Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

“God, fuck you. You know what I mean! The last time we were...together...it was...different.” Ilya shrugged and looked away. He knew it was the wrong reaction, but he felt a horrifying swell of emotion that he couldn’t let Shane see.

“Last time we were together it was...nice,” he said quietly. Ilya was silent a moment, then admitted, “It was.”

“Not in public. I can’t... I would not be able to go home.” “Your family?” “Russia. I could not go home to Russia.” Shane looked horrified. “What would happen to you?” “I do not want to find out.”

It was late and Shane knew he needed to go back to his own room, but he was in bed with Ilya. Not just in bed, but cuddled together, with Ilya gently stroking his hair. Shane was rolling Ilya’s crucifix between his thumb and his finger.

There was a long, tense silence between them, and then Ilya said, “Good night. Shane.” A jolt of pleasure zipped through Shane’s body every time Ilya called him by his first name. “Good night, Ilya.” He checked to make sure the hallway was empty, then slipped out of Ilya’s room. Because the hall was empty, no one saw the smile that nearly split Shane’s face in half.

What was Shane’s room like? Boring, probably. White walls. Probably a framed photo of his parents on his nightstand. Ilya quickly changed it to a framed photo of himself. An autographed one.

Lily: Everything we do is a bad idea. Come over. When Shane didn’t reply, Ilya added, It will be worth it. I promise. ;) Shane shook his head. There was no way he was going to go over there. He could list a million reasons why he couldn’t go over there, and he ran them through his head as he grabbed his jacket and left the hotel room.

“Just...call me, all right? If you need to talk. Or text me. Whatever. But... I’ll listen. I want to help, if I can.” Ilya was silent for a moment. “You did. Thank you.”

Shane was suddenly struck by a ridiculous idea. Or maybe it was a brilliant idea. He decided to share it before his brain had a chance to figure out which. “Tell me everything you want to say,” he said. “In Russian. I won’t understand but...maybe it will help?”

That admission would have been embarrassing enough, but Ilya had also slipped in an “and on top of everything, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.”

But as soon as he let himself acknowledge it, and now say it, he felt relieved. Not because he could do anything about these feelings, but at least he had allowed himself to accept them. And he had, in the most cowardly way possible, said them aloud to Shane.

He wanted to comfort Ilya when he was sad, and talk to him on the phone, and snuggle together on the couch and watch movies. He would take the short phone call they had just shared over any of their sexual encounters. Well, almost any of their sexual encounters.

Shane accepted, and then there he was, filling the screen of Ilya’s iPad. He was wearing a hoodie and...glasses?

“Something wrong?” he asked. “No. But... I think I’d rather see your face.”

And Shane had been right—this was better. Watching Shane’s face so closely as he pleasured himself was far more intimate than if Ilya had been watching his hand on his cock.

“Is the truth. Your freckles.” Ilya grazed a fingertip over his own cheek. “I am nuts about them.” “I have no idea why. I hate them.” “Noooo...” Ilya moaned. “Hollander. They are stunning.” “Stunning?” “Yes. Am I not using that word right? Very beautiful. Um...take my breath?”

Shane opened his eyes, and rolled them. But he said, “That crooked fucking smile of yours. I can’t even tell you...that smile haunts me.”

“You don’t let yourself have release enough, Hollander. I don’t know how you do it.” Shane laughed, a little darkly. “I haven’t come since I saw you last, you know that?” Ilya inhaled sharply and sped up his hand. It occurred to him that he hadn’t had an orgasm in a couple of days himself, which was an epic drought for him.

“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.

Ilya flopped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m fucked,” he murmured in Russian. “I am so fucking in love and it’s horrible.”

And then... Shane kissed the tips of two fingers and reached out and touched them to the screen. And Ilya’s heart fucking stopped. “Good night, Ilya.” Ilya felt an awful lump in his throat. He had buried his father yesterday, but he hadn’t cried. He hadn’t cried in over ten years. But he knew, in that moment, that he had to end this thing with Shane. It was never supposed to have gotten to this point. He was never supposed to have fallen in love with Shane Hollander. He should have ended it long before because now it was going to hurt so fucking much.

Ilya loved playing against Hollander almost as much as he loved fucking him.

