Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

Every face-off he had taken against Rozanov, the Russian had looked him dead in the eye and smirked. Shane was not easily shaken by anyone, but that goddamn smirk threw him off balance every time. Maybe it was just that, after a life of playing at a level above everyone else, Shane had finally met his match. He was sure that was all it was.

It was the first time that Shane felt it. It was like the air in the room had thickened. Everything inside him was buzzing and on edge, like he was about to jump out of a plane. He didn’t know if Rozanov felt anything. But in that moment, Shane wanted...something. He couldn’t even name it.

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.

“What were you thinking about?” Rozanov asked, his voice low. Shane swallowed. His throat was bone dry. “You,” he said quietly. Rozanov heard him, and smirked. He gave himself another stroke. “You want to touch me, Hollander?”

Ilya told himself the twisted feeling in his stomach was just jealousy, but he was terrified that it was something much, much worse.

Ilya couldn’t resist a bad idea. And Shane Hollander was a bad fucking idea. The worst idea. Wrong in every way imaginable. Two men. Two NHL players, poised to be the two biggest stars in the league soon enough. Two bitter rivals on opposing teams that had hated each other for almost a hundred years.

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.

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 never had with any other player. It was exhilarating.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

“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.

“I’m fucked,” he murmured in Russian. “I am so fucking in love and it’s horrible.”

Shane kissed the tips of two fingers and reached out and touched them to the screen. And Ilya’s heart fucking stopped. “Good night, Ilya.”

“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. But, of course, he couldn’t.

Ilya couldn’t believe what he had been reduced to. He was...infatuated. It was disgusting. But it was hard to care when Shane was lying on top of him, his smooth chest and stomach touching every inch of Ilya’s own. His bangs hanging down to brush Ilya’s nose. His dark eyes, and his freckles, and his smile. Shane looked so happy. Somehow, Ilya made him happy. Ilya wanted to always make him happy.

“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.

“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 gave a shaky smile and exhaled. “Thank Christ.” “Does it...does it feel like agony for you too?” Ilya started to nod, then stopped. He shook his head slowly instead. “Not anymore.”

“This is real, yes?” Ilya asked. He just had to make sure. “It’s real,” Shane said. His voice was low and adorably scratchy. “I feel like... I am dreaming?” “You’re not. I love you.” Ilya wasn’t sure his heart could take any more of this. It felt like it was pushing up against his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Hard to think. Hard to do anything except hold Shane down and kiss him over and over again.

“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.”

“Since their rookie season,” Shane heard his mother say. “I can’t believe it.” “Looking at them now, I kind of can,” his father said.

Ilya grabbed his hand and pulled him close. “I want to tell you, before we do this, that I am...very happy today. My mother would have really liked this. And I think she is with me today. And proud.” Oh, oops. Now Shane’s eyes were glistening. “She has so many reasons to be proud of you, Ilya.”