practice in full. It's a tough read, but some highlights are:
Organisations can’t provide trans-inclusive, single-sex services, or they risk being sued for discrimination.
e.g. domestic violence support for women including trans women, men’s rugby group including trans men (12.68).
Trans people will have nowhere safe to pee.
If you’re a trans man, businesses can't allow you to pee in the men's, and you can also be ejected from women’s bathrooms if you’re perceived as a man. Vice versa for trans women. EHRC suggests a ‘third space’ bathroom, which is discriminatory and unworkable for most businesses. (13.130-133)
Sports organisations must exclude trans people from single-sex competitions (13.73).
A women’s only sports competition must exclude trans women because of their biological advantage or face potential lawsuits (13.74), but a trans man who has undergone testosterone treatment can also be excluded based on fairness rules (13.81).
Trans women are stripped of the legal definition of ‘lesbian’, and therefore no longer have legal protections if they’re discriminated against on the basis of sexual orientation. (2.50, 2.92).
Here is the Good Law Project's better explanation of the EHRC Code.
I have also made a PDF printout of QR codes for the government petition, email your MP tool, and mass lobby link to pass around your communities. DM me and I'll send it to you.
Further context: Durham city council (Reform UK) cut funding and support for Pride. The Durham Miner's Association and other trade unions raised enough money for Durham Pride 2026 to go ahead - a direct call back to when Lesbian and Gays Support the Miners (LGSM) raised money for mining communities when Margaret Thatcher seized union funding during the miner strikes of 1984-85.
At the 1985 Labour party meet, the motion to support LGBT rights as a party was passed due to a block vote from mining unions.
Stephen Guy, the chair of the Durham Miners’ Association, said that when it became apparent Durham Pride was under threat, he took it upon himself to “encourage the trade union movement to step up and do the right thing, and stand shoulder to shoulder with the LGBT+ community […] They not only raised funds for us, but came to our communities, uplifted our spirits when they were down, and showed their solidarity.”
every day people are out here weaving elaborate fictional narratives for nhl players meanwhile pwhl players will just straight up say shit like “we were skinny dipping with team canada while training for the olympics and a shooting star passed overhead and no one else saw it but us and we locked eyes and thus began a secret teammate romance that almost fell apart after we lost the gold medal but the next time our teams played against each other she chased down my team bus after the game to win me back and seven years later we were married and I said in my wedding vows that she was the wish I had always dreamed of and I didn’t realize it until now.” anyway true story and it happened to my girl laura stacey.
Sorry for us politics posting, but we have until May 22, 2026 to submit public comment to the FCC:
More info from GLAAD:
https://glaad.org/fcc/
They have some good tips about writing a comment and protecting your privacy which, fuck it, I'll just paste here:
Providing an email address is optional. If you have concerns about privacy, you may use your initials or public address in your local area, such as City Hall. Do not use a joke name. It diminishes the comment’s credibility.
Your submission does not need to be long. A single, well-reasoned paragraph is sufficient.
Do not copy/paste a template comment. The FCC values unique perspectives, and an original comment carries significantly more weight in the public record. You can explain why this matters to you without revealing private or sensitive personal information.
Here's what I said:
“Free speech is a fundamental American freedom. I do not need a warning about seeing queer people, much like I do not need a warning about women, veterans, or any other group of people.”
The nearest neighbors are a kilometre away. Nobody will hear anything, and Ilya will get away with murder all because Shane’s phone has been turned off for three weeks.
Infuriating.
Ilya parks in front of the cottage next to Shane’s butt-ugly Jeep Cherokee.
Shane’s real estate fetish really paid off. It is a gorgeous property, surrounded by trees on three slides and a lake on the fourth. Stupidly charming birds chirp, unseen, from the trees.
Ilya’s heart clenches. This would have been the perfect getaway last summer. Two weeks of nothing but fucking Shane’s brains out and occasionally stopping to hydrate. No fear of being discovered. No sneaking around.
Ilya’s footsteps crunch too loudly on the loose gravel pathway up to the front door. No matter, it is not like he is trying to hide from Shane – that would defeat the entire purpose of hauling his ass all the way from Boston to Montreal, then to Ottawa, when he did not find Shane at his apartment.
Luckily, Shane texted him the address to his cottage just in case something happened before their planned getaway. Well, something did, but Ilya survived, and he is taking up Shane on his invitation – a year too late.
Ilya inhales a deep breath as he steps up to the threshold. There is no doorbell that he can see, so he peers through the glass windows, looking for Shane.
Nothing.
Hi irritation spiking, Ilya roughly shoves at the door, and it swings open soundlessly. Ilya’s mouth falls open. Fucking Canadians – he should have known. This would never happen in Boston.
He wanders through the enormous house, noting Shane’s shoes stacked neatly by the door, a Montreal Voyageurs sweatshirt folded over the arm of the sofa in the living room, a single water glass and lone plate propped up on the drying rack in the kitchen.
Signs of life, signs of Shane.
But no Shane.
Ilya opens the door to the backyard, and he swallows because there, on the dock on the lake, sits Shane Hollander, in the flesh.
Nerves and excitement thrum beneath his skin. Ilya does not run, but he does walk faster than normal down to the water.
“Shane,” he breathes as soon as his feet hit the wooden slats.
Shane does not turn around.
Ilya frowns. “Shane?” he repeats, louder this time.
Shane’s shoulders twitch, but he still does not turn around.
What the fuck?
Ilya did not waste a fucking year in the Canadian wilderness, starving and going insane with the rest of the Bears, just to get ignored instead of a homecoming.
Out there, he could not rest for a single minute. As their captain, he had to set an example. He could not fall apart because everything he ever wanted seemed to die in the fiery crash along with the pilots, a rookie, their PR manager, and the Bears’ franchise owner. All Ilya had was the desperate hope that he would make it out. He would make it back to Shane. He would taste Shane again, along with a chocolate glazed donut from Dunkin’ and pelmeni from Masha’s in Charlestown.
He had been so single-minded after the crash, but now –
On the dock, Ilya falters. Maybe Shane found someone else? Ilya looked Shane up; it was the first thing he did once the hospital reluctantly cleared him for discharge, and he got his hands on a phone. The press did not report a boyfriend (or girlfriend), and Shane’s social media channels were their typical quiet selves.
But Ilya has been gone for a year, after all. While Ilya was ruthlessly clinging onto his humanity by the tips of his fingers, not much had changed for Shane in his daily life. He still had hockey, his gross smoothies, his brand deals. Before the crash, Ilya only saw him a few days a month, for a few hours at a time. Barely anything. Finding another warm body to slide in the small, hidden place Ilya had claimed as his own in Shane’s life would be very easy.
Everyone believed the Bears had died, so it would make sense for Shane to replace him. Many times, Ilya wished they had died, but then he would slap himself and say that he could never return to Shane if that happened, so he should not go wishing for bad things. Enough bad things had already happened to him.
On the entire two hour drive here from the airport, Ilya could not really suppress the evil little voice in the back of his mind that was telling him that Shane had found a new, secret man.
At least Ilya did not walk in on Shane fucking someone else. That would have been unbearable, more unbearable than this bizarre silence he is receiving now.
“Hey,” Ilya says, his voice sharper than before. “Hollander. I am speaking to you.”
Shane swallows, his throat clicking. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he turns around. He blinks rapidly as he takes in Ilya, standing there.
Ilya does his best not to fidget under the weight of Shane’s gaze. Ilya looks different - even he hasn’t had a chance to get used to the thinner, gaunt face in the mirror. Most of his muscles have wasted away, leaving him with lean sinew after a few months of near-starvation. His hair is longer than it has ever been, tied back with an elastic he bought from a convenience store in Montreal.
But Ilya’s eyes look the most different. He cannot pinpoint how exactly, but something definitely has changed about them in the year since he got on that last plane.
“Take a picture, it will last longer,” he snarks. “Oh wait, you cannot because your phone has been turned off for three weeks.”
“I’m on a silent retreat and technology detox,” Shane says dumbly.
Those are the first words Shane says to him? After everything? Ilya declares, “That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”
Shane flinches.
Ilya sighs. Nothing about this is going right. All Ilya dreamed about, ached for, as he shivered and stared at the ceiling of their ruined plane – the only shelter they had – was being with Shane again.
But Shane is acting weird, weirder than normal, and Ilya cannot read him like he used to.
It hurts.
But the best thing for Ilya’s hurts has always been Shane, so he takes a step closer.
Shane stares up at him, going paler by the second.
But Ilya has already committed to touching Shane, and now he cannot stop himself, drawn to Shane like a magnet. His fingers barely brush Shane’s cheek before Shane jerks back –
And falls into the lake with a loud splash.
“Hollander!”
Shane pops back up, spluttering, shaking water out of his eyes. “Motherfucker!” he gasps.
Ilya drops into a crouch. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demands as he holds out a hand to Shane.
“You surprised me,” Shane mutters as he ignores Ilya and swims around to the ladder on the other side. He hoists himself up from the water, and Ilya’s mouth goes dry as Shane’s arms flex to lift him up to the last rung, his light blue shirt nearly translucent when soaking wet.
Ilya needs to touch Shane right this second, or he will die.
He wraps his arms around Shane’s shivering body, and Shane freezes up for a horrifying second, before he all but melts in Ilya’s embrace. Ilya burrows his nose in the crook of Shane’s neck, and it feels like the first time he can properly breathe since those hikers stumbled on the Bears’ makeshift camp.
“You’re warm,” Shane marvels. “How are you warm?”
“I did not just fall in the lake,” Ilya mutters as he gently strokes the back of Shane’s neck, still dripping with lake water. “I am sure that is the main reason.”
Shane chuckles wetly.
Ilya draws back, drinking in the sight of Shane’s face. He has fewer freckles than the last time he saw him, and his hair is a little shorter, but he is still the most beautiful man Ilya has ever seen. “We will go back into the house,” Ilya proposes. “And I will take you against all those fucking windows, and then I will eat you out on the kitchen counter, and if you want to be boring, I suppose we can fuck on your bed next. You will not be cold by then.”
“Yeah, I’d really like that,” Shane says, and for some unfathomable reason to Ilya, he looks like he is about to cry. But he follows Ilya silently back to the house, his eyes so big, not looking away for a moment.
* * *
“I dreamed about this,” Shane murmurs as they rest after fucking on the floor in front of all the fucking windows.
“You dreamed about me sucking you off you until you begged?” Ilya waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “What else happened in this dream? Tell me more.” He props himself up on one elbow to see Shane better in the dimming light coming in through the gigantic windows. They had turned on the fireplace, and the entire room was toasty enough to make Ilya sweat after the first minute he spent pounding into Shane’s ass.
For a moment, a split second, Ilya worried that too much time had passed. That he had forgotten how to bring Shane to the heights of pleasure, but apparently this is a skillset so imprinted in his psyche, not even a year of distance can erase it.
Shane stares up at him, biting his lip. Heat flares low in Ilya’s stomach, so he leans down to bite it for him. Ilya does much better job of it, anyway. When he pulls back, Shane’s eyes are glassy.
