Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

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. Not one person.

“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.

Rozy 😭

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.”

Shane laughed. “You wanna kiss me on television?” “Yes. After I win the Stanley Cup.” Shane spread his arms out. “Oh, so in this romantic scenario, you’ve just defeated me?” “Yes. Sorry.”

“Mine.” Ilya’s breath tickled Shane’s skin when he spoke the single word. “Yours,” Shane said dreamily. “All of this. For two weeks. Is mine.” Forever, Shane wanted to say. Forever if you ask.

“No,” Ilya said. “I like you, Hollander.” It wasn’t an earth-shattering confession, but the words still moved Shane enormously. “I like you too, Rozanov.”

Shane laughed. “It’s a loon.” “A what?” “A loon!” Shane was really laughing now. “It’s a bird. Like a duck, kind of. Oh my god, you thought it was a wolf!” “What the fuck bird makes a noise like that?”

“Fuck you and your loon!” Ilya said. “Stupid Canadian wolf bird.”

“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.”

“I love you.” Shane froze. And then Ilya froze. “Holy shit,” Shane whispered. It wasn’t how he had meant to respond. “I...” Ilya’s eyes were so wide and so scared. “I love you too,” Shane said.

Ilya pulled Shane’s hand to his lips and kissed his fingers. “Ya lyublyu tebya.” “Ya-loo-blue-tee-baa,” Shane murmured back.

The sun shone on every inch of Shane: his skin, his hair, his freckles. He looked so achingly beautiful and happy. It was a shame that Ilya was going to ruin it. A shame, but there was no choice about it: Shane Hollander was standing on the edge of a dock, and now his back was turned to Ilya. Like an idiot.

They both saw Shane’s dad standing inside the house, staring, frozen, at where they were wrapped up in each other on the deck.

“Um, and this is... Ilya. Rozanov. You probably know that.” “Hi,” Ilya said. “And he’s been...visiting. He’s...we’re, um...” What were they, exactly? It occurred to Shane that he and Ilya hadn’t even figured out what label they were comfortable with. “Lovers,” Ilya offered.

“You didn’t ever...” His mom sounded suddenly horrified. “You didn’t ever let him win, did you, Shane?” “God, Mom! No!”

“I have been with lots of women. That was not...fake. But...” He looked at Shane, and Shane held his breath. “I have only been in love with one person.”

“I mean it,” Shane said softly. “I want to have a life with you. I know it will be awkward, and will still involve a lot of sneaking around for a while, but I’m playing the long game here. So, yeah. Whatever it takes, I’m in.”

Ilya Rozanov and his boyfriend, Shane Hollander. Ilya liked the sound of it. The idea of hockey commentators saying those words. Ilya Rozanov and his husband, Shane Hollander. Oooh. Better.