Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

a smattering of dark freckles across his nose and cheekbones.

Ilya’s eyes went right to those damn freckles.

Maybe it was just that, after a life of playing at a level above everyone else, Shane had finally met his match.

You’re half hard right now. From sitting on the gym floor with another man. Okay, that one he couldn’t explain.

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.

His face and his freckles were everywhere: newspapers, television, buses, banners, the sides of buildings.

He wanted a real cigarette. He wanted to fuck someone. He wanted to go down to the hotel gym and find Shane Hollander on a treadmill.

He certainly had no reason to obsess over his fucking archrival. Or his archrival’s freckles. Or his dark eyes. Or the way his cheeks glowed red when he exerted himself.

Ilya had more important things to think about than freckles and polite Canadian boys.

And he hadn’t thought about Ilya Rozanov’s dark, wet lips or his crooked smile at all.

i'm calling bullshit hehehe

And by the time Ilya had shaken the last Canadian hand in the lineup, he was smirking to himself. Because soon the real battle between himself and Shane Hollander would begin. And he couldn’t fucking wait.

In his makeup, with his carefully styled hair, and in this dramatic lighting, Rozanov did not look pretty. He looked stunning.

But Rozanov was grinning at him in a way that was not helping Shane’s...situation. And Shane didn’t seem to have the ability to move. Rozanov was teasing him, but he wasn’t punching him in the face. And he wasn’t leaving either.

But Rozanov let a hand trail down his stomach and wrapped it around his own dick to give it a slow, firm stroke. Shane gasped. Loud enough that the running water couldn’t mask it.

“What were you thinking about?” Rozanov asked, his voice low.

Shane swallowed. His throat was bone dry. “You,” ...

He parted his lips and closed his eyes, and Rozanov deepened the kiss, pushing between his lips and pressing his tongue to Shane’s.

“Fuck,” he heard Rozanov murmur. Shane knew there would be no going back from this, but they’d probably already crossed that line anyway; may as well take what he wanted.

With shaking hands, he pulled Rozanov’s jeans and briefs down and lined up his mouth with his thick, rigid cock. He took a breath and, very carefully, pressed his tongue to the head.

What would Rozanov look like on his knees, taking Shane in his mouth? Would Shane ever find out?

Rozanov gave a crooked grin and shrugged. “I like trouble.”

Shane laughed. “Well, I think we’ve found it.”

Shane nodded. It was shockingly okay for Ilya Rozanov—a guy, a hockey player, his rival—to have his hand wrapped around Shane’s dick.

Rozanov’s soft, accented words and his gentle hands and his confident kisses were all working together to ensnare him.

“Do you feel pressure to outperform Shane Hollander this first season?” the interviewer asked.

“Who?”

Fuck. You. Rozanov. Rozanov looked directly at the camera, and Shane froze. H...

He watched Rozanov wink at the camera and Shane’s eyes narrowed. He was going to shut this fucker up ...

Whether that was his coach’s son, or his brother’s girlfriend, or his teammate’s sister, Ilya couldn’t resist a bad idea. And Shane Hollander was a bad fucking idea. The worst idea.

He pulled back so he could look at his horrible face with its ridiculous freckles.

“I want to fuck you, Hollander,” Ilya said against his ear.

“Your hands are so soft,” Ilya said. “Like a girl’s.” “Fuck you.”

love the banter

Ilya Rozanov wanted to fuck him.

Shane was both terrified and undeniably aroused by the idea. Undeniably extremely aroused by the idea.

Shane wanted to tell him to fuck off, but Rozanov was kissing his throat, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin, so instead he threw his head back against the wall like the eager slut he apparently was.

“Did you bring everything?” Rozanov asked. “Yes,” Shane said. He was pretty sure he had everything. Lube and condoms, right? “Good boy.” “Fuck you.” “Yes.”

He’d seen it before, of course, and he knew it was a decent size, but looking at it now, with the idea that it was supposed to somehow fit inside of him...

He must have been wearing his anxiety all over his face. Rozanov laughed. “It will fit.”

And of course Ilya Rozanov, all of nineteen years old, fucked with the confidence and skill of, like, a sex god.

If Rozanov wanted a show, he was going to get a fucking show.

Shane felt a little slutty, in that moment. He felt wild.

And he hated himself for wanting any of this. But not enough to stop. Never enough to stop.

And there was something that was far too soothing about the way Rozanov’s fingers combed through Shane’s short hair, and curved down to trace the bridge of freckles that stretched across his face.

No one makes me feel like Ilya Rozanov does.

The truth—the truth that he tried so very hard to ignore—was that no one set him on fire like Shane Hollander.

“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.”

SCREAMING 😩😭

“I am not alone,” Ilya said. “You are here now, yes?” Shane’s hand flew to his chest to make sure his heart was still beating; he could have sworn it had just melted into a gooey puddle.

Shane groaned and fell back on his bed, covering his face with his hands. He was super fucked.

“You are very beautiful,” Ilya said.

“Is the truth. Your freckles.” Ilya grazed a fingertip over his own cheek. “I am nuts about them.”