“I dreamed you came back to me,” Shane says in a small voice, like he is afraid of saying it out loud.
Ilya makes a pfft noise. “Lame,” he says playfully as he cups the side of Shane’s face, swiping one thumb over the freckles he loves so much. “I should have known you are giant sap. Canadians are known for this, I have been told.”
“Hey,” Shane protests, a slow smile spreading across his face, “the most valuable theft in Canada’s history was a maple syrup heist! Don’t knock it.”
Ilya falls on his back laughing. He cannot decide which is funnier; that Canada’s greatest crime involved maple syrup or that Shane knows this fact at all.
Bylat, Ilya loves this man.
“It was 77% of the world’s maple syrup supply!” Shane adds, fully grinning now.
Ilya just laughs harder. “This is,” he forces out, “most ridiculous crime I have ever heard.”
Shane just rolls his eyes.
Ilya settles down, shifting his body so they’re pressed together all the way from their shoulders to their toes. He closes his eyes – maybe small nap before next round. He has been awake since five in the morning to drive from Montreal to Ottawa.
“I miss you,” Shane says, so quietly Ilya barely hears it.
But he does. He squints over at Shane. “I am right here.”
Shane doesn’t respond. Instead, he inhales sharply and throws his arm over Ilya’s side. He pulls him closer, fingers digging into the flesh of his back, teeth nipping at the meat of his shoulder. Like if he holds on tightly enough with enough parts of his body, nobody will pry Ilya loose from him ever again.
Fine with Ilya. He has heard of worse ideas, like getting the whole Bears team on a plane to Seattle for a charity fundraiser on the last day before summer break.
He holds Shane, breathing in the scent of him, and they lay like that for a long time, long enough for Ilya’s eyes to drift closed again.
Shane twitches, and Ilya smiles. Before, they rarely fell asleep together. No, usually one of them would sneak out after they had got all the fucking out of their systems. But now, they can both sleep. They have more time for sex tomorrow.
Shane twitches again, his breath catching, and Ilya freezes. Shane is not asleep. “Shane?” he says.
Shane just shakes his head.
Ilya tilts his head up, and the tears coursing down Shane’s face catch in the flickering light from the fireplace. “Oh, moya lyubov,” he murmurs as he wipes one wet trail away with the pad of his thumb. “What is wrong?”
Shane shakes his head again, his lips pressed tight together, but that does not stop the water from welling up in his eyes.
“We are okay here,” Ilya says as he presses a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “No crying, unless you are choking on my cock, okay?”
Shane snorts a gross-sounding laugh, and Ilya smiles. “You always know just what to say,” Shane whispers.
“Is special talent of mine.”
Shane sighs. “I don’t want to go to sleep.”
“Then you will not,” Ilya says at once. He has no idea why Shane does not want to pass the fuck out after their marathon of very hot sex. But Ilya did not drive all the way here and ignore all those warnings from the doctors not to give Shane everything he asks for.
He can stay awake for Shane.
He gets up to make them coffee, with Shane quick on his heels. And when Ilya’s stomach rumbles loudly, they wind up picking out odds and ends from whatever rabbit food Shane has in the refrigerator and sugarless (and fun-less) pantry.
It’s the best meal Ilya has ever had, feeding Shane purple grapes, one-by-one, as Shane pretends to concentrate on slicing a bell pepper into perfectly even strips. As brown rice cooks, Shane piles all the vegetables into a stir fry. After, they eat on the couch as Ilya proposes increasingly insane things to do to stay awake and keep Shane entertained.
Fifteen minutes later, they’re locked in the most intense game of their careers.
“Get fucked, Rozanov!” Ilya crows as he snatches the puck back and races back towards the Bears’ goal.
Shane mumbles something indistinguishable under his breath as, on the screen, his little player 81 flies down the ice. But he cannot stop Ilya’s little player 24 from shooting and scoring.
“Goal!”
“Yes, I see that,” Shane mutters. “I can’t believe the fig–”
“Believe it, Hollander,” Ilya says smugly as he leans over to kiss Shane’s cheek. “You lost.”
But before his mouth can make contact with Shane’s freckles, Shane yanks him closer, and Ilya falls, blanketing Shane with his body. Shane just stares up at him, a dopey little smile curling his lips. “I don’t mind.”
Ilya gasps. “You do not mind losing to me? Are you really Shane Hollander?”
“If you’re around to lose to,” Shane says seriously, “then no, I don’t mind.”
“Hmph,” Ilya grunts as he settles on top of Shane, slotting their legs together. “Maybe I should get lost in the woods more often. Maybe then you will decide eating cheese is not too bad.”
“Don’t you dare,” Shane says, a surprising ferocity in his voice. “You can’t leave me. Not again.”
“Not again,” Ilya agrees before he dips his head down for a proper kiss.
As the player selection screen rotates endlessly on the television, Ilya lazily ruts against Shane, sucking against the sensitive point at the hinge of his jaw. Shane makes a delicious whimpering noise, so Ilya sucks harder, reaching down to palm his cock. Shane hisses a low, “Fuck, Ilya,” as Ilya pushes the head through the tight hole of his fist, slick with Shane’s own precome. Ilya keeps increasing the speed and pressure until Shane goes rigid beneath him and spurts all over Ilya’s hand and his own thighs.
“God,” Shane goes boneless beneath him, “you’re good at that.”
Ilya’s eyebrows rise. “Just good?”
“Mm hm,” Shane hums sleepily as he closes his eyes. But, as Ilya gently extricates himself from Shane’s weak limbs, his eyes pop open again in alarm. “Where are you going?”
“To clean you up,” Ilya explains. “You do not like being sticky.” He frowns. “Unless that has changed too.”
Wordlessly, Shane shakes his head.
“Hell would ice over, I know,” Ilya says, chuckling to himself. He pads to the kitchen and tears off a few paper towels. He damps with the faucet in the sink and returns to find Shane watching him through heavily lidded eyes.
Shane sighs in satisfaction as Ilya cleans his release off his skin.
Ilya carefully swipes away every last drop. As he places the damp paper towel on the coffee table to dispose of later, he turns back to Shane to find him fast asleep.
Ilya sighs as he looks down at his own cock, now only half-hard with the brief lull in activity. No matter, they have more time to fuck tomorrow. And Ilya will make sure Shane pays for falling asleep on him. Could be a fun game, who knows?
* * *
It is a fun game because Ilya has all the best ideas. He has Shane begging and pleading before nine in the morning, holding his orgasm hostage for a good half an hour as he tells Shane when to start and stop touching himself. Sure, this leaves Ilya down two on the orgasm counter, but he does not mind because he finally gets his mouth on Shane’s dick, so hard and wet for him.
They eat breakfast on the patio, Shane loose-limbed and content, Ilya the happiest he has been in more than a year. The chickpea flour pancakes are gross, but Ilya cannot bring himself to care, especially after Shane proudly unearths a small bottle of maple syrup – the only sweetener he has in the entire house – and Ilya nearly doubles over laughing.
They finish eating, and Shane loans him a pair of swim trunks, going fiery red and turning a deaf ear to Ilya’s pleas to just let him swim naked.
After all the excitement of the morning, it is nice to just float in the water, holding hands, occasionally shoving Shane under the surface to see him make his little angry kitten face when he tackles Ilya in retaliation.
They only head back up to the cottage when their hunger becomes too strong to ignore. But Shane makes the mistake of walking in front of Ilya on the gravel path, and Ilya’s hands cannot not sink into the meat of his ass, right there for the grabbing. Laughing, Shane lets Ilya back him up against the glass door and cover his face in kisses.
After months of hunting for his own food and once, running away from an actual fucking bear, Ilya developed a keen sense of being watched. And, as soon as Shane’s back hits the glass, Ilya lifts his head to scan his surroundings, a hair-raising prickle at the back of his neck.
A man stands in Shane’s living room, staring straight at them.
Shane turns, following Ilya’s line of sight. He freezes.
“Is that your father?” Ilya says as he finally places the face of the man running out of the door like the cottage just caught fire.
Shane doesn’t respond, his eyes wide. But Ilya cannot detect a hint of fear or anger, just pure shock. Eventually, Shane croaks, “Did he see you?”
Ilya grimaces. Did he suck Shane’s actual brain out through his dick this morning? He says flatly, “I am a big Russian man. I am hard to miss.”
Shane grabs his face between his hands, but he makes no move to kiss Ilya. Instead, he studies every inch of him with the intensity he usually saves for playoff game tape.
After a full minute under this scrutiny, Ilya says blandly, “You are acting weird.”
Shane just swallows, but he doesn’t let go.
“If your father comes back, he will be even more confused,” Ilya points out.
Shane drops his hands. “No, no, you’re right,” he sighs. “I should talk to him and Mom.”
They head to the bedroom to put on clothes, with Shane growing quieter and quieter the whole way. By the time they climb into his Jeep, Shane hasn’t spoken for several minutes.
“I…” Ilya steels himself. “I can wait back at the cottage. If that will be easier,” he says stiffly.
Shane pauses in buckling his seatbelt. “No,” he says without looking up. “You should come too.”
“Okay.”
* * *
The drive feels just as long as the two-hour trip from Montreal to Ottawa, but Ilya watches the clock on the dashboard, and barely ten minutes later, they are pulling up to a more modest version of Shane’s cottage.
“Hello? It’s me. It’s… Shane,” he calls unnecessarily as they step through the door. After toeing off his sandals, he gestures for Ilya to follow him to the livingroom, where Mrs. and Mr. Hollander are huddled together on the couch.
They both raise their heads at once. “Shane?” Mrs. Hollander says.
“I forgot to buy dishwasher tablets,” Mr. Hollander says carefully. “I just wanted to see if I could borrow some. I didn’t know you had… company.”
Shane turns to Ilya, and Ilya cannot understand the expression on his face. “What?” Ilya barely gets out before Shane is flinging his arms around him, panting harshly against his neck.
Into his ear, Shane breathes shakily, “They can see you too.” His arms curl tighter around him, almost tight enough to ache. “You’re fucking real, Ilya.”
“Yes?” he agrees, mostly confused. “I am real.” This was something he had to prove?
But Shane now is outright weeping into Ilya’s shoulder and apparently beyond words. Ilya throws Mr. and Mrs. Hollander a panicked look, but they just shake their heads, Mrs. Hollander looking dangerously close to tears herself. So he just rubs Shane’s back, murmuring reassurances in Russian, since Shane has always liked that.
When the sobs seem to be petering out, Ilya adds in English, “Of course I am real, moya lyubov.”
Apparently that is the wrong thing to say, since it sets Shane off all over again.
Over the past day, in between rigorous bouts of fucking, Ilya had wondered why Shane did not ask him about the last year. He thought Shane was being thoughtful by not bringing up bad memories. But if Shane did not believe the Ilya standing in front of him was the real Ilya, maybe he did not want to – what is the English saying – tempt fate.
The Bears talked a lot about tempting fate, out there in the wilderness.
