Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

He tried to think of a new and exciting way of answering the question, “What does Montreal have to do to win tonight?” as he made his way to the hallway outside the dressing room. “Last question, Shane: What does Montreal have to do to win tonight?”

He saw that he had a message waiting for him, and it wasn’t from his parents. Lily: How many times can you come in one hour? What. The. Fuck. This was dirty fucking pool, even for Rozanov. They didn’t text each other before the games. Especially not about shit like that.

“What is this place?” Ilya asked. Instead of answering, Hollander pushed him hard with both hands. “Fuck you for texting me before the game, you asshole!” Ilya grinned. “You were hard, weren’t you? For how long? The whole game?”

But Ilya didn’t let Hollander finish his sentence. He gripped Hollander’s arms and pushed him back against the closest wall and kissed him. Hollander had bought them a fucking building.

“You were smoking,” Hollander complained now, as he broke away from their kiss. “Only one.” “You aren’t supposed to be smoking.” “You aren’t supposed to be talking.”

“Fuck. Fuck. You have to stop. If you want me to fuck you...” Hollander ripped his mouth away from Ilya’s cock, but then he went very still. “Shit. Oh god. Fuck.” Ilya felt wetness splash against his thigh. Hollander’s body jerked a couple of times, and then he buried his face in Ilya’s shoulder. “Fuck.” “Hollander?” “I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I can’t believe I just...you didn’t even touch me!”

“Been dreaming of the Olympics my whole life,” Hollander said. “I can’t wait.” “For what? A bronze medal?” “Fuck you.” Ilya laughed. “Hey, remember when you shot your load for like no reason at all?”

Ilya was grinning like an idiot for the entire cab ride back to his hotel.

Shane knew about Russia’s laws against homosexuality, but he’d been trying not to think too much about stuff like

The door opened, and there was Grigori Rozanov, in all his intimidating glory.

He was almost fifty years older than Ilya.

“And where is Polina tonight?” Ilya asked, ignoring his father’s obvious lie.

There had been tears streaming down Rozanov’s face as he’d hollered and hollered, and Shane had seen that this was more than the pride of being the best player on the best team in the NHL that year. Rozanov had proved something to somebody.

Less than thirty seconds later, Rozanov slipped inside and locked the door. He crowded Shane up against the wall.

He gestured to the floor. “Are you not going to suck my dick?” Shane’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck you! Why don’t you suck mine?”

“Aw,” Rozanov cooed with mock sympathy. “I will make a deal: if you win MVP tonight, I will blow you, fuck you...whatever you want.” Shane swallowed. “And if you win?” A wicked smile unfurled across Rozanov’s face. “I will let you know.”

They had done...everything? Shane was pretty sure they’d done everything at this point. Blow jobs: check. Hand jobs: of course. Fucking: yes, but only with Shane bottoming. Shane couldn’t see Rozanov wanting to change that up. He hoped not, anyway.

He wanted to kiss Rozanov and maybe also punch him for being such an arrogant fucking prick.

And Shane left. He realized, when he was back in his room, that they hadn’t even kissed. He also realized, with horror, that he regretted that.

Ilya smiled to himself. He actually loved this. He loved being on the road, and disappointing home crowds across North America. He loved the insults, the booing, and, most of all, the sound of a crowd so gutted by his team’s performance that they couldn’t even bother to boo. A winded, humiliated crowd. That was Ilya’s favorite sound.

“Keep it up and see what happens, Rozanov,” he threatened. “I know what will happen. My team will win.” “Suck my dick, Rozanov.” Be the best blow job of your life, sweetheart. Ilya winked at him. “Faggot,” the other player grumbled. Ilya shrugged. It was half true. Maybe, like, thirty percent true.

He should have felt embarrassed, but he loved the feeling of Rozanov growing harder against his tongue. He never felt submissive, doing this. He loved reducing Rozanov to whimpers and Russian profanity.

Later, when they were fucking, Shane braced himself with a hand flat on Rozanov’s chest. Rozanov covered that hand with his own, which surprised Shane. Rozanov never took his eyes off his face, except to watch when Shane started stroking himself.

His crucifix chain dangled between them, scraping Shane’s chest.

But Rozanov was lounging on his bed and he patted the mattress next to him, so Shane went.

“You could stay,” Rozanov said. “Stay?” “Stay here. Tonight.” Shane’s eyes opened. Rozanov was looking at him seriously again. “You want me to stay here?”

Shane couldn’t stay. There were probably a million reasons why he couldn’t stay. “Okay,” he said.

