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He wanted to be rich and famous and loved and have a huge garage full of sports cars.
Shane rolled his eyes. He had been called “pretty boy” a few times before, usually during games, and he hated it. He wished he hated it this time.
Fuck. This was really gay.
“Oh.” Really? Shane felt that he had barely done anything.
Rozanov gave a crooked grin and shrugged. “I like trouble.” Shane laughed. “Well, I think we’ve found it.”
Rozanov shook his head. “He would never tell. I would never tell. It was safe.” “Safe,” Shane repeated. It didn’t sound at all safe. “Just fooling around. Not serious. Was...what is it?” “Curious?” Rozanov smiled. “Yes. Curious. And you make me curious.” “Oh.” He leaned in and breathed against Shane’s ear in his heavily accented English, “Do I make you curious?” Rozanov made Shane a lot of things: confused, infuriated, terrified, aroused, and, yes, curious. “Obviously,” Shane said, a little irritably.
Shane felt stupid that he hadn’t even tried to...properly finish the job on Rozanov. This guy was determined to one-up him at every turn.
“You don’t play with your ass? It makes you gay?” “Oh my fucking god...” “You know what makes you gayer?” “Rozanov...shut the fuck—” “Sucking my dick. You were doing that a minute ago.”
This, he realized, was why people were so wild about sex. He had never, ever felt like this with anyone before. And of course Ilya Rozanov, all of nineteen years old, fucked with the confidence and skill of, like, a sex god.
“Touch yourself.” “What?” “Show off for me. Let me watch you.” “You—what?” “Is my special night, Hollander. I want to watch 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.
Philadelphia defenseman skated by the bench when the play had stopped. “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.
Ilya watched the footage of Hollander taking a quick pass and scoring with the impossible accuracy that he was known for. Ilya watched him hug his teammates, and the way his face lit up with a wide, jubilant smile. Ilya found himself smiling a bit too, on his bench in Philadelphia. Well, now he was going to have to score two goals tonight.
“Jesus Christ, you are so fucking boring,” Ilya muttered.
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. It’s the way it should have been. Shane and Ilya were opposites in almost every way imaginable, but it was getting harder for Ilya to deny that there was something in his core that was drawn to Hollander.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Rozanov panted, and Shane didn’t even have a chance to be shocked by the pet name before Rozanov was coming too.
Rozanov shrugged. “I’m making one for me. I can make two. Ginger ale is in fridge.” He seemed to really want Shane to drink the ginger ale.
They watched in silence for another minute and then Shane asked, “What’s your favorite city to play in? On the road?” Rozanov considered it. “I like New York. Because it’s New York. They fucking hate me there.”
And Shane knew he should ask whether or not everything was okay at home or something, but he was now consumed by one thought: No one makes me feel like Ilya Rozanov does.
Rozanov cleared their dishes away and, when he came back, wedged himself between Shane and the arm of the couch. He turned slightly and wrapped an arm around Shane, guiding him back to rest against his own chest. Shane was surprised, but he went willingly. Very willingly. Resting against Rozanov like this, in his home, watching hockey, full of the food he had just made him...this was exactly what they weren’t supposed to be doing. This was what couples did. But Rozanov’s chest was so warm and solid, and Shane could hear his heart beating where his ear was pressed against it. Rozanov’s fingers
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“Why do I need this so much?” Shane muttered the words against Rozanov’s lips, and hoped the other man hadn’t heard them. “Need what?” Rozanov asked, as if he didn’t know.
They held each other, both breathing heavily as they waited for their hearts to stop racing. But Shane didn’t think his heart would ever stop racing. Shane. He called me Shane. He pulled back so he could see Rozanov’s face, and was shocked to see him staring at him with the same wide-eyed terror that Shane felt. “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.
Shane moved through the sea of dancers toward him without even realizing he was doing it.
He glanced around the club, wondering where the best dark corner was to— Holy fuck. When his gaze landed on Shane Hollander, Shane’s eyes went wide. Had Shane just been...watching him? Ilya couldn’t resist pushing it. He gave him what he believed to be his sexiest smile, and bent down to whisper in the girl’s ear. “Should we take this somewhere else?” He never took his eyes off Shane.
He pinched the cross that hung around his neck and rubbed it with his thumb as he scowled into the dark room. He had never in his life been angry about someone sleeping with someone else. He was largely indifferent to most things. 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.
“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.” “Ha!” Rose threw her head back in delight. Shane laughed too. He felt lighter, suddenly.
The truth—the truth that he tried so very hard to ignore—was that no one set him on fire like Shane Hollander. All of these women...they were gorgeous. Fun. Very sexy. But he didn’t think about them after they were gone. He didn’t long for them. With them, he could be sated.
Shane Hollander was not an option. He wasn’t ever an option, not really. This thing between them needed to stop. It was bad for both of them, and Ilya knew they should end it. What scared Ilya was how desperately he wanted it to continue.
He wanted to see Rozanov this weekend. He wanted to be with him, alone, behind closed doors; he was tired of lying to himself about it.
