Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

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.

Fuck. This was really gay.

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.

Shane had never really wanted to do anything with a girl that was complicated. Or that would...make things take longer.

He had, in truth, been trying to distract himself with the movie, because heading to Montreal always put him on edge. It wasn’t nerves, it was...something else. Anticipation, maybe. He didn’t want to say excitement.

EEEEEEEEEEEE

Ilya shrugged. Maybe Ryan Price was weird, or maybe he just wasn’t exactly what people were expecting him to be.

Ilya nearly choked when he saw Hollander’s reply. Jane: I dunno. Twice, maybe? So fucking pure! So honest and sweet. Ilya: You are very bad at sexting. Jane: Who taught you that word? Ilya: Your mom.

Rozanov was being an asshole, which was nothing new, but he didn’t seem to mean it. In fact, Shane would bet that Rozanov would actually really like him to stay. He looked like he could use a hug.

after their team had been eliminated in the third round. Shane had been sick with jealousy, but had also been undeniably proud when he’d watched Ilya Rozanov lift the cup over his head and roar.

Shane tugged at his shirt collar, now, and tried to will his blush away. “Looking for me?” a familiar voice drawled behind him.

“Well?” Rozanov said. “Well what?” He gestured to the floor. “Are you not going to suck my dick?” Shane’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck you! Why don’t you suck mine?”

He put his hand on the door handle and was about to leave when he quickly turned and grabbed the front of Shane’s jacket. He kissed him roughly, then let him go. “Good luck tonight,” he said. And then he was gone.

i am so down bad for ilya

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.

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.

Shane. He called me Shane.

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