Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

archrivals,

“Having a good night?” Rozanov asked cheerfully. His hazel eyes sparkled the way they always did when he was talking shit. “Fuck you,” Hollander growled.

“Yes,”

“You been practicing that, Hollander?”

When he’s too good at it🤭

“I have ruined you,” Rozanov said when they broke apart. “No one else will do.” “Fuck off.” “Such a mouth on you.” “Don’t say it.” “I preferred it when it was on me.” “Dammit, Rozanov.”

subject. “Are your parents here with you?” “No.” “Oh. That must be rough. With Christmas and everything.” Ilya struggled a bit to translate so many words, then said, “Is fine.” Hollander shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “It’s cold, huh?” “Yes.”

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.

So, yeah, he’d been hooking up with girls. Plenty of girls. Like, at least two girls. Since breaking up with his girlfriend. Not, like, all-the-way sex. But sex stuff.

Such a sweetheart I can’t-

“Fuck off,” Shane grumbled. “It’s nothing.” “Like what you see, Hollander?”

“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.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Shane said weakly. “What?” Rozanov said, tucking a knuckle under Shane’s chin and tilting it up. “This?”

“Let me show you,” Rozanov murmured, “how to do this.”

“No. Fuck you. This is fucking dangerous and you know it.” “Is it? We are not doing anything.” Hollander looked at him hard. His dark eyes were a mixture of anger and lust. Ilya decided to drop the act. “You came anyway,” he said. “Yeah,” Hollander said, his voice tight and full of forced courage. “I guess I did.” Ilya nodded