“I got, um, ginger ale. You like that shit, right?” “Yeah. I do.” Shane looked at him oddly. Shane didn’t often drink because he didn’t want to do anything that might compromise his performance on the ice. Over the years he had developed an affinity for ginger ale as a substitute for beer. But it wasn’t like he’d ever talked about that to Rozanov. Instead of asking Rozanov how the hell he knew that he liked ginger ale, or why he cared enough to buy some, he asked, “You want to order takeout, or—” “Do you like tuna melts?” “You want to make me a tuna melt?” Rozanov shrugged. “I’m making one for me. I can make two. Ginger ale is in fridge.”

“Wait.” Rozanov grabbed Shane’s wrist and stopped his furious stroking. He pulled Shane’s hand to his face and spit in his hand. Which was gross. But instead of making a face or bitching at him about it, Shane found it absurdly arousing.

But Shane didn’t think his heart would ever stop racing. Shane. He called me Shane.

“Ilya,” he said, barely more than a whisper. Ilya didn’t answer. Instead, he crushed their mouths together and kissed Shane in a raw, uncontrolled way that felt like an apology. Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh

“You like hockey?” Shane asked. “I was born and raised in Michigan,” she said. “Damn right I like hockey!”

December 2016—Detroit Ilya woke alone in his hotel room in... Detroit? Yes. He was in Detroit.

Ilya threw on some sweats and made his way to the Starbucks in the hotel lobby for some coffee and a breakfast sandwich.

He made his way over to the table and Victor held out his phone for him to see. There was a headline that read, Is Rose Landry dating NHL star Shane Hollander? “No,” was Ilya’s immediate reaction. He hoped it sounded more dismissive to his teammates than shocked.

Ilya turned up the resistance on his stationary bike. What did he care, anyway? Why shouldn’t Hollander be dating a beautiful woman? Rozanov had slept with a beautiful woman two nights ago. And another one the night before that.

As Ilya was exiting the team gym, he stubbed his toe on one of the other bikes. He bellowed a string of Russian profanity and hurled his water bottle at the wall.

Hayley, he thought to himself. He would text Hayley and see if she was doing anything tonight. He liked Hayley. She was fun, and she had dark hair. And freckles.

And it only took him a second longer to realize the man she had her arms around—who had his hands on her waist—was Shane Hollander. Fuck it.

“Sorry,” she said, surprising him. “Not tonight, babe. I’m here with my boyfriend. He likes to watch me. It turns him on. But I’m leaving with him.” The fuck? “Your...boyfriend?” He looked around nervously. She laughed. “Relax. He’s not gonna hit you. He likes it, like I said.” She kissed his cheek, turned, and left him. And Shane was gone.

And Shane had looked so fucking good. Not, like, clothes-wise; Shane’s wardrobe was as boring as he was.

Was it just that Ilya liked his sex with a generous helping of danger, and Shane provided both? Or was he just being childish about having to share his favorite toy with a gorgeous movie star? Somewhere, buried deep in his brain, there was a third reason that was screaming for attention. Ilya ignored it.

“It’s okay, Shane. I just...get the impression...that maybe you would rather be kissing, just for example... Miles?”

“Yeah,” Shane said softly. “Yeah. It was better.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is... I kind of prefer to be the hole. Than the peg.”

Ilya was wearing shorts, and a shirt that was covered in palm trees because he’d thought it would be funny. Now he felt like a fucking idiot.

“Don’t listen to a word this fucker says, though,” Brophy said, elbowing Ilya roughly. “Can’t trust this asshole. Whatever he tells you, he’s probably fucking with you.” “I’ll keep that in mind,” Shane said.

“If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone? Or make fun of me?” Ilya felt an icy stab of dread in his stomach. He braced himself, and said, “Sure.” “I, uh...” Ilya waited for the words. I’m seeing someone. I’m engaged. I don’t need you anymore. “I hired a personal stylist.” For a moment, there was silence. Then Ilya burst out laughing. “Fuck off!” he said, delighted.

Ilya didn’t miss the past tense of what Shane was saying about going out with Rose, even with his imperfect English.

The kids laughed more. Shane laughed too. He wondered if Ilya ever thought about having kids. He was good with them.

Ilya felt a puff of Shane’s hot breath on his neck, and he could see the glisten of sweat on his skin and Ilya kissed him, hard, on the cheek. He was sure, to the crowd, that it looked like Ilya’s usual obnoxious shenanigans, that the kiss was just another way of annoying Hollander. But the truth was he simply couldn’t help himself. He had seen an opportunity, and he had taken