After a few more minutes, Mr. Hollander gets up from the couch. “Why don’t you two sit down?” he asks gently.
Hiccuping lightly, Shane takes a long second to disentangle himself from Ilya, but he lets his father lead him to the couch. Mrs. Hollander immediately makes room and settles down in one of two chairs facing them. Mr. Hollander disappears around the corner and comes back with a box of tissues, glass of water, and a glass, of course, of ginger ale for Shane. He hands the water to Ilya.
Tears are coursing silently down Mrs. Hollander’s face, so Mr. Hollander says, “It is nice to finally meet you, Ilya.”
Ilya turns to Shane, bewildered, but Shane just shakes his head, still incapable of saying a single fucking thing to help Ilya make sense of any of this. “You too, Mr. Hollander.”
“Just David, please. I have to say, Yuna and me were… surprised, to put it lightly, when Shane told us about you two,” he says as Shane sips at his ginger ale. “We had a hard time believing it. But, seeing you together today,” he shakes his head, lips pressing tight together like Shane’s does when he’s trying to keep the emotion from spilling out, “I haven’t seen my son this happy in a whole year.”
Oh, fuck. Ilya swallows, the tip of his nose burning and his eyes prickling. “I was very happy to see him too,” he says in a low voice.
Mrs. Hollander reaches over to tightly grasp her husband’s hand. “We were so relieved to hear your team had been rescued.”
“You knew?” The outrage bursts out of Shane, his first words in ten minutes. Incensed, he demands, “You knew he was back?”
Mrs. Hollander’s eyes narrow. “It was all over the news, Shane.”
“I was on a technology detox!” Shane says at once. “I wasn’t watching the news.”
“And we were going to come by as soon as it was over to tell you,” Mrs. Hollander says in a deliberately calm voice. “Because we were respecting your boundaries and your rules.”
“But–”
“Shane,” David cuts him off, “you were the one who threatened us, remember? You asked us to trust you, and we did.”
Shane’s gaze wildly pingpongs between his parents before he slumps back on the couch, glowering.
Ilya taps the side of his water glass. “You threatened your parents?” he asks.
Shane huffs. “They didn’t think I should be completely by myself for that long,” he says in a low voice.
Ilya reaches for Shane’s free hand, gripping it tightly in his own.
David sighs. “We didn’t think we could make it anywhere near any of the Bears for a few weeks anyway, what with the media circus.”
Mrs. Hollander smiles wryly as she tells David, “I suppose we’ll have to cancel those plane tickets, honey.”
Shane stares at his mother. “Plane tickets?”
“We were going to pick you up from the cottage as soon as your blackout was over and drive straight to the airport,” Mrs. Hollander says. “We knew how important Ilya was to you, Shane.”
“You knew?” Ilya asks, his voice cracking on the second word. Shane’s hand spasms in his grip, but Ilya does not let him pull away.
“Shane told us a few months after your plane went down,” Mrs. Hollander says matter-of-factly.
Ilya swivels around to look at Shane, who is deliberately avoiding his gaze. “You did?” he breathes in awe.
“Well,” David says into Shane’s pointed silence, “It seems like you boys have a few things to talk about. Have you eaten? Yuna and I will reheat something for you.” He gets to his feet and waits, pointedly, for his wife to stand too.
Mrs. Hollander seems more reluctant to leave Shane, but she says nothing, just squeezes Shane’s shoulder as she heads to the kitchen after David.
Ilya slumps back against the couch. Shane told his parents? About him?About them? David didn’t seem very surprised to find them kissing, now that Ilya tries to remember his face back at the cottage. And they had already planned on going to Boston – going to see Ilya.
It was like the Bears’ plane went down, and Ilya wandered out into an upside down world where he and Shane did not have to hide, and Shane’s parents were nice to him. He cannot wrap his head around any of this.
“I’m sorry I told my parents about us,” Shane murmurs in an undertone, breaking through Ilya’s thoughts. “I know we weren’t… like that, but they saw me after the news. They sensed something was going on, and I couldn’t keep lying. You were dead,” he says bitterly. “What harm could telling them do? The worst had already happened.”
“You told them,” Ilya repeats, still hung up on this.
“Sorry,” Shane apologizes again.
“And they were… okay with this?”
Shane shrugs. “As okay as they can be when their only son is walking around like a zombie, not eating, sleeping, or talking to anyone.”
“Shane,” Ilya says helplessly.
“They made me see a therapist,” Shane says in a low voice.
“Did the therapist help?”
Shane shrugs again, staring down into his mostly empty glass of ginger ale. “I got taken off suicide watch, so that’s something.”
Ilya’s heart stops dead in his chest. “You were on ‘suicide watch’?” he asks, his voice rising in alarm. “You were going to kill yourself?”
Shane glances over at Ilya, and whatever he sees in his face makes him sit up straighter. “No,” he says firmly. “I was not going to kill myself, but,” he jerks his head towards the kitchen, “you’ve seen how they are. They were worried.”
“But you are not going to kill yourself,” Ilya says again.
“No,” Shane says, eyes narrowing. “I would never do that.”
“Good.”
Shane hums in agreement and rubs his thumb soothingly against the scarred back of Ilya’s hand.
“Because my mother did that,” Ilya says, barely more than a whisper.
Shane’s thumb presses harder against Ilya’s hand, grounding him. “She died by suicide?” he asks.
Ilya nods. “So you cannot do this too.” He swallows. “Promise me, Shane. You will not kill yourself.”
“I promise,” Shane says, no hesitation, and Ilya relaxes a fraction.
“Boys!” David calls. “Food’s ready!”
Ilya stands first, offering his hand to Shane to help him to his feet. They take the seats facing Mr. and Mrs. Hollander, who each have a glass of wine and a few pieces of bread while Shane and Ilya’s plates are piled high with spaghetti and –
“Is this chicken parmesan?” Ilya asks excitedly as he sits down.
“Yep,” David says as he pushes back his chair. “Leftovers from yesterday. Hold on, I’ll get the extra cheese.”
Ilya beams up at him as Shane just rolls his eyes.
“Can we take some back with us?” Ilya asks as he scatters too much parmesan on his pasta. “Shane has no dairy anywhere in the cottage. And I have not had cheese for a year.”
“Of course, son,” David says.
Ilya’s hand twitches at the casual ‘son’ from Shane’s father, and he cannot help the pleased flush to his cheeks.
Mrs. Hollander claps her hands together, making both Shane and Ilya jump. David just looks fondly at his wife as she starts, “All right, so what’s the plan? We’ve got a problem. Let’s solve it.”
“A problem?” Ilya echoes.
“Coming out,” Mrs. Hollander says shortly but not unkindly. “Now is an optimal time, what with the current levels of public sympathy for the Bears at record highs. We probably shouldn’t share details of how long you two have been involved since that might bring up more questions than answers. Maybe we’ll say since All-Stars? Everyone saw what chemistry the two of you have, and who doesn’t love a good forbidden romance?”
“Mom –” Shane stops her, holding up a hand.
“What?” Mrs. Hollander says, taken aback. “You don’t want to come out?”
Shane inhales a deep breath. “No, of course I do,” he says. He reaches to take Ilya’s hand. “But this is a lot. And he just came back.”
“This is the best opportunity we have,” Mrs. Hollander argues. She turns to Ilya. “I know Shane’s opinion on this. But do you want to come out?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya says dutifully.
“‘Mrs. Hollander’,” she repeats with a snort. “Call me Yuna, please.”
“Yes, Yuna,” Ilya corrects.
“You’re cute,” she says dryly, and Ilya preens under her praise. She continues, “I can set up interviews at some LGBT-friendly outlets, and, Shane, it would be good to get in touch with Scott Hunter to see if he has any advice.” She frowns. “Scratch that, I know his agent. I’ll get in touch and coordinate things.”
She takes a sip of wine. “Ilya, we’ll need to get you brushed up on media training, and Shane and I can handle the bulk of your joint press releases and quotes. It’s my top priority to get an immigration lawyer on retainer next week, so we can guarantee your safety. I hope you were planning on staying at least part of the year with Shane as you resume training for the NHL. Perhaps you could buy an investment property together? Then, we can claim asylum in Canada rather than the US.”
“Jesus, Mom,” Shane groans as Yuna pauses for breath, “please tell me you did not think of this in the last five minutes.”
“Of course not,” Yuna says in a tone like Shane has taken one too many pucks to the head. “While one of us was in a complete media blackout, I was making plans.”
“You know how your mother always likes having a project,” David says placidly.
Shane just slumps back in his seat, defeated.
“Your mother is scary,” Ilya says in an undertone.
Shane grumbles, “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“Quite.” Yuna agrees with a smile. Her expression softens. “I’ve been waiting for this for a very long time. I just want to get it right for you both.”
“More pasta?” David asks.
* * *
Ilya leaves Yuna and David’s cottage with a whole extra plate of chicken parmesan he has no intention of sharing and a multi-step to-do list to review and get back to Yuna with comments by the end of the week.
“Your parents,” Ilya starts as Shane twists the key to start the car, “they are nice.”
“You can say they’re too much,” Shane says with a shrug. “I’m used to them, but they’re not, like, normal parents.”
“I like them.”
Shane smiles, pleased. “I think they like you too.”
“Of course they do,” Ilya says graciously. “Everyone likes me.”
Shane snorts. “Sure, they do.”
In the quiet of the backroads of Ontario, the events of the day spin through Ilya’s head. Fucking, swimming, crying, meeting Shane’s parents… Ilya has not had a day this busy in a very long time. Or a day this good, even if Shane did not believe Ilya was really Ilya for half of it.
“So, when I met you yesterday, you did not think I was real?” Ilya asks lightly.
Shane goes beet red and just stares out the windshield. Ever so slightly, he shakes his head.
“Even when I made you come three times in one hour?” Ilya asks, eyebrows raised. “You thought your brain could make this up? Really?”
“Yes,” Shane says shortly.
“Wow, Hollander,” Ilya drawls, “maybe you are not so boring as I thought.”
Shane glances over at him. “You’re such an asshole,” he retorts, but his expression is as soft as Ilya has ever seen it.
They drive a few more minutes, and Ilya reaches over to lay his hand over Shane’s.
To his horror, Shane sniffs loudly. “Shane?” Ilya asks.
“Fuck,” Shane swears softly. “Look,” he says, eyes trained firmly on the road, “after the accident, after it was clear nobody was going to even find the crash site, I started seeing you everywhere. On the rink, out of the corner of my eye, I’d spot you skating away, but then I’d turn, and of course you wouldn’t be there.” He swallows. “I’d see you in my apartment, sometimes hear you in the next room. Once, in the showers. That was the hardest.”
“In the showers?” Ilya repeats automatically as his head spins with all this new information.
“Shut up,” Shane says without any heat. “Of course you’d fixate on that.” He shakes his head, and his eyes are still too watery for Ilya’s liking. “It’s just – I was so used to seeing you, even in places I knew you couldn’t possibly be, that, yeah, I thought it was happening again.”
“Shane.”
