Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

“What is your room number?” Rozanov asked. “Fourteen ten,” Shane said, far too quickly. Rozanov’s mouth twitched up. “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.”

Fuck. This was really gay.

“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. He can’t see you, dummy. He watched Rozanov wink at the camera and Shane’s eyes narrowed. He was going to shut this fucker up when their teams finally met.

Ilya liked it when Hollander was angry. He liked it when Hollander took out his frustrations on Ilya’s body. He liked him cursing him as he fucked Ilya’s mouth.

“Been dreaming of the Olympics my whole life,” Hollander said. “I can’t wait.” “For what? A bronze medal?” “Fuck you.” Ilya laughed. “Hey, remember when you shot your load for like no reason at all?”

“You could stay,” Rozanov said. “Stay?” “Stay here. Tonight.”

“I got, um, ginger ale. You like that shit, right?” “Yeah. I do.” Shane looked at him oddly.

Shane kind of couldn’t believe that Rozanov had made them both dinner. He found it, he realized with some horror, adorable.

“Do you like them?” Rozanov asked after a minute of silent eating. “What? The tuna melts?” “No. Girls.” Shane was caught off guard. “Oh. Sure. Yeah. I like them. Of course.” This bit of stammering did not match the answer that first popped into Shane’s head, which was: not really.

Rozanov didn’t reply for a moment. Then he turned back to the television and said, “I like girls.” “Yeah, no shit.” “But I also like you.” “Well, lucky me,” Shane grumbled.

No one makes me feel like Ilya Rozanov does.

Shane liked a girl! In the car, driving home, he laughed at how ridiculously high his standards were.

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.

And Shane felt sick. He needed to leave. He realized, suddenly, as if waking from a dream, that he was standing alone in the middle of a dance floor...not dancing. Just...staring. At Ilya. He couldn’t let Ilya notice him.

“The thing is... I kind of prefer to be the hole. Than the peg.”

Would he have shrugged if Shane had asked him if they were going to fuck again? Would he have turned down his chance to enjoy his body as many times as he possibly could? Don’t you dare put your clothes on, Hollander. I’m not done with you yet.

He looked relaxed and confident, like a man who had gotten his life together. Like a man who didn’t question himself anymore. He looked... Christ, he looks so fucking good.

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 simply couldn’t help himself. He had seen an opportunity, and he had taken it.

Ilya wished they could go for a walk or something—a moonlit stroll on the beach. He was tired of hotel rooms.

“I think I’m gay,” Shane blurted out.

“Stay,” Ilya said. “Can’t.” But he loved that Ilya was asking. “No one will even fucking notice. This weekend is chaos.” “Too risky.” Ilya shook his head. “When will I have you for as long as I want?” Shane’s heart leapt. “I don’t know. As soon as possible?” “Yes.” Ilya leaned in and kissed him. “After I win the Stanley Cup this year, we should go somewhere.”

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.

“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.”

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.”

He wished he could warp to Moscow. Just instantly appear in Ilya’s apartment and hold him and tell him it was all right to be conflicted about his father’s death. That he didn’t owe his family anything. That he should leave them all behind because they made him miserable and he doesn’t need them anyway.

“I don’t want to come back here.” Shane was confused by the sudden topic change. “To Russia, you mean?” “Da. I want to become American. Or Canadian. But I am in America, so...”

“She is...what is word?...sensible. Marriage would be like business deal, yes? Just until I am citizen.” “You don’t love her, then?” “No,” Ilya said quietly. He sounded like he was falling asleep. “Not her. No.”

“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.

Shane huffed out a surprised laugh. “You were such a dick to me.” “Mm. I did not like you. Just your freckles.” Shane shook his head a little on the pillow. “Thanks, I guess.”

“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.”

“Ilya, please stand back,” the authoritative voice said. And the dark blur that had been looming over Shane disappeared. “We’re not alone,” Shane slurred. “Ilya. They can see us.”

“Is he all right?” Ilya’s voice again. No one answered him. “Tell him,” Shane said. “Tell him I’m fine.”

He thought of Ilya. He wished he could text him. He wished he could tell him he wiggled his toes.

“When will we get a chance again?” Shane asked. And, so help him, in that moment Ilya wanted to tell him he would stay with him. That he would move into his apartment and help him with his recovery and make him sandwiches and watch the playoffs with him and read him his boring hockey book.

“We can have a week or two, Ilya,” Shane said. “Haven’t you ever wanted more time?” Ilya’s stomach clenched. He should just say no. Let Shane believe that he didn’t want any more from him than the hour or two they stole a few times each season. But instead he brushed his thumb over the back of Shane’s hand and said, “Of course.”

And, god, that sounded so perfect. And Shane was looking at him like his heart would shatter if Ilya said no. So Ilya took the coward’s way out. “Maybe.”

“Well,” his father said cheerfully, “at least we won’t have to watch Rozanov lift the cup.” Shane grimaced. In truth he would love to see Rozanov lift the 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.

He had the most ridiculous urge to send Ilya a text that just said I love you. He had those words trapped inside of him, filling every part of him, and, the strain of keeping them from slipping out was getting harder to endure.

The stupid part of Shane wanted to fight for Ilya. For them.

Ilya stabbed the call button. There was only one ring before, “Holy shit, Ilya! Can you belie—” “I’m coming to the cottage.”

He wanted to be the best hockey player in the world, and he wanted to be in a relationship with the man he could finally admit he was in love with, without shame or fear.

“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?

“I will try,” he said instead. “Will you?” Shane asked skeptically. “Yes! I will do anything if it will make you touch my dick right now!”

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

Every now and again, Ilya would kiss Shane’s jaw, or his throat, or, one time, the tip of his nose. Ilya couldn’t believe what he had been reduced to. He was...infatuated. It was disgusting.

Shane looked so happy. Somehow, Ilya made him happy. Ilya wanted to always make him happy.

Ilya shot the puck back to Shane. “It made me jealous,” he admitted. 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.” “I’m not going to be in the mood to kiss you if I’ve just lost the Stanley Cup, Rozanov.” “But you would be so proud of me!”