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Ilya liked it when Hollander was angry.
Ilya always did feel good with Hollander. He didn’t want to say it was better than it was with anyone else, but it was...different.
But that’s the way it had been for over six seasons: Shane Hollander was the wholesome, heroic sweetheart, and Ilya Rozanov was the obnoxious rock star. They were polar opposites, according to any NHL analyst, and therefore destined to clash forever—neatly dividing hockey fans in the process.
The truth—the truth that he tried so very hard to ignore—was that no one set him on fire like Shane Hollander.
Hollander could actually keep up with Ilya, and it was like they were reading each other’s minds when they passed the puck. They had barely had any time to practice together; they just clicked in a way Ilya never had with any other player. It was exhilarating.
“I can’t keep pretending I don’t like you,” he said finally.
Ilya shook his head. “When will I have you for as long as I want?”
He could admit to himself that he wanted to see Shane as much as possible, and he found that he wasn’t worried about letting Shane know it anymore. For now, at least. The day would come when they would have to end it, but for now Ilya was happy to steal as many moments as possible.
He saw Shane’s shoulder lift in a tiny shrug. “I’ve never...had anything. Like this. With anyone else.”
“There’s not much to tell. He was big. He looked like he was, y’know, what I was looking for.” “A big, strong top?” Shane looked so embarrassed, Ilya took pity. “Was he? What you needed?” “No. I mean, sort of. But...” “Did he hurt you?” “No. He just wasn’t...” Ilya needed to hear it. “Wasn’t what?” Shane clenched his eyes shut and said, “You. He wasn’t you.” Ilya damn near lost it. Shane was going to ruin him, saying things like that.
And wouldn’t that be the world’s saddest joke? As soon as Shane finally admitted to himself that he wanted to be with Ilya, their weird arrangement might be permanently off the table.
The real actual truth—the truth that Shane mentally stomped on every time it dared try to get his attention—was that he wanted Ilya to meet his parents for the same reason anyone wanted their boyfriend to meet their parents: he loved him, and he wanted them to love him too. Except Ilya was not Shane’s boyfriend.
“Yes. Listen. These women, they are so sexy and fun, but is no matter. I cannot stop thinking about this short fucking hockey player with these stupid freckles and a weak backhand.”
Shane was beaming up at him, eyes bright and freckles crinkled, and Ilya loved him. And Shane loved him. Holy fucking shit. Shane Hollander is in love with me.
Ilya hadn’t been kidding about wanting to marry him. And not for citizenship, of course. He wanted to be Shane’s husband, and to live together, and maybe even raise children together.