“I’m not crazy,” Shane says in a rush. “I’m not.”
“I know you aren’t, moya lyubov,” Ilya says gently. “This, seeing people who are not there, happened to me too.”
Shane’s head whips around to stare at him. “It did?”
“Da,” Ilya confirms. “My mama. I saw her all the time after she died.” He shrugs. “I knew she was dead. I felt her cold hand. I went to funeral. But still, I saw her. Always glimpses, always.”
“Oh,” Shane says quietly.
Ilya just nods. “You are not crazy.”
“Thank you.”
“You do not have to thank me,” Ilya waves the gratitude away. “I am made up person of your imagination. Of course I agree with you.”
Shane snorts. “Shut up.” He shoots Ilya a sly look. “If you started agreeing with everything I say, then I know you’re not the real Ilya Rozanov.”
Ilya purses his lips. “I do agree with you… sometimes.”
“You do not.”
“I do!” He grins. “You said I am the best hockey player. Is true.”
Shane’s mouth drops open. “I have never said that once in my entire life. I’ve said you’re a good hockey player.”
“No,” Ilya insists, “I remember, you say, ‘Ilya Rozanov, you are the best, sexiest hockey player in the league. Stick your dick in me now, so hard I cannot walk or skate tomorrow’, and then I do this, and I win the playoff game.”
Shane bursts out laughing. “Since when did this turn into a crappy hockey porno? And in what universe would I want you to fuck up my skating with your dick?”
Ilya shrugs. “This is my made up Shane. He tells me this all the time.”
“Sure, sure,” Shane says, grinning broadly. “So, let me get this straight, my made up Ilya just tells me I’m right, while your made up Shane talks like a porn star and throws hockey games for you?”
“He is also hung like a horse,” Ilya says primly, “just like you.”
Shane pulls over to the side of the road and kills the engine.
“What?” Ilya twists around in the seat, staring out the darkening windows. He has really had enough of being stranded in the middle of nowhere.
“Kiss me,” Shane demands to his left.
Ilya whips back around, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Ah, you cannot wait four minutes until we get back to your – mmph.”
5 times Rozanov makes fun of Scott for being old + 1 time he makes fun of Scott for being gay.
Rozanov is uncharacteristically silent during warmups, and a quiet Rozanov is never a good sign.
Scott tenses as he gets into position for the face-off. Whatever homophobic bullshit Rozanov spews can’t be worse than Twitter after their cup win. Scott can take it.
He just needs to keep his head in the game. Think about the play, not what-ifs. Win the face off and wipe that smug grin off Rozanov’s face.
The referee, Hal, raises his arm. “Welcome back for another season. Play nice, you hear me? That means you, Roz.”
Rozanov winks up at him, and Scott nods, determined.
“Showtime, guys,” Hal says as he lifts the puck.
“They heard your knees creak in cheap seats, Hunter,” Rozanov chirps as it drops. “What are you on, knee replacement number ten?”
Scott freezes.
What the fuck? Nothing about cocksucking? No slurs? No digs at Kip?
A fraction of a second too late, Scott chases the puck down the ice, not bothering to waste his breath with useless swears.
Throughout the rest of the game, Rozanov keeps chirping. But all his jabs are still about Scott’s age. Well, he gets in one about how New York City always smells like pee, which actually startles a laugh out of Scott. But the rest are bafflingly predictable. Does Hunter have a spot reserved yet in the nursing home? Rozanov is hearing from his grandma they go fast. Is Hunter getting tired? It must be past his bedtime already.
With two minutes left, Scott fumbles a pass, and Rozanov shouts delightedly, “How did you miss that? Does your boyfriend know he is dating blind old man?”
It’s the first time Rozanov has mentioned Kip at all during the entire game. And, as Scott watches Jalo pancake Rozanov into the boards, he can’t find a single homophobic insinuation in it.
The game ends 5-7 Bears.
As he lines up for the good game handshakes, Scott repeatedly tells himself that decking the rival captain would be unsportsmanlike. Everyone would think he’s just a sore loser. Still,when Rozanov flashes him a knowing smile, Scott comes too damn close to losing it.
Two hours later, Scott is sitting with Kip at Kingfisher, mostly over the loss but not over Rozanov’s weird behavior.
“Okay,” Kip says slowly as he spins his half-gone whiskey sour between his hands, “So you’re mad that he didn’t say anything mind-blowingly offensive?”
Scott huffs out an annoyed breath. “Obviously not. I’m annoyed because I can’t figure out what he’s up to.”
“Who says he’s up to anything?” Kip asks, his tone horribly reasonable.
Scott scowls. “It’s Rozanov. He’s made it his professional goal to be the top chirper in the league. He once brought up Carter’s second cousin in a chirp.”
“The yoga influencer?”
Scott nods. “She’s… bendy.”
Kip rolls his eyes. “Babe, I think you’re overthinking this.”
“I’m not,” Scott says stubbornly.
Kip laughs. “Actually, I’m pretty sure you are. Because I can tell you’re not going to let this go until you get to the bottom of it, even though Rozanov is not worth it.”
“But –”
“And we both know he’s not worth it.”
“No, but –”
“See?” Kip says, laughing. “He wants you to get all up in your head about it. And you’re letting him.”
“I’m not letting Rozanov do jack shit,” Scott says, offended.
Kip just throws him a fond look as he leans in to kiss Scott on the cheek. “How about we head home, and I make you forget all about Ilya Rozanov?”
Scott actually hesitates, torn between winning the argument and succumbing to Kip’s admittedly superior plan.
“Oh my god, seriously?” Kip demands, incredulous.
“What? No, we’re going. We’re going!” Scott says as he jumps to his feet and drains the last of his beer.
“That’s what I thought,” Kip says smugly on their way out.
* * *
The Admirals barely won yesterday’s away game, 3-2, against the Bears, and both teams had some pretty embarrassing fumbles. Carter whiffed the first play at the last second for some inexplicable reason. The Bears’ right wing got into it with Breezy, and they both got stuck in the sin bin for too fucking long.
The second period didn’t fare much better.
The only saving grace was that Gillis scored a great, clean goal in the third period, and they didn’t have to slog through overtime.
Thank god today is a rest day. Scott has zero plans, except to make Kip breakfast in bed. Scott loves his boyfriend, but Kip could sleep through an air raid siren, especially after a late night at Kingfisher, which is where they ended up after the game. Scott, though, has always been an early riser. Up with the sun, and all that.
He puts on ESPN, letting it drone on quietly in the background as he pulls out bowls and a whisk.
Scott only looks up as the coverage moves on to a recap of last night’s hockey game and a post-game interview with the Bears’ captain. Sighing, Scott increases the volume to catch the tail end of a reporter’s question: “... your second game against the Admirals, a win and a loss. Do you think the Admirals have lost their edge after the bombshell of a Stanley Cup finale?”
Scott’s jaw clenches, his temper spiking with a sadly familiar irritation. What complete bullshit. Scott is the exact same captain as he was before he pulled Kip onto the ice. If anything, he’s a better leader without that metric ton of fear and stress on his shoulders he carried for years.
Also, would it kill Rozanov to wear a shirt for a single post-game interview?
On the screen, Rozanov just shrugs. “Could have been that. Could have been many things. Maybe Scott Hunter didn’t buy his special smoothie this morning. Who can say?”
The whisk pauses as Scott stares, open-mouthed, at the television. How the hell does Rozanov know about his blueberry smoothie?
The reporter isn’t done: “What do you have to say to the players who doubt Scott’s capability to lead his team now?”
Rozanov’s eyes narrow as he looks directly into the camera. “I say, Admirals’ management holds the old man’s contract.” He waves his hand dismissively. “If you have issue with senior citizens out there playing full contact sport, breaking hips, that is not my problem. Not my team.”
Despite himself, Scott smirks. That’s definitely not what the reporter was getting at.
“No,” the reporter says hurriedly, “I meant –”
Rozanov makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “Hunter has not scored any goals in last three games. Did you notice that? Much more interesting hockey topic than this, if you insist on talking about Hunter and not how me and my team won the game.”
Scott glares at the television. Just when he thought Rozanov could be a quarter of the way decent. Scott had seven goddamned assists in those three games! Just because he wasn’t the one to personally shoot it into the net didn’t mean he was going through any sort of dry spell.
Fucker.
* * *
Another season, another All-Stars game.
“Hunter! And boyfriend!”
Scott’s shoulders are hunching by his ears before he even registers the source of the accented voice.
“Oh, hi?” Kip says confusedly, turning to greet Rozanov, who should be looking ridiculous in an orange, surf-themed Hawaiian shirt. Annoyingly, he somehow pulls it off. The Eastern Orthodox cross on his chest glints in the overhead lights from the hotel chandelier twinkling overhead.
“Don’t call him, ‘boyfriend’,” Scott grumbles. “He has a name, you know.”
Rozanov adopts an innocent expression that fools absolutely no one. “What should I call you? Mr. Grady?”
Scott scoffs. Even when Rozanov was a rookie, and Scott was the top scorer in the league and new captain of one of the most promising teams in the division, Rozanov never called Scott mister anything. No, it was always “Hunter” if he was feeling generous or “old man” if he was feeling like his usual asshole self.
Rozanov turns to Kip, eyebrows rising. “Do you want to be called Mr. Grady?”
Kip laughs. “God no.”
“Really, Rozanov?” Scott despairs.
Rozanov crosses his arms over his chest. “Or just Grady?”
Kip grimaces. “That makes me sound like a hockey player.”
“And you are not hockey player,” Rozanov agrees.
“He could be, if he wanted to!” Scott butts in before the sheer stupidity of the thought catches up with him. He flushes a dull red. God, this is what Rozanov does to him. At least Kip already knows Scott’s a little bit of an idiot when he gets riled up.
Kip pats his shoulder, and it feels awfully like pity.
Ugh, fuck Rozanov, who is still speaking to them. “Kip will need a good teacher,” Rozanov says seriously. “Not a dinosaur who will only teach him old-timers hockey.”
“And, let me guess, that’d be you?” Kip says, eyebrows rising. Scott can tell from the way his mouth is twitching that he’s fighting the urge to laugh.
“No,” Rozanov shakes his head, “I am a professional hockey player. I do not have time. You should ask Hunter. He is going to retire soon, Да? Will have plenty of free time if his knees don’t break first.”
Jesus Christ.
Kip gives up his battle, dissolving into giggles.
“Are you done?” Scott gripes, bristling like an angry cat and unable to do anything about it.
“Are you?” Rozanov shoots back.
“I’m not retiring.”
Rozanov sighs with mock-sorrow. “So you will just die next season, then?”
As Scott opens his mouth to retort, Kip says loudly, “You can call me Kip.”
“Hello, Kip,” Rozanov says over Scott’s indignant splutters. “If you get tired of prune juice and early bird specials, let me know. I can hook you up.”
“You can? With who?” Scott demands, outraged, as he takes a small step in front of Kip, half shielding him with his body. How dare Rozanov. What exactly he’s daring to do is still unclear but –
“Rozanov!”
