Chapter Text
Scott Hunter tries to be friendly when they meet for the first time.
He smiles at Ilya and shakes his hand firmly. Talented, he calls Ilya. Daring and confident. Promises him a bright future.
Ilya smirks and says, "I will beat you at hockey soon. And you will see me take home all the prizes. Then you will not be so friendly, old man."
Scott Hunter frowns, his smile fading.
“Don’t be too cocky, rook,” he tells Ilya, then, with the sharp edge of a warning in his voice, and oh, there’s still fire in his eyes. Ilya likes to see it. He likes to feel a lick of fire when he plays.
Cocky. Ilya has to look up that word later. And he laughs. Cocky. He likes this word.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ilya asks when he meets Scott Hunter at the face-off line, and they glare at each other. “Do you not want to go home and take a nap? Or a bath? Is good for your old bones, yes?”
“Shut up, Rozanov,” Hunter says, his eyes narrowing. “I’m going to beat your over-confident ass today.”
Ilya smirks. He wins the face-off. But they lose the game.
One time, Hunter pushes him into the boards roughly, and Ilya laughs in delight, shoving back as hard as he can.
Scott Hunter is fun on the ice.
Just like Hollander, he’s less fun when he is dressed in a serious suit, holding a glass of champagne, talking and listening to boring people, acting like he cares what they are saying.
Still hot. Like Hollander. But boring. Like Hollander.
Ilya misses freckles and listens to his own boring people. His father, eyes cold like ice, his voice filled with disdain.
„He’s lazy. He won’t be successful if he doesn’t work harder. The boy has no discipline …“
Ilya just nods in agreement, pressing his lips together. He’s used to this. Used to never being enough. He wonders what Hollander and Hunter are listening to. Wonders if they are also fighting the urge to scream and prove that they are working day and night to be the best. Wonders if they are also thinking of someone who can’t be here tonight.
I wish she could see me now.
She would smile. And she would tell me how proud she is.
She would hug me, so I feel warm.
And she would say: I love you, Ilya. I love you.
Ilya googles Scott Hunter in his hotel room at night. He also reads some interviews.
Scott Hunter is an orphan. He lost his parents when he was twelve. A drunk driver killed them both.
Twelve.
Ilya’s stomach tightens into a knot. He can’t keep the memories away. They’re rising from the grave he tried to bury them in so many times. Mama.
Mama is lying on the floor. Ilya sees himself walking into the room, with a cold fist of fear curling around his heart. He sees her hair spread out like a halo around her ghostly pale face, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. The little bottle beside her lifeless hand. Empty.
Empty.
Twelve.
Ilya shakes himself.
Scott Hunter doesn’t have a family.
Scott Hunter doesn’t seem to have a partner.
Scott Hunter doesn’t seem to have anyone outside of hockey.
He only ever talks about hockey.
There is little to no information about his private life.
Ilya wonders if Hunter also sees his mother’s smiling face in front of him when he wins. Does he also yearn for her hug and her voice? Does he dream about his parents too, in a way that makes his chest glow but leaves a bitter taste in his throat when he wakes up?
Stop thinking, idiot, Ilya tells himself, reaching for a cigarette.
Even if Ilya weren’t just an asshole who bothers him on the ice, Hunter would never tell him about what’s going on inside his mind or his dreams. And Ilya would never tell anyone either.
Just another annoying similarity.
Hollander wins the shot accuracy competition at the All-Star game. The satisfied grin he throws at Ilya makes his eyes sparkle, and his stupid freckles are way too visible in the too bright light.
Ilya wants to kiss that grin off his face; he wants to slip his tongue between Hollander’s lips when they open in a moan. He wants to fuck Hollander’s throat again, wants to see his eyes fill with tears again. He wants to hear Hollander breathe his name.
He wants to put a finger on his stupid freckles and see if they form a constellation.
Scott Hunter is there, too. He pats Hollander’s back when he sits down and says something to him, probably congratulating him.