Ilya didn’t miss the past tense of what Shane was saying about going out with Rose, even with his imperfect English. “Are you and her not...” Shane shook his head. “We’re not. No. It was just a short thing. She’s great. We just weren’t, um...compatible.” He looked seriously at Ilya then. Ilya wanted to kiss him.
“Anyway,” Shane said, gesturing toward the room with his beer bottle, “I should say hi to everyone.” He stepped away from the bar. “Right.” Ilya put his hand over his mouth to hide his ridiculous smile.
Ilya moved from center to right wing for the All-Star Game so he could play on a line with Hollander. He was happy to do it; he’d been waiting a long time for an opportunity to play with Shane. And playing with him was everything he had imagined it would be. He actually felt bad for their left wing linemate, Carson, because as far as Ilya was concerned there was no one else on the ice. 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
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Shane shot it cleanly into the top corner of the net for his fourth goal of the game. Shane raised his arms in celebration and he just looked so happy. He was beaming and his eyes were crinkled and his cheeks were flushed. Ilya embraced him, and Shane wrapped both of his arms tight around him. 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
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“I know that, but...” Shane ran a hand through his own hair in exasperation. “Last time we were together it was...nice,” he said quietly. Ilya was silent a moment, then admitted, “It was.” “It felt like we were...more.” “We can’t be more, Hollander.” Shane turned his head sharply to look at Ilya. “Would you want to be? If we could?” “We can’t.” “That’s not what I asked.” Ilya stood up and set his Coke can down hard on the dresser. “It doesn’t fucking matter!” Shane flinched and fiddled with the can of ginger ale that he hadn’t even opened. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t like you,” he said
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Ilya gave in and reached for him. As soon as he had Shane in his arms, he was done for. He leaned forward and took his mouth. It felt different this time, as he wrapped his arms around Shane’s back and pulled him close against his body. Shane’s hands cradled Ilya’s face as he kissed him with the force of everything they had almost said out loud.
“When will I have you for as long as I want?”
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.
He leaned forward and kissed Shane. It was as soft and sweet a kiss as Shane had ever received from anyone. “I apologize in advance for tonight,” Shane murmured. “We’re gonna destroy you guys.” “Dream on, Hollander.”
“I wish... I wanted him to... I don’t know.” He sighed again. “English is too hard today.” “I’m sorry. I wish I spoke Russian.” “You could probably learn it in a week,” Ilya grumbled. “Perfect. No accent.”
“Tell me everything you want to say,” he said. “In Russian. I won’t understand but...maybe it will help?” There was a silence that was long enough for Shane to physically cringe at himself. He was about to take it back, when he heard Ilya quietly say, “Okay.”
Without the ability to translate any of it, Shane could just enjoy the sound of Ilya’s voice, which he barely recognized now. The words were so quick and confident, unrestricted by Ilya having to carefully piece together his sentences like when he spoke English. It felt intimate—like they were somehow sharing a bigger secret now than when they slept together. And there was something undeniably sexy about hearing Ilya speak so fluidly in his mother tongue. When he was finished, Ilya gave an embarrassed-sounding little laugh and said, “I am done.” It was jarring to hear him switch suddenly back
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Shane shifted on the stairs. “I wish you were here now.” Shane couldn’t believe he had actually allowed himself to say that out loud. They didn’t wish to be together. They reluctantly hooked up when they were in the same city because it was something to do. He felt his mortification melt away when Ilya said, in a low voice, “Me too.”
Mostly he had just been ranting about his family, but he had included an admission that he wished things could have been different with his father. That he had stupidly always hoped that his father might tell him that he was proud of him. 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.”
“Should you really be alone right now?” Shane asked. “I am not alone,” Ilya said. “You are here now, yes?”
What if he had Ilya all to himself at Shane’s favorite place in the world? If there was no one to interrupt them, no one to hide from, no one to remind them of all the reasons they shouldn’t want each other... It would be too much. Shane would never be able to hold back everything he had been trying to pretend he didn’t feel. He would blurt something out that he would never, ever be able to take back. He’s never going to be your boyfriend, Shane. Oh god. That was what Shane wanted, wasn’t it? He
didn’t just want to be Ilya’s dirty secret. He didn’t want their relationship to be nothing but sex. 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 groaned and fell back on his bed, covering his face with his hands. He was super fucked.
“You are very beautiful,” Ilya said. Shane smiled without opening his eyes. “Come on.” “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?” “Wow. All right.” The skin under Shane’s freckles turned very, very pink.
“You’re very attractive, Ilya,” Shane said, in an exaggerated, placating tone. “Not good enough. I want details.” 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.” “Haunts you? Like a ghost? That doesn’t sound like a good thing.” “It is. And your eyes. I love your eyes.” “So romantic, Hollander.”
“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. “Was he the only one?” Ilya couldn’t stop the questions from falling out of his mouth now. “There was a guy in L.A., at a club. I went out by myself. I was desperate.” “And?” “We sucked each other off. I was nervous the whole time.” “Aw.” “And that was it. Two guys. And you.” God. “Mexico top. Hollywood blow job guy. And me.”
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.”
