The Long Game (Game Changers, #6)

by Rachel Reid

Ilya’s body tensed against him as they both stared at Shane’s unconscious body on the ice. “Spoiler,” Shane said with a shaky laugh. “I wake up.” “I know,” Ilya said quietly.

He turned his head to find Ilya sprawled out on his stomach beside him, deep asleep with his mouth hanging open and hair covering most of his face.

“Sure. You’ve probably gone to sex parties and fucked in front of a captive audience before, right?”

“That’s how you’re going to start your day?” “No,” Ilya said, dipping his knife back into the Nutella jar. “I started my day by blowing you. Remember?”

He didn’t want to see what Ilya added next. Probably sprinkles. Or onion rings.

Crowell held out one hand. “Now I’ve heard, and you don’t have to confirm this, but I’ve heard that you are...homosexual.”

“Did you know we sell Pride merchandise year-round on our website now?” “Does the money go to LGBTQ charities?” “And we’re expanding our Pride Nights,” Crowell said, ignoring Shane’s question.

“Right. I mean, obviously I’m not going to do either of those things.” “Obviously.” Ilya said it bitterly, but Shane didn’t seem to notice.

“It’s good that you had that. Were there other things you did to escape at that time?” Well. Yes. And Ilya supposed there was no reason to be shy about it. Not here. “Sex,” he said bluntly.

Sometimes I feel like I might scream, it’s so hard keeping this secret. I love hockey, and I deserve to have the career I want for as long as I want it. I’ve earned that. But if I had to choose...I’d choose him.”

Ilya sighed. “I wish I could get a dog.” Yeah, Shane wasn’t sure how that would work. “Someday,” he offered. “Everything is someday. I am tired of waiting for someday.” “I know. But we’re still young. We’ve got lots of time.” “Are we? I feel a thousand years old sometimes.”

The podcast wasn’t quite as effective at keeping him awake as the butt plug had been.

He wrote what was in his terrified heart: You are the best thing in my life. His eyes were blurry, making it hard to type. He quickly swiped at his eyes and kept writing. I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.

To please not let this plane crash, because Ilya had wasted so much fucking time hiding how much he loved Shane—from the world, from Shane, from himself. He needed more time. He needed to love Shane properly.

Sure, his New Year’s resolution had been to quit smoking for real, but he’d earned this cigarette.

He could tell right away that Shane had been crying. “Oh,” Ilya said softly. “Sweetheart. I am so sorry.” They didn’t use pet names very often, beyond the nonsensical Russian nouns Ilya liked to throw at Shane, but Ilya said this one with his whole heart.

“Call me tomorrow. Or later tonight if you want. I’ll just be, y’know, freaking out in my hotel room.” “Don’t. Jerk off or something instead. Send me pictures.”

“I’m really not ready to joke about that yet.” “Sorry. Good night, moy pomidor.” “Tomato, right?” “Yes.” “Weird. I love you.” “I love you. Send pictures.”

“Look, I know you’ve got this...thing...for Rozanov.” Shane’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean?” J.J. smiled sadly at him. “Why do you think I keep trying to set you up? Having a crush on a straight man is no good, buddy.”

“Hey,” J.J. said gently. He ducked his head so their eyes met. In French, he said, “I’m not making fun of you. It hurts to love someone who can’t love you back, and I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with that. You can always talk to me about it.”

Shane’s eyes began to shimmer. He took a deep breath and said, “Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, will you marry me?”

Ilya slipped it onto the chain until it nudged up against the crucifix pendant that had been his mother’s.

“Yeah. I know it’s going to be a shitshow, but I’m tired of being scared of being found out. I want to tell people, on our own terms. I think I can handle anything that happens, as long as going public is a choice we made ourselves. Together.”

He hadn’t told her that he’d gotten engaged. It still felt too new, too precious, to share with anyone.

Which was why he hadn’t exactly gotten into his mental health concerns with Shane, like he’d planned. He was still optimistic that he could fix himself without troubling his future husband. It was probably stupid, but, well, Ilya had been feeling a bit stupid these past few days.

He rarely gave speeches, preferring to lead with action more than words.