Hollander looks almost startled, ducking his head with a nervous smile as he glances at Hunter in barely hidden awe. Ilya scoffs.
He murmurs his room number to Hollander when he skates past.
“Scott Hunter is right next door,” Hollander hisses, wide-eyed and flushed an adorable shade of cherry red, as he stumbles inside.
Good, Ilya thinks.
He hopes Hunter can hear Hollander moan.
Ilya looks over the railing at the Vegas city lights stretching out in front of him endlessly.
His stomach tightens whenever he thinks about what just happened.
Hollander doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it that Ilya feels empty whenever he returns to that place full of people who look at him like he’s … nothing.
Hollander doesn’t get it. Hollander, with his family. His supportive family.
Hollander‘s Dad isn’t slowly forgetting that his mom already died. He doesn’t have a brother who constantly asks for money and nothing else.
Ilya hates going back to Russia.
But he can’t tell anyone. He has to keep on the mask and act like everything’s fine. What else is he supposed to do? He has a role to play. They all do.
And maybe, there’s some tiny, stupid part of him that hasn’t yet given up hope that his father will say he’s proud before he forgets that Ilya is a hockey star. Before he forgets he has a son.
“You won’t go after him?”
Ilya winces. The unexpected words cut through the rushing noise in his brain like a knife. He turns his head, seeing Scott Hunter standing there, a champagne glass in his hand and a calculating expression on his face.
“What?” Ilya asks. He doesn’t understand.
“Hollander just passed me, looking … distressed.”
Ilya isn’t sure if he knows what the word means. Is it like stressed? He shrugs and blows a cloud of smoke into the night air. “Okay. I’m not thinking I’m his Dad. Not like you.”
Hunter is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “It’s difficult, isn’t it? All this performing. And the … hiding.”
Ilya grunts. He snips the cigarette away and glances at Hunter, who looks so perfect and so in control with his black suit, his trimmed beard, and his gel-slick hair.
Ilya wants to ruin him a little and look at what lies underneath.
“Do you have a room?”
Ilya wastes no time taking off his clothes.
“And?” He asks, turning and spreading his arms with a smirk. “Best body you have ever seen naked in your long, long life, yes?”
Hunter scoffs. “You’re so fucking self-confident, you know?” He says, a disbelieving smile playing around his lips, as he starts to loosen his tie and unbutton his cuffs.
“I think you like it,” Ilya says and shrugs.
Hunter also likes it when Ilya pulls his hair, pushes him to the floor, and fucks his throat.
He’s fun to play with.
And he’s hot.
Two facts.
Another fact: This might never happen again. Maybe it should never happen again. It’s fine, Ilya thinks. He was curious. Curious about masks and what might be hiding underneath them. And now he knows.
But. It’s still not enough.
“Let me fuck you,” Ilya says, stroking his wet cock back to hardness. “I’ll make it good for you. Promise."
Hunter wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes on Ilya’s cock. He hesitates. But then, he says, “No,” and goes to take a shower.
Ilya watches his ass until the bathroom door closes, then he falls back on the bed with a sigh and closes his eyes.
Freckles. Freckles and a grin that makes brown eyes sparkle in the lights of the arena …
Soft lips, wrapped around Ilya’s fingers. Long lashes, fluttering. The whisper of his name as he runs his fingers through dark hair.
Ilya’s eyes snap open, and his throat tightens with dread.
He listens to the noise of rushing water and the thundering of his own wildly beating heart, and he knows:
I’m so fucked.
Ilya is still filled with adrenaline from the game when he goes to the address Scott Hunter texted him with a “If you’re interested”. The game he won.
Everything is going great.
Ilya is amazing at hockey. His father is losing himself in Russia. Alexei wants more money, always more. Hollander is going out with Rose Landry. The paparazzi pictures are all over the internet. She’s smiling, with her hand on his arm. And Hollander. Is smiling too. With his arm. Wrapped around her. They look happy.
Everything is going great.
And Hunter moans when Ilya pushes him against the wall, claiming his mouth like it’s some kind of trophy.