“Is he all right?” That was Ilya’s voice for sure. It sounded different, though. It was...unsteady. Panicked. “Mmokay,” Shane murmured. He had no idea if it was true, but he didn’t want to hear the worry in Ilya’s voice anymore.

He was the team captain. It wasn’t unheard of for the opposing team captain to check to make sure the player his teammate had taken out was all right.

“I had been looking forward to last night,” Shane murmured. “Yes.” “I’m mostly mad at Marlow for fucking that up.” Ilya laughed.

“When the right one comes along, you’ll know,” she said. And Shane chickened out. Because he couldn’t tell them that the right one had come along, and it was the pissed-off Russian man who was currently heading to the penalty box on their television. “Yeah,” he said, “I know.”

Shane just had a sense that maybe this whole thing had become too much. It had become more difficult to contain, or to pretend it didn’t mean anything. The only safe option was to walk away.

Ilya: Do you think Hunter is going to drink tea out of the cup?

Scott fucking Hunter was kissing a man. Not, like, one of his teammates on the cheek in an “I love you, bro” kind of way. Scott Hunter was kissing a man wearing street clothes full on the fucking mouth. It looked like tongues were involved.

Being gay—or whatever—was not really the thing that would create a scandal. Fucking your biggest rival over the course of your entire NHL career was something that no one would understand.

Shane smiled and took one hand off the steering wheel. He reached over and Ilya quickly tangled their fingers together and squeezed.

“Let’s be honest with each other. For these two weeks, let’s just...say what we’re actually thinking. Maybe...say how we really feel.” I can’t, Ilya wanted to say. I can’t because if I do you’ll think I’m pathetic, or, worse, you’ll say it back and then what the fuck are we supposed to do?

Ilya cheated and murmured, “I would stay here forever if I could” in Russian.

Ilya couldn’t believe what he had been reduced to. He was...infatuated. It was disgusting.

“I’m sorry. You went to a gay club in Las Vegas with Scott Hunter?” “And his boyfriend. Yes. Nice guy.”

And now Shane’s face changed to the expression Ilya called “clenched disapproval.”

“You wanna kiss me on television?” “Yes. After I win the Stanley Cup.”

With a playful little grin, Ilya flipped the photo so it lay facedown. “Do not want to shock them,” he said. Shane laughed.

“Years,” Ilya sighed. “Years I have wanted to have you in your real bed.” Shane froze. “Years?” Ilya wrapped long fingers around Shane’s jaw, and tilted his head up to meet his gaze. “Yes.”

For the first time ever, they didn’t have to worry about evidence. About anything. No one would ever know what happened here. “Harder,” Shane said. “I want to see it later.” Ilya growled and pressed his mouth harder to Shane’s skin.

But instead, Ilya did something he had never done before: he kept going. His tongue slipped into the crease of Shane’s ass as his big hands pulled his cheeks apart.

How could something be so relaxing and so exciting at the same time? He was almost angry that Ilya had been holding out on him all this time.

Unfortunately, the move also caused him to smash Ilya in the face with his ass.

Shane tilted his chin up for a kiss before he remembered where Ilya’s mouth had just been. Did he care? No.

He was going to come. There was nothing touching his dick, but it was going to happen.

And then Ilya placed a palm on the side of Shane’s face and just looked at him, and for a wild second Shane thought Ilya was going to be the one to say those forbidden words.

“Why the fuck are you making eight burgers?” he asked. “That’s how many the recipe was for!” “You can’t do math? Cut it in half?” “Leave me alone.” Instead, Ilya stood directly behind Shane and draped an arm across his chest. He kissed him behind the ear. “No,” he murmured.

He had even imagined benign scenarios where they are at a function—maybe the NHL Awards—and Shane just casually says, “Mom. Dad. Have you met Ilya Rozanov?” And they would meet.

But these were the thoughts that consumed him these days: Ilya meeting his parents, Ilya spending the summers with him, Ilya making a home with him.

“What does Rose want?” “She’s just checking in. She—hey. You’re not jealous, are you?” “No.” It was the least convincing lie ever. “Ilya. I’m gay.” “Not too gay to fuck Rose Landry.” Shane put the phone down and glared at him. “Oh my god. I only slept with her a couple of times, and they were both disasters. Believe me, she is not looking for a repeat performance.” Ilya suppressed a grin. “Disasters?”