They all turn to see Shane Hollander jogging towards them. “What the hell? You were supposed to be at the restaurant twelve minutes ago for the Foundation meeting.”
“Look who I found,” Rozanov says proudly, gesturing to Kip and Scott.
“Congratulations,” Hollander says flatly. He gives Scott and Kip a stiff nod in greeting before turning back to Rozanov. He does a double take. “What the hell are you wearing?”
Rozanov plucks the offending orange fabric between two fingers. “A shirt? Why? What is wrong with it?”
“Other than everything?” Hollander says, eyebrows raised. “You realize this year we’re in Chicago and not Tampa, right? It’s not exactly aloha shirt weather out there.”
“Hawaiian shirt is lucky shirt for All-Stars.” Rozanov leers at him as Hollander opens his mouth to retort back. “Last year was very lucky All-Stars for me, you see.”
Scott grimaces. Nobody really cares about the All-Stars outcome; a quarter of the guys try to get out of it, anyway, just to have the weekend off. Judging by Rozanov’s waggling eyebrows, he must not be talking about a score on the ice.
“Shut up.” Hollander shakes his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “After this, you’re never giving me grief for my wardrobe choices ever again.”
“‘Give grief’?” Rozanov repeats, sounding the words out slowly. “Yes, this is good phrase. Your clothes do make me feel like someone died, yes.”
“Oh my god,” Hollander mutters. “I don’t know why I even try.”
“It is good you don’t,” Rozanov says cheerfully. “I give thanks before every Foundation press event for your stylist.”
“You have a stylist?” Kip interrupts.
Hollander turns to him, going a bit red. “Uh, yeah,” he says, embarrassed. “Rose recommended someone to me, and it just worked out, I guess.”
Scott blinks. That’s right; Hollander dated Rose Landry for a hot second last year.
“Are they taking new clients?” Kip asks.
“I’m not sure,” Hollander says, a little taken aback by Kip’s enthusiasm. “But I can ask? Leah’s been great.”
Kip beams at him. “I’ve been telling Scott for ages that he could branch out a little bit – not that I don’t love you in those black suits!” he says reassuringly. “But there are so many more options out there you know?”
Scott’s stomach sinks.
Rozanov looks like the Stanley Cup just fell into his lap.
“I’m gonna go get us checked in,” Scott says gruffly before Rozanov can get one more word out.
Kip catches up to him just as the receptionist is handing over the keycards. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Rozanov is hilarious.”
Scott glares. “You take that back.”
“Come on, I’ve watched your games. You have laughed at his chirps, just when he can’t see.”
Scott takes off for the elevators, hiking his backpack higher on his shoulder. “You can’t prove anything.”
Kip grins. “I mean, I don’t blame you for not wanting to give him the satisfaction. But props to him for not saying anything offensive or weird about us.”
“That’s a low bar,” Scott says, internally cringing at how weak his argument is.
Kip’s eyebrows rise as the elevator dings. “One the majority of hockey players have not met.”
Scott sighs as the doors close behind them. “So he’s not a complete jackass. So what?”
“So,” Kip says, “I think he actually likes you.”
“What?”
Kip purses his lips. “He called us over, right?”
“Uh huh,” Scott says, not sure at all where Kip is going with this.
“At All-Stars, where the who’s who of hockey is gathered in one hotel,” Kip says slowly. “Hell, he was meeting Shane Hollander.”
“Yeah, they have that charity together.”
Kip waves off his protest. “What I mean is, anyone could have walked past us, overheard us.”
“Yeah?” Scott says, still nonplussed.
The elevator doors open at the 11th floor, and Scott squints down at the keycard holder with 1126 written in a loopy penmanship.
Kip hums. “It was a very public space.”
“So?”
“It’s like you’re being purposefully dense,” Kip teases. “All I’m saying is Rozanov deliberately had a loud conversation with us in the middle of a crowded entryway while literally anybody could have seen him being friendly with us.” Kip’s tone turns serious. “Every other time some hockey player wanted to express support, they pulled you aside, right? Or privately texted you? And none have talked to me too, except for Carter and Huff, of course.”
Shit.
“Some guys Tweeted their support,” Scott says through gritted teeth. He slaps the key against the door with much more force than necessary.
Kip rolls his eyes. “But you get what I’m saying, babe?”
Scott lets the door fall closed behind them. “I do,” he says slowly. “But, really, of all people Rozanov is the loudest ally? Are you shitting me?”
Kip runs over to the king-sized bed and hops on it. “I’d much rather have him on our side than Team Homophobe.”
Scott makes a face. Enough talking about Rozanov. The first event isn’t until four pm, so they have two hours before Scott has to be at the rink, and he has plenty of ideas about what to do in the meantime, and absolutely zero of them have to do with Ilya Rozanov.
* * *
Boston. Why, of all places, did Kip want to go to Boston?
Yes, it has the Freedom Trail. Yes, it has some of the best museums in the country. But Philadelphia is right there – or Washington, DC. Hell, Scott would rather do a weekend getaway in New Jersey. At least Jersey’s a NJ Transit stop away from NYC.
Boston, with its four-hour drive, might as well be on the fucking moon.
But this is what Kip wants to do for his Spring Break, so to Boston they go, especially since, remarkably, Scott has two days free from games. He has to hustle back to New York late Tuesday night, but he’ll make it work.
“I hate Boston,” Scott says as they leave The Paul Revere House.
Kip tugs him closer. “I know, baby.”
“Why is it still so cold? It’s April!”
“It’s only 16 degrees warmer in New York,” Kip says. “Really, I don’t know why you hate Boston so much. It’s really not a bad city.”
“I don’t get why you don’t hate it,” Scott grumbles. “You’re a real New Yorker –”
“So are you.”
Scott throws him a look, and Kip’s eyes twinkle. He knows Kip’s true feelings about people from upstate calling themselves New Yorkers; even though Scott is clearly from New York. It’s right there on his driver’s license. But Kip loves him, so he keeps that kind of talk to a minimum.
Scott complains, “Aren’t New Yorkers supposed to hate Boston?”
Kip laughs. “That’s more about baseball than anything else. Just don’t root for the Red Sox around my dad, or you’ll be sleeping on the stoop for the rest of the night. In 2004, I think he had a nervous breakdown after the curse broke.”
Scott sighs. “I’m gonna have a nervous breakdown if the Bears make it to the playoffs over us.”
“It’s looking good for them, right?” Kip says as they wait at the next light to cross.
“Mm hm,” Scott agrees. “They’re playing the Voyageurs tomorrow. Should be neck-and-neck.”
“Do you want to go?”
Scott shakes his head. “This weekend is supposed to be about you, Kip.” Scott pulls him even closer and presses a kiss to his stubbly cheek. “Two hockey-free days.”
Kip shrugs. “I could do some hockey. After dragging you all the way to your least-favorite city in America.”
“You’re sweet,” Scott says as they head into the car Scott ordered to take them to dinner at a trendy place Elena recommended. The portions are tiny but delicious. As Scott quietly starves over five courses, at least Kip seems to be having a good time.
“Okay,” Scott says as they hover in the tiny plastic entryway after they’d paid and bundled up in their heavy coats. “I’m, uh, still hungry.”
Kip looks up from his phone. “Oh my god, me too.” He reaches up to kiss Scott squarely on the mouth. “I love Elena, but she eats like a bird sometimes.”
“Don’t hate me –”
“I would never.”
“But there’s a sports bar around the corner? And it looks like the Buffalo-Edmonton game is just starting.”
Kip laughs loudly. “So much for a hockey-free weekend, Hunter.”
“We don’t have to go!” Scott says at once. “If you want to go somewhere else, anywhere else, we can!”
“No, you will literally combust if you don’t see a hockey puck within 48 hours,” Kip teases.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Kip says as he pushes open the plastic door onto the street. “I know what I got into when I fell in love with you.” The Boston wind hits them like an icy slap to the face, and Scott swears loudly.
Smithfield Bar is raucous, smells like stale beer, and, for some reason, still has St. Patrick’s Day decor up. They take a pair of stools by the bar, and Scott avoids making eye contact with the aggressively large leprechaun leering down at them among the top shelf liquor.
He grabs a Stella for himself, a whiskey sour for Kip, and a plate of fries for them to share. They settle in, and when Buffalo scores the first goal, Scott gives a whoop. He might captain the Admirals now, but Buffalo was his team growing up. Plus, his guys aren’t around to rib him for rooting for one of their conference rivals.
By the end of the second period, Buffalo is leading 5-0, and it’s looking to be an embarrassing shutout for Edmonton. Scott grabs Kip and kisses him square on the mouth.
“What the hell was that play?” he demands, pointing as the replay shows on the nearest screen. “I had no idea Morris had it in him!”
On the next stool over, the guy grumbles, “Figures the fag doesn’t know shit about hockey.”
Scott whips around as, next to him, Kip freezes. “Excuse me?” he says, his voice deadly even.
The guy eyes Scott up and down, sizing him up. The barfly’s decently built, but, as a professional athlete in a high contact sport, Scott could definitely take him. Easily.
Evidently the guy is too drunk or too stupid to come to the same conclusion. “I said, shut up, and let the rest of us enjoy the game in peace. Nobody wants to see that,” he says, his gaze darting derisively between Scott and Kip.
Scott glances back at Kip, who seems pretty torn between letting his boyfriend wail on the homophobe and ignoring him.
The bartender clears his throat. “Come on, Rich. They’re payin’ customers, just like you.”
Rich, apparently a regular, just grunts in response.
Still rankled, Scott sits back on his stool. It really wouldn’t be a good look if it got out that the Captain of the Admirals beat up a random guy at a sports bar in Boston. And this isn’t Scott’s crowd; he isn’t at Kingfisher, among friends. Who knows how the rest of the bar would react? As long as Rich shuts up and lets the rest of them enjoy the game in peace, Scott won’t have a problem with him.
But then –
“Pussies.”
Okay, that’s fucking it – Scott leaps to his feet, but a hand on his shoulder holds him back. He turns, about to tell Kip to let him handle this, when someone – who is distinctly not his boyfriend – says, “We have problem here?”
Fucking hell.
Rich’s eyes go wide. “You’re Ilya Rozanov!”
“Is me,” Rozanov says good-naturedly, but his eyes are as cold as ice.
Scott shrugs off Rozanov’s touch. “I was handling it,” he says stiffly.
“Oh, I am sure you were,” Rozanov says, his tone still light. “But this is my city, my people. And us Bostonians, we do not always fight fair, no. Not like uptight New Yorkers like you.” His expression hardens as he moves to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Scott, and Scott can tell he’s gearing up for a very unfair fight indeed if the idiot doesn’t back down.
Kip laughs loudly.
Rich flinches.
“I see you have not recognized my ancient friend here,” Rozanov continues. “So let me introduce you. This is Scott Hunter –”
Rich’s eyes impossibly widen further.
“He is captain of pretty good hockey team,” Rozanov says. “Not sure if you have heard of them, though.”