“How am I supposed to do this when there are so many of your balls in my way?” “That’s my strategy,” Bood said with a grin. Ilya huffed, took his shot, then watched in dismay as one of Bood’s balls went into a side pocket. Bood cracked up. “See? You do my work for me.” “Like on the ice, you mean?” Bood pointed his cue at him menacingly. “Okay. You can fuck off now.”

Ilya had not expected to be pulled into a conversation about sex with his rookie, but he supposed he was an expert.

“I am not so much looking for hookups.” “Oh. You don’t like sex?” Luca turned redder. “I like it, yes. I am, um, particular. Maybe. Or shy. I don’t know.” He let out a nervous giggle. “This is not a conversation I thought I would have with you.” Ilya grinned. “But I am right beside your bed, watching you have sex!”

Shane would never speak to him again if Ilya didn’t give this everything he had.

Besides, winning stuff always made Shane horny, so Ilya considered himself the real winner.

Unfortunately, they had to watch Dallas Kent win the shot accuracy competition next, which was a real boner killer. Except the way Shane was huffing angrily beside Ilya was kind of hot.

“You have me, sweetheart.” The first time Ilya had used that particular pet name, Shane had felt like he’d been struck by lightning.

Loud knocking jolted Shane out of the moment. The knocking was followed by the voice of Cliff Marlow. “Rozanov! You in there?”

“I don’t know. Some club. Can you open the fucking door?” Shane wanted to die. But he also was oddly turned on by this weird situation. Which also made him want to die.

“I don’t think it’s petty,” Shane argued. “I think Barrett legitimately cares about the issues he’s bringing attention to. He’s doing what the league should be doing.” Oh shit. Ilya could not believe Shane just said that. He took a step closer to him, as if to protect Shane from whatever the response from Crowell would be.

“You mean Baldwin and Lundin,” Shane said, naming the Vancouver and Los Angeles players who had come out shortly after Scott Hunter had. “Baldwin was never offered another contract, and Lundin ended up moving back to Sweden.”

“Where have I seen you before?” Ilya asked. The Detroit defenseman, Kerr, looked confused. “The fuck are you talking about, Rozanov?” Ilya pointed a gloved finger at him. “Oh! I know. From that gif. I see it all the time. From last season when I deked around you like you were a fucking statue and scored.”

Pride Night games had always felt weird to him. Performative, mostly, but also uncomfortable because he felt guilty for not being out.

“Just one thing,” Troy said. “I’m dating Harris. We’re together. I’m gay.” Ilya had to respect how efficient the speech was.

Ilya squirted Gatorade in his mouth. If he offered to sign the “Fuck Rozanov” jersey he’d bet the guy wearing it would be thrilled. Deep down, this city probably still loved him.

“You’re blushing,” Svetlana said, delighted. “Ilya Rozanov, are you in love?” Ilya couldn’t stop the smile that crept across his face. “Extremely.”

“Not Russian, then. Too bad. What does Shane do?” Ilya somehow managed to keep himself from laughing. “He’s an athlete.” Svetlana narrowed her eyes. “Which sport?” Ilya rolled the stem of his martini glass between his thumb and forefinger. “Hockey.” Svetlana huffed. “I don’t understand. Unless you’re in love with Shane Hollander, I can’t think of any—”

He was pretty excellent at sucking dick these days. Like all things he wanted, he’d worked hard at it. He’d studied, practiced, and visualized being able to do this.

His knees were already starting to hurt, but he could endure it. Maybe he should keep a yoga kneepad in the bathroom...

Ilya wasn’t interested in bottoming any more than Shane was interested in topping, but sometimes Ilya liked it when Shane gave his ass some attention.

“Or...” Ilya rolled on top of him, grinning. “Roger Crowell Rozanov-Hollander.” “God, that’s a mouthful,” Shane said as his heart melted into goo. “Hollander-Rozanov is alphabetical, though, so...”

“Harris wants you to come to dinner at his family’s farm this Sunday. As a thank-you.”

“Sometimes people drive dogs they don’t want out to the country, though.” “And leave them?” Ilya asked, horrified. He’d grown up in Moscow and had seen plenty of stray dogs, but the idea of someone abandoning a dog that loved them—a part of their family and their home—was monstrous.

“I love that family, but man.” Ilya laughed. “Is a lot of talking. Like a whole pile of Harrises.” He paused. “You would probably like to be in a pile of Harrises.”