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Rozanov stopped talking, but he managed to find an even more effective way of getting under Hollander’s skin: he winked.
It was the first time that Shane felt it. It was like the air in the room had thickened. Everything inside him was buzzing and on edge, like he was about to jump out of a plane.
For the rest of his life, Shane Hollander would have to live with the fact that he had ended his NHL draft day by getting himself off to thoughts of Ilya Rozanov.
We were supposed to stand alone at the top, but we will always be there together. We will keep climbing until no one else can reach us, but it will always be together.
“If I knock on door of room 1410 tonight...maybe around nine?” Shane fought to keep his voice even. “I might open the door.” Rozanov smiled. “I might knock.”
SCREAMING
Fuck. This was really gay.
Okay….well 😂
He murmured something in Russian and then said, “Look at you.”
“Curious?” Rozanov smiled. “Yes. Curious. And you make me curious.” “Oh.”
Shane had the stupid urge to ask him to stay. He imagined falling asleep in his arms and what the fuck?
Fuck. You. Rozanov.
“You will. Screw Ilya Rozanov, right? That can be your mantra tonight.” Or not. Shane forced a smile. “Sure. Screw him.”
😏
Under the table, he felt Rozanov’s foot tap against his own. It was the chastest contact in the world, but it still made Shane’s heart stop.
“Twelve twenty-one.”
“You know what makes you gayer?” “Rozanov...shut the fuck—”
Ilya grinned so hard it hurt. “What color?” “Fuck you!”
“Who should I be?” he asked as he picked up Ilya’s phone from the dresser. “Shannon?” “Jane,” Ilya said. “Jesus Christ,” Hollander muttered as he typed. “No. Just Jane.”
Rozanov was a lot of things, but he wasn’t boring. He frustrated Shane on the ice, and flustered him off the ice. Shane wanted to crosscheck him in the mouth, and then kiss it better. He wanted to forget about him, and he wanted to play every game against him. He wanted...
Ilya: You are very bad at sexting. Jane: Who taught you that word? Ilya: Your mom.
“You aren’t supposed to be smoking.” “You aren’t supposed to be talking.”
“You could win the fastest shot competition.”
“Been dreaming of the Olympics my whole life,” Hollander said. “I can’t wait.” “For what? A bronze medal?” “Fuck you.”
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.
“We didn’t even kiss” Yeah well I’m throwing myself off a building.
He loved reducing Rozanov to whimpers and Russian profanity.
Shane couldn’t stay. There were probably a million reasons why he couldn’t stay. “Okay,” he said.
“Do you like tuna melts?”
“Do you like them?” Rozanov asked after a minute of silent eating. “What? The tuna melts?” “No. Girls.”
No one makes me feel like Ilya Rozanov does.
Shane. He called me Shane.
😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
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.
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.
Oh…oh no
The press was having a field day writing about this monumental event where Shane and Ilya would have to put aside their supposed animosity and learn to work together. Was it even possible, they wondered? Shane smiled to himself as he hung up his suit in the hotel room closet. If they only knew.
“I think I’m gay,” Shane blurted out. Ilya looked at him, startled, for a moment. Then he laughed. “Oh yeah? What gives you that idea?”
Ilya slid off the dresser and went to the mini fridge. He pulled out a can of Coke and a can of ginger ale. He handed the ginger ale to Shane as he sat beside him on the bed.
The ginger ale 😩
“It’s you. You and me. Being gay is one thing. Hooking up with your arch fucking rival is another.”
“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.”
:(
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.
“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.”
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.”
“We should get married,” Ilya said. “What?” Shane flushed right down to his toes. “Not to each other,” Ilya said. Then he started laughing and couldn’t stop.
“You don’t love her, then?” “No,” Ilya said quietly. He sounded like he was falling asleep. “Not her. No.”
“I can’t believe you talked me into that.” “I think you like to be told what to do, Hollander.”
“The first time I met you. Those freckles...” “The first time? You mean at the World Juniors? In Saskatchewan?” “Yes.”
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.”
“We’re going to move you onto the spinal board, Shane. Keep your head still, please.” Spinal board?
“We’re not alone,” Shane slurred. “Ilya. They can see us.”
This. This part. I’m dead. Actually dead.
Ilya nodded. “Get well soon, Hollander.” He quickly left the hospital room of the man he loved, and forced himself to focus on winning the Stanley Cup.
Shane was so completely in love with him. He would hit his head all over again just to be alone in that quiet hospital room with those careful fingers and those concerned eyes. He was in love with him and he could never, ever tell him that.
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.