Scott rolls his eyes. Trust Rozanov to be a fucking asshole off the ice too. He coughs. “I think he gets the picture.”
“I do not think he does,” Rozanov says, his words as sharp as glass shards. “Because I am also captain of pretty good hockey team – best, actually – and if any of them said what you did, I make them do bag skates until their feet fall off.”
“Jesus, Rozanov,” Scott mutters. “Really?”
Rozanov shrugs. “Management would be annoying if I punched out their lightbulbs instead.”
Behind them, Kip suggests, “You could make it look like an accident.”
Rozanov twists around to see him properly. “Too much work for me. Much rather make them better players and suffer at same time.”
Scott smiles. “Not a bad strategy.”
“Best strategy,” Rozanov corrects, puffing out his chest.
“Oh my god,” a familiar voice says, “I leave you alone for two minutes, and you’re already getting into it with Scott Hunter?”
They all turn to see Shane Hollander making his way towards them.
“You’re in Boston too?” Kip says, surprised.
“Somebody’s got to kick this guy’s ass tomorrow,” Hollander says as he elbows Rozanov in the ribs. Rozanov dances away, scowling.
“No fucking way,” Rozanov argues at once. “If anybody’s ass is –”
Loudly, Hollander cuts him off, “What are you doing in Boston? You’re not here to see the game, are you?”
Kip explains, “Spring Break.”
“Sounds like fun?” Hollander says dubiously. “It’s barely spring out there, though.”
“That’s what I keep saying,” Scott says miserably.
“The power went out in Ilya’s building, so we came to watch the game here where there’s actual heat,” Hollander says, jerking his head towards the screen, where the third period has already started in earnest. “Want to join us?” he asks.
“Oh,” Scott says with a glance at Kip, who shrugs. He looks to Rozanov next, who actually doesn’t look put out at the idea of spending the next forty-five minutes together to wrap the third period and watch the post-game analysis. “Sure.” He turns around to grab his half-empty beer, noting the empty stool next to his. “Where’d that guy go?”
“He fled like scared little mouse as soon as he saw Hollander,” Rozanov says gleefully.
“Who?” Hollander asks as they weave through the tables to a booth along the back wall.
“A homophobe,” Kip explains with a grimace.
“Oh,” Hollander says, his eyes narrowing. He turns to Rozanov. “Did you punch him?”
Scott blinks as Kip lets out a surprised bark of laughter. That’s Hollander’s first question? Apparently Rozanov’s allyship is more widely known than Scott thought? Or maybe Rozanov and Hollander are just better friends than he thought. After all, they are hanging out the night before a big game where they will face-off for a spot in the playoffs.
“Why do you look to me like that?” Rozanov demands, full of over-the-top offense. “Hunter is right there!”
“Hunter has gotten into three fights this whole season,” Hollander says dryly. “You got into three fights during your last game.”
“Is exaggeration,” Rozanov protests as they sit down.
“Fine. Hunter, what was it?” Hollander asks. “Two fights, right? I was rounding up.”
“Oh my god,” Rozanov groans. “I am surrounded by most boring hockey players in the league.” He turns to Kip. “You, you seem more exciting. Entertain me.”
“Afraid not,” Kip says sympathetically. “All I’ve done is drag Scott from museum to museum. We did the Paul Revere House this afternoon.”
Rozanov lights up, and Scott inwardly groans. “Ah, looking to relive your childhood, Hunter? Missing the old days before electricity and inside plumbing, eh?”
* * *
To Scott’s infinite irritation and dismay, Kip and Rozanov strike up a friendship after that night in Boston. He’ll hear Kip giggling at his phone, see him lean over the bar to show his screen to Kyle, and then watch as he begrudgingly shows Scott too.
“It’s just because you get in a mood if you know I’m talking to Ilya,” Kip says apologetically after it happens for the fifth time that night.
“I don’t get in a - a ‘mood’!” Scott splutters. Fucking… Ilya.
Kip just raises his eyebrows and sips his whiskey sour.
Scott grimaces. “Really?” he huffs out an angry breath. “Of all the guys in the NHL, you had to befriend the one who regularly calls me a dinosaur?”
“Well, yeah,” Kip says like it’s obvious. “Much better than the guys who regularly call you a cocksucker.”
Scott just grunts in response.
“Hey,” Kip says gently, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard over the music but not loud enough to be overheard. “If it really bothers you, I can stop. But, I have a theory why Rozanov keeps calling you an old man.”
“Because he’s an asshole?” Scott grumbles.
Kip grins. “Oh, sure. But mostly, I think he sticks to it because he knows you’re not that sensitive about it.”
Scott frowns.
Kip sips his whiskey sour. “Rozanov is observant. You’ve said so yourself. He notices everything on the ice, and a decent amount off it.”
Scott just hums.
“If he wanted to poke you where it really hurt, he could,” Kip says seriously. “He’s still never brought up our relationship or your sexuality in his chirps, has he?”
“No,” Scott says begrudgingly.
Kip waves his hand as if saying, there you go.
“I still don’t like him,” Scott says firmly as he takes a bracing pull of his beer.
“Literally nobody is asking you to,” Kip says with a little grin. “But you know me, I can’t resist a messy gay.”
Scott chokes. “Rozanov is not gay.”
Kip just stares at him.
“He’s not!” Scott struggles to find the right words. “He’s just… European.”
Kip has to muffle his loud laughter into Scott’s shoulder. “Sweetheart, I love you, but your gaydar is shit.”
“He’s not gay!” Scott protests. “He’s slept with, like, half the single women in Boston. And a decent amount of the married ones too, if you believe the rumors.”
“Fine,” Kip acknowledges, “he’s bi, then.”
Scott just shakes his head as he takes a long pull of his beer.
“You’ve really never gotten that vibe from him?” Kip asks curiously.
“No.”
Kip studies him for a long moment. “Bet.”
Scott barks out a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“I bet that Rozanov isn’t as straight as you think,” Kip says confidently.
Scott throws back the rest of his drink. “And what will I get if I win?”
Kip leans in. “I’ll let you buy me that lingerie set and wear it under my clothes at your next game.”
Scott goes furiously red in an instant. “Really?” he breathes.
“Mm hm.”
He pulls back, frowning. “And what do you get if you win?”
Kip taps his chin in thought. “Another daytrip to the Met.”
As Scott theatrically groans, Kip leans in close. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, his warm breath ghosting against the shell of Scott’s ear. “I’ll wear it there too.”
Scott slaps a hundred dollar bill on the table for their drink and drags a giggling Kip out of the bar. He has lingerie to buy and a genius boyfriend to fuck within an inch of his life.
* * *
Scott shakes Shane’s hand, saying, “Good game, Hollander.”
Shane makes a face, but he shakes Scott’s hand anyway with a forced smile.
The Admirals are heading to the next round in the playoffs, and the Voyageurs aren’t. That has to sting, but Shane doesn’t look nearly as annoyed at the results than he had when he rushed onto the ice, fifteen minutes late for warm ups.
He had to know this was a likely outcome, with Pike out with an ankle injury, and Drapeau freshly back from tendon surgery.
“Hey,” Scott says as he skates back to the front of the line while his teammates boisterously troop back to the locker room. “A couple of us are heading to Kingfisher after. Do you want to come?”
Scott had a decent time hanging with Shane at that sports bar in Boston. It was basically the first time he’d ever seen Shane loosen up, even though he only drank two ginger ales and had a single sip of vodka that Rozanov insisted on ordering for him. The kid had a crazy high hockey IQ that Scott wouldn’t mind poking at more.
Shane blinks. “Sure? I’ll ask Ilya if he wants to go, if that’s OK.”
Scott doesn’t bother hiding his frown at Rozanov’s name. “He’s here too?”
Shane grins and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “We knocked the Bears out of the playoffs two weeks ago, so I told him to mope around New York instead of moping around Boston for a change.”
Scott grins back. Maybe the loss knocked Rozanov down a peg – but Scott isn’t too hopeful. “Yeah, bring him. I can rub the win in his face too.”
“Only you two,” Shane mutters as he stakes off.
Scott, Carter, Huff, and Kip all troop down the street to the F train, since a car would only get stuck in post-game gridlock traffic all the way to 23rd Street for the next hour.
They gamely sign autographs for fans in the subway and pose for selfies until they have to resurface to street level.
Kingfisher patrons all cheer as they walk in, and there is truly no greater feeling in the universe, fresh off a playoff win, his boyfriend plastered to his side, surrounded by his friends.
When Rozanov and Shane arrive, Scott is already two drinks in and chatting loudly with Elena, Kyle, Carter, and Kip at the bar.
“Drinks are on me for the losing team captains,” Scott crows.
Rozanov crosses his arms over his chest, scoffing, “Big words for drunk gay man.”
Their whole group goes quiet at Rozanov’s threat. Scott sits up on his stool and places one foot on the floor, ready to toss him out onto the street if he needs to. “Hey,” he says in warning, his eyes flashing. “Don’t do that here.”
The entire bar seems to hold its breath.
“Is okay,” Rozanov says as he slings an arm around Shane. “My boyfriend is also gay man. But he will need several drinks before he can fight you again.”
Scott trips on nothing. Kip snorts into his drink, and Kyle’s mouth falls open. Carter’s eyes have gone as big as the coaster under his beer glass.
Scott’s eyes dart between Shane and Rozanov. Rozanov, sure, he could totally see him pulling a gigantic lie out of his ass like that to fuck with all of them. But Shane, Shane’s a good Canadian boy. Never bad-mouths another team, if he can help it. Never puts down other players or captains, Rozanov being the notable exception. Doesn’t lie, from what Scott can tell from his numerous interviews.
Shane opens his mouth – “I’m not going to fight you,” he tells Scott in a very put-upon voice. “Obviously.”
Not a denial about the gay thing.
Rozanov, for his part, looks absolutely thrilled at their reactions. He watches eagerly as Scott awkwardly rights himself and retakes his barstool.
Shane turns to Kyle, who has managed to pick his jaw up off the floor. “A ginger ale and whatever your most expensive vodka is for this asshole over here,” Shane says. “And he will be paying.”
“No! Hunter just said it is free!”
“I’d be shocked if it was still free for sore losers.”
“Who is sore loser here?” Rozanov demands, his eyes fucking twinkling. “If anything you are sore loser after last –”
“Absolutely not,” Shane cuts him off severely, and Rozanov’s mouth snaps shut. “Do not go there.”
“Holy shit,” Carter breathes. “Ilya Rozanov, whipped. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“If anyone could do it, it’s Hollander,” Huff calls from a nearby booth.
Rozanov rounds on them. “I am not whipped.”
“Oh yeah?” Scott challenges, enjoying himself now. “You wanna finish that earlier thought?”
Rozanov turns back to Shane, who just shakes his head. With his mouth set in a mulish grimace, Rozanov knocks back the double vodka Kyle just set down in front of him.
Scott just loses it, ugly cackling like there’s no tomorrow.
Eventually, the shock dies down, and everyone resumes their conversations. Scott finds himself next to Rozanov and Shane after Kip gets up to use the restroom. “Okay,” he says. “I have to ask, how did this happen?”