“Let me fuck you this time,” Ilya says, pouting, running his fingers down Hunter’s abs teasingly, until he can palm his erection. Firmly. “Come on. I won. It can be my prize, yes?”
Hunter snorts. “Is that what I am to you? A prize?”
But Ilya can see the moment he’s giving in, the moment arousal is winning.
“Alright,” Hunter says.
He goes on his hands and knees, sighing when Ilya runs his hand over the line of his spine, arching and pushing into it like a touch-starved cat.
Everything is going great.
Ilya loses himself in the heat of the moment. He’s good at this. He’s good at sex. At giving people pleasure. He’s good at sex. He’s good at hockey. Everyone knows that. Ilya knows it.
Hunter curses and pushes back against Ilya’s fingers greedily.
Yes. Ilya is good at this. He knows how to do this. He’s in control. And nothing about this situation is making him feel like he’s about to fall off a ledge. Like he’s balancing on the dangerously fine line between pleasure and pleasure with emotions. Nothing about this makes him feel like he’s about to destroy something so precious that he still doesn’t understand how it ended up in his hands. His useless hands. His stupid heart, which always, stupidly, goes back to beating for a certain smile.
Everything is going great.
Ilya pushes his cock in with a satisfied groan. He doesn’t move until Hunter starts to writhe, clearly getting impatient.
“Damnit,” he bites. “Move already, Rozanov.”
Ilya laughs.
“You need something? Get it then,” he says, slapping Hunter’s ass once, hard.
“Oh, fuck you,” Hunter says, annoyed, but he does move. He fucks himself on Ilya’s cock, shuddering and moaning.
Transfixed, Ilya watches the muscles moving in Hunter’s back.
He feels good. But it’s not enough. So he puts his hands on Hunter’s hips and starts to fuck him fast and hard.
“Jesus,” Hunter gasps, burying his face in the crook of his elbow, his moans muffled. His body is being pushed forward by the force of Ilya’s thrusts, and he reaches out with one hand, bracing himself against the headboard.
Ilya doesn’t stop. And he isn’t told to.
He chases his release, sweat rolling down his face and back, his heart thundering in his chest. When he filled the condom and the pleasant daze is about to turn back to annoying clarity, he pulls out and says, “Turn around.”
Hunter obeys and gasps, wide-eyed, as Ilya immediately bends down to swallow his cock.
“Fuck, Rozanov.”
It doesn’t take long, sadly, until he bucks his hips up and comes into Ilya's mouth with shaky moans.
“You’re horribly good at this,” Hunter tells him hoarsely, looking fucked out. His skin is flushed, and when he sits up with a tired groan, Ilya can see the red marks where he dug his fingers in. “It’s annoying.”
“I know,” Ilya says with a smirk. “Everyone tells me so.”
Hunter hums, unsurprised. He glances at Ilya. Clears his throat. “Does … anyone know?”
“About this?” Ilya raises his brow. “No. I’m not stupid, you know?"
“No. About you,” Hunter says. “About you liking men.”
I like women. I also like you.
Ilya’s chest tightens. He nods. “Yeah.”
Hunter looks at him for a long moment. “You have feelings for him,” he says quietly.
“I don’t have feelings,” Ilya bursts. He gets up. Reaches for his clothes.
Scott Hunter smiles weakly. “No feelings? Sounds like a dream.”
Ilya scowls. “Everything was going great,” he remarks sullenly, pulling up his pants. “Then you make it weird. Well done, old man. This is how you thank me for amazing orgasm.”
Hunter shakes his head, still smiling. “Thank you. It was the last time. It can’t happen again.”
“Okay,” Ilya says angrily, gesturing. “Whatever.”
“I mean it,” Hunter says seriously. “Get your shit together, Rozanov. You’re an asshole. But not that much of an asshole.”
“Fuck you,” Ilya mutters. He leaves in a hurry.
Everything was going great.
Everything.
Great.
Another picture of them appears on his phone. Ilya wants to shatter it.