Rozanov glances at Shane, and Scott truly would never believe Rozanov would ever defer to his career rival about anything, except he’s seeing it in front of his very eyes. “Many years ago,” he says quietly.
“Holy shit. Before All-Stars – last year’s All-Stars?” Scott amends.
“Way before,” Rozanov supplies as Shane just nods.
“Ilya talked me into coming here tonight,” Shane says as he spins his Canada Dry between his hands. “He’s been texting Kip for a while, and obviously you’re a good guy, so I knew it would probably be fine. But we’re not ready to do anything official yet,” he says. “This is just… testing the waters.”
“Well, you’re in good company,” Scott says bracingly. “Don’t worry. I’ll text Huff and Carter that this doesn’t get out to the rest of the guys.”
“Please,” Shane says.
Rozanov bumps shoulders with Shane. “I told you it would be alright, котёнок.”
Shane shrugs. “You know me.”
“You worry too much.”
“I do.”
Scott blinks. “I think this is the longest I’ve seen you guys talk without fighting.”
Rozanov grins. “It will not last.”
Shane mutters, “Because you have a pathological need to bait everyone around you.”
“Bait? I do not bait! I just point out totally true facts. Is not my fault my English is not good enough for –” he frowns before he snaps his fingers, “nuance.”
“Uh huh,” Shane says, a small smile playing around his mouth. “But you’re fluent enough to chirp Scott about the details of hip dysplasia.”
Rozanov just laughs. “You are just jealous because your chirps are so boring.”
“I don’t need to chirp,” Shane sniffs. “My playing speaks for itself. Unlike some people’s.”
“Boo,” Rozanov jeers. “You just do not know how to have fun at hockey games. So boring, Hollander.”
Shane rolls his eyes.
“Ilya!”
Rozanov leans back to see Kip waving from the other end of the bar. “Elena actually wants to hear about your ridiculous car collection. What’s the newest one you bought, again?”
Rozanov hops up from his seat like someone lit a fire under his ass, grinning broadly. He takes one step, rethinks it, does a u-turn, presses a kiss to Shane’s cheek, and finally leaves them for Kip, Elena, and Huff.
“Never tell him this,” Scott says in an undertone, “but I think you guys are cute together.”
Shane laughs. “That’s what my mom said after she got over the shock.”
“He’s met your parents?”
“Yeah,” Shane says, smiling at the memory. “After, he said he could see where I get my boring from. He likes my mom, though. But I think that’s just ’cause he’s a little scared of her.”
“Does he call you boring a lot?” Scott asks.
Shane laughs. “Just about as often as he calls you old.”
Scott leans back in his seat, thoughtfully surveying Rozanov down at the other end of the bar. “So all the time, then.”
“All the time,” Shane echoes with a grin. “But it doesn’t mean anything. Not really. He admires you, you know?”
Scott guffaws. “What? Rozanov, admire me?” he says, incredulous. “Why don’t you pull the other one.”
Shane shakes his head. “When you came out, it changed things for us.”
Scott blinks. Shane did send him that long, very stilted email the day after he came out. Scott figured Hollander did it because he’s a good Canadian boy, and that is what good Canadian boys did. But, sitting in front of Shane now, in a gay bar in New York, that email probably has a lot more between the lines that Scott didn’t pick up on.
Shane stares down at the can of Canada Dry ginger ale between his hands. “We wouldn’t be coming out to anyone, if you didn’t do it first. So, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Scott says, and the words don’t convey nearly enough weight for all that Shane is telling him.
They each take a drink, and Shane’s shoulders lose some of the tension they’d been carrying ever since Rozanov dropped the ‘boyfriend’ bomb.
“After you gave that Sports Illustrated interview about coming out,” Shane lowers his voice conspiratorially, “Ilya bought it the next day. Read it twice.”
Scott cracks a disbelieving grin. “You’re kidding.”
“No,” Shane says, shaking his head. “He said it was to improve his English, but then I caught him trying to make that blueberry smoothie you mentioned.”
Scott doubles over laughing.
Shane sits back in his seat, looking incredibly satisfied with himself.
Scott calls, “Rozanov!”
Rozanov’s head pops up from where he’s huddled with Kyle, Kip, and Elena. “What?” he asks, looking disgruntled at the interruption.
“What’s this I hear about you reading all my interviews? And trying to make my smoothie?”
“What?” Rozanov yelps. “Shane!” he points a finger, looking utterly betrayed as Kip howls with laughter.
Shane raises his eyebrows and lifts his glass in a toast. “You shouldn’t have made me late for warm ups, asshole. I told you, you’d regret it.”
“Wait,” Kip says as he taps Rozanov’s bicep to get his attention. “Is this why you asked how many bananas go into Blue Moon Over Brooklyn as soon as you got my number?”
Rozanov remains haughtily silent.
Scott has never laughed this hard in his life. Holy shit, he is never going to let Rozanov forget a second of this moment. “Hey, Rozy, I’ll,” he forces out as he gasps for air, “autograph your Sports Illustrated next time I head up to Boston. Anything,” he snickers, “for a fan!”
“I hate you all,” Rozanov declares as he gets up to make his way towards them with a fresh glass of vodka.
Scott says, “I don’t know how you do it. With him.”
“He can be surprisingly sweet,” Shane explains, ducking his head.
“Is that before or after he calls you boring?”
Shane’s nose scrunches as he thinks. “Kinda in the middle?”
Rozanov arrives and leans in, squeezing into Shane’s personal space. “Is okay, you can keep talking about me.”
“We weren’t talking about you,” Shane denies at once.
Rozanov raises his eyebrows. “What were you talking about then? Bland New Yorker articles? Final question on last night’s Jeopardy?”
“There he goes again,” Scott sighs.
“What?”
“Scott just can’t believe my boyfriend calls me boring all the time,” Shane explains.
“Why? Is true?” Rozanov says, puzzled. “You are boring.” He leans in closer. “And beautiful – with beautiful freckles. And second best at hockey in all the league. And, yes, you have weak backhand, but I overlook this because you have the best ass in all of Canada.”
“Man,” Scott marvels as a blushing Shane dodges the messy kiss Rozanov is trying to press to his cheek, “you are like the king of mixed signals.”
Rozanov shrugs. “I keep things interesting.”
Kip appears at Scott’s elbow and quickly presses himself to Scott’s side. “You sure do, buddy.”
“Hunter, I need fresh air. You come with me,” Rozanov commands. “Kip, tell Shane how to make good smoothies. Shane’s taste like shit.”
“Hey –” Shane starts hotly as Scott protests, “You can’t just boss me around like that.”
Rozanov hums. “I will make it worth your while.”
Scott makes a face. “Gross. No thank you.”
“Not like that,” Rozanov drawls. “What a dirty mind you have, old man.” He turns to Kip, eyebrows raised, like are you hearing this too?
Kip just gives Scott a little push off the barstool. What a traitor.
Scott begrudgingly gets to his feet, telling Rozanov, “Just promise me you’re not going to shove me down a manhole because you’re out of the playoffs.”
“As if you need my help breaking all your fragile knees and hips,” Rozanov says imperiously. “Come.”
Shane opens his mouth. “No –”
“No cigarettes, yes,” Rozanov says impatiently as he ushers Scott out the door with his free hand not clutching his vodka, “I know, Hollander!”
Outside, Scott inhales a deep breath and shoves his hands in the pockets of his light jacket. Summer is coming late to New York.
“Your city still smells like piss,” Rozanov mutters as they lean against a waist-high cement planter full of mostly-alive plants.
Scott laughs. “Like Boston is any better.”
“At least Dunkin’ coffee smell covers it up.” Rozanov tilts his head upward, studying the star-less sky. Between the light pollution and the clouds, he can’t be looking at anything especially interesting.
“So… why exactly did you drag me over out here?” Scott asks as the seconds of silence tick on. “It can’t be just to badmouth my city.”
Rozanov exhales a deep breath. “Wanted to explain myself. About that magazine.”
Scott rolls his eyes. “It’s not that embarrassing,” he blatantly lies. “Now that I know you’re… you.”
“Look,” Rozanov says seriously, “I read your stupid interview because I wanted to see what you had with Kip. Know what I was missing out on, what could be possible with Shane.”
Oh, fuck. What the hell does Scott say to that?
But luckily Rozanov isn’t done. “Because I want to share stupid things about my lover – probably not his disgusting smoothies since you already did this – but,” he sighs heavily, and Scott, to his horror, actually starts to feel a twinge of sympathy for him, “I can’t tell anybody how he only wears one brand of socks. How he can do terrifying wolfbird call.” He takes another pull from his vodka. “How hockey is his life and how hockey does not give enough back.”
Scott swallows. Jesus, why did he leave his own drink at the bar? “Do you have any plans to come out?”
The corners of Rozanov’s mouth curl in a sly smile over the rim of his glass. “I knew you were not as stupid as you look.”
“Rozanov.”
He holds up his free hand in a gesture of surrender. “Fine, fine. I will play nice,” he says, nearly gagging on the last two words. “But yes, we do have plan. Between Yuna and Shane, it has too many steps, but we have plan.”
Scott exhales a slow breath. “I had a plan too.”
“Yes, yes, everyone and their brother saw that kiss,” Rozanov says impatiently. “Did not know you were such a drama queen.”
“Kissing him after the cup final was not the plan,” Scott says.
Rozanov straightens, his eyes bright and alert. “No?”
Scott shakes his head. “I was going to a press junket. Sports Illustrated, Men’s Health, and the like. Maybe a few late night shows.” He shrugs. “But you know what they say about best laid plans.”
“No? I do not?” Rozanov says, brow furrowing. “What is this?”
“Oh,” Scott blinks. “‘Best laid plans’ means that, no matter how well you prepare for something, things can still go off the rails.” He shrugs. “It did for me. After the cup win, when I was surrounded by everyone else’s wives and girlfriends – I just snapped. I couldn’t not celebrate with him, you know?”
Rozanov nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see that happening for me too.”
“Just, plans are good, but,” Scott runs a hand through his hair, “if they’re not working, don’t let them limit you.” He gestures to the bar through the front window. “It looks like you’ve got something special with him. Don’t let anyone, including yourselves, put up made up obstacles. God knows, coming out is hard enough without them.”
“Yes, he is very special,” Rozanov says quietly. “But there are many obstacles.”
Scott claps his hand to Rozanov’s shoulder and squeezes. “Come on, you’re a smart guy. You’ve got this. You just have to use that brain of yours for something other than chirping, for once.”
“Fuck that. I can do both.” Rozanov drains his glass. “Is not that easy to get rid of my chirps.”
Scott chuckles. “I figured as much, but an old man can dream.”
“Ha!” Rozanov exclaims, delighted. “You called yourself an old man. Is true!”
“Yeah, yeah, enjoy it now. It’s never happening again.”
Rozanov just laughs as he tugs Scott back inside Kingfisher, shouting, “Everybody listen up! Hunter just admitted he has two feet in the grave already!”
We all love a Castiel with wings, but how about some scales too?
Come join @malmuses and @ellen-of-oz as they chat with guest author @hitthebooksposts about fics where Cas is a dragon.
Check out the discussed fics below!
Direct website link to the episode.
The main fics we discuss in this episode are:
The Ddraig by @hitthebooksposts
Dragon Hunt by @peanutbutterjelly-pie
The Mysterious Tail of the Dragon's Curse by adaille and @alessariel
Belonging To by @a-hans-on-approach
For a full list of fics discussed, check out the blog post!
You can listen to the Mixtape Book Club podcast on our website, http://mixtapebookclub.com, or on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher, Podbean, and most other popular podcasting apps.
Enjoy!
Do you love Supernatural? Are you a fan of Dean and Castiel, and their relationship? Do you enjoy reading Destiel fanfiction? This is the podcast for you!
You can find our Mixtape Book Club Ao3 collection here, containing the stories we’ve discussed on the podcast so far.
A warning: adult themes and swear words are mentioned in this podcast.
MBC is a positive fandom space. You will not find negative reviews, fandom trashing, or negativity beyond some good-natured mocking of the show itself here; we only feature fic that we like. Please keep that in mind when reaching out to us or interacting in our social media spaces.
We all love a Castiel with wings, but how about some scales too?
Come join @malmuses and @ellen-of-oz as they chat with guest author @hitthebooksposts about fics where Cas is a dragon.
Check out the discussed fics below!
Direct website link to the episode.
The main fics we discuss in this episode are:
The Ddraig by @hitthebooksposts
Dragon Hunt by @peanutbutterjelly-pie
The Mysterious Tail of the Dragon's Curse by adaille and @alessariel
Belonging To by @a-hans-on-approach
For a full list of fics discussed, check out the blog post!
You can listen to the Mixtape Book Club podcast on our website, http://mixtapebookclub.com, or on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher, Podbean, and most other popular podcasting apps.
Enjoy!
Do you love Supernatural? Are you a fan of Dean and Castiel, and their relationship? Do you enjoy reading Destiel fanfiction? This is the podcast for you!
You can find our Mixtape Book Club Ao3 collection here, containing the stories we’ve discussed on the podcast so far.
A warning: adult themes and swear words are mentioned in this podcast.
MBC is a positive fandom space. You will not find negative reviews, fandom trashing, or negativity beyond some good-natured mocking of the show itself here; we only feature fic that we like. Please keep that in mind when reaching out to us or interacting in our social media spaces.
Check out the 4 fic links below to see some of the fantastic fics we chose - in all of which, Cas is a very different kind of winged creature than usual!
The Ddraig by @hitthebooksposts
Dragon Hunt by @peanutbutterjelly-pie
The Mysterious Tail of the Dragon's Curse by adaille and @alessariel
With the (wholly necessary and encouraged) slow death of Twitter/X as a fandom space, I'm going to be moving a lot of the Mixtape Book Club Podcast promotion over to tumblr. I've always posted the eps here, but I found that it was a little unwieldy to also post teasers and other promo here. Well...screw that, I guess. Better unwieldy than fascist, I suppose.
If you can find it in your lovely, greasy little fandom hearts to reblog this post so that the podcast can find more of our listeners over here on tumblr instead, it would be appreciated!
Around eight or nine years ago one of the first ever online accounts I made was for the app Quizduell (very popular in Germany at the time). I struggled to be creative with naming, so I went, as I often did, to the book I was reading at the time. It‘s main female character‘s name was Daryn. The book was from my local library and I never read it again after that, but it was convenient at the time. However, the name Daryn existed already within the app, so I needlessly complicated things and created Darynidia. After that, it just stuck and I‘ve been using it more or less for everything not related to my offline life.
2. My „I‘ll always order this food“:
I‘ve been eating exclusively vegan food for a while now, so options are more limited than they might be for others. I still love trying whatever I can, but more often than not I‘ll turn to Vietnamese restaurants. My favorite place stopped deliveries a while ago, so whenever I do order takeout, it’s from my second favorite Vietnamese restaurant, usually some summer rolls and pho soup. But really, any vegan Vietnamese food is usually a good choice.
3. Overused emoji:
😅
4. Current comfort movie, show, and book:
I don‘t know if they can count as comfort movies, considering the horribly things happening in them, but I‘ll rewatch the original Hunger Games trilogy at least once a year. Those books are also my favorite books of all time. I haven‘t read Sunrise on the Reaping yet, though, so please no spoilers :) As for current, that‘s a lot more difficult. My current comfort show is probably a mix of Tracker, Flashpoint, and Leverage (I‘ve re-watched the latter two more times than I can count).
5. Song on repeat:
Paris Paloma - Labour (for my English speaking mutuals), Reinhard Mey & Freunde - Nein, meine Söhne geb‘ ich nicht (for my fellow German speakers)
6. My current hyperfixation:
Where do I even start? I just finished reading „Iron Widow“ and „Heavenly Tyrant“ by Xiran Jay Zhao and am definitely sad there isn‘t a sequel announcement yet. Furthermore, I‘m eagerly awaiting the start of season 2 of The Pitt, which has been living in my head rent free ever since the first season. Last, but definitely not least, there are a handful of Destiel fics I‘m re-reading again because I simply can‘t get enough of these boys. Big thank you to all the talented authors in our fandom!
7. Oddly specific thing that brings me joy:
Biking home in the morning after a long and difficult shift, the perfect mix of the cold air and warm sun on my face, being finally able to relax my brain.
8. What smell makes me happy:
My mom‘s cooking.
9. Something I loved as a kid and secretly still do:
There‘s not really anything secret about it. I‘m obsessed with BlueBrixx (although I only knew Lego as a child, so does it even count?), but my apartment is too small to continue filling it with the massive builds I love the most, so I‘m scaling back a little. I‘ve also never really stopped reading, except nowadays there‘s more fan fic than orignal works.
10. Phone wallpaper right now/lock screen:
I never changed them from the original Android settings.
11. Are you an early bird or a night owl:
My inner clock is so completely dependent on my current work scedule, I‘m not actually sure. I can get up at 4 am if necessary, but then I‘ll be in bed by 8 pm. But I do like to sleep in when I‘m exhausted enough.
12. If you work, what is your profession and do you like it:
I spent quite a few years after high school changing plans, starting different studies etc. It took me a while, but now I think I‘ve found my calling in EMS. For a while I worked as an EMT while waiting on a paramedic school opening, but now I‘m in my second year of paramedic school (three years total in Germany). I could talk about it all day because I love it so much.
No-Pressure tags:
I‘d love to hear from all my mutuals, but to keep from spamming, I‘ll just ask whether maybe @desiraelovesdestiel @followyourenergy or @dustyl would like to share about themselves. But remember: no pressure <3
1. Origins of your blog’s name: My nickname as a kid was "Μαλπαιδί" which is NOT a word or name but a strange, Spanish-Greek mashup from my multilingual-but-mainly-Greek side of the family which roughly translated to "evil child" or "bad child" -- I feel like I need to point out this wasn't nasty or abusive on their side, it's a fond family joke because I was born during a huge lightning storm that took out the power momentarily in the hospital. I was also quite a handful as a kid, lol. Anyway. That got shorted to just "Μαλ" as I grew - Mal, in English. To this day 90% of my family call me Mal and most of my friends, the only place I go by my government name is at work (and even then, some closer colleagues call me Mal.) I've considered changing my name in the past to make things easier, particularly as my full name is Greek and very rarely do folks in the US say it right, but eh, that's a lot of work. TLDR: it's my nickname.
2. My ‘I’ll always order this food’: I'm a bit of a foodie and don't really have a go-to, not even on a per-restaurant basis. I like to change it up. However, I will never say no to Korean food of any kind, or Turkish food.
3. Overused emoji: 💀
4. Current comfort movie, show, and book: I'm not a big movie watcher right now, but I love horror movies and period dramas when I do, along with a good rom com. My favorite movies of all time though are Robin Hood: Men in Tights and V for Vendetta. TV Show would be Arcane or Supernatural for ones I've rewatched again and again, but I'm currently enjoying The Mighty Nein and Heated Rivalry. Current book is probably The Ressurectionist by A. Rae Dunlap, of-all-time book would be Pride & Prejudice.
5. Song on repeat: Stromae & Pomme - Ma Meilleure Ennemie.
6. My current hyperfixation: This week's selection includes: Heated Rivalry, beautifully scandalous early-Hollywood bisexual women, Nipple freckles (IYKYK), and those little cookies you make with pretzels, Hersey's kisses, and M&Ms.
7. Oddly specific thing that brings me joy: Sitting in the passenger seat of a car at sunset and on into the night, squinting astigmatism-ly at all the streaky lights, drinking a coffee and listening to a carefully curated and very loud playlist that is tangentially related to whatever I'm writing.
8. What smell makes me happy: Clean laundry.
9. Something I loved as a kid and secretly still do: I'm almost completely divorced from "things I used to do as a kid" because I wasn't allowed to do quite a lot of things as a kid (very religious family) but one thing I do still love: fossils.
10. Phone wallpaper right now/lock screen: A photograph of my bearded dragon, Princess Lucifer P. Pancake (Lucy), in a wizard cape and hat. Halloween costume, obviously. She was a lizard wizard.
11. Are you an early bird or a night owl: I am a permanently exhausted pigeon most days but when health allows: night owl.
12. If you work, what is your profession and do you like it: I'm what I like to call a multiple hat person, and I don't define myself by my job - but if you wanna go by what things my tax return says I pay my bills with: c-suite public sector and non-profit financial management, fiction editor, and non-fiction writer. And yes, I like all of these. Love them, in fact!
No-Pressure tags: HA, the words "no-pressure" do not absolve me of my ridiculous social anxiety. But I'm gonna tag a couple folks that I think are pretty cool/would like to know better, and they can ignore or not at will: @andimeantittosting @doctorprofessorsong @ellen-of-oz @eriquin @darynidia @cheerfulripley and @tragidean :)
Tags: Mechanic Dean, Translator Cas, Enemies to friends to lovers, Emotional hurt/comfort, Nurturer Dean, Snarky Castiel, ptsd, healing with love and humor, Angst with a happy ending
Summary: When Dean Winchester’s friend and neighbor, Garth, moves out of their duplex, he is not expecting him to be replaced with a cranky, weed-smoking recluse with zero taste in music, but that’s what he gets. But Dean soon realizes there is more behind Castiel’s brooding stare and prickly personality. There is someone worth getting to know. Someone who needs a little TLC, even if he is too stubborn to admit it.
Castiel Novak is a survivor. He has survived his parents' tragic death, He has survived being kidnapped and tortured by his own brother, and he has survived living with the constant flow of nightmares that have followed. So Castiel can certainly survive having to live next to an annoyingly cheerful (beautiful) man, with kind green eyes and an unhealthy affinity to classic rock, who is determined to be his new friend.
Or, the one where Castiel starts a friends with benefits relationship with his new neighbor, and finally starts to heal his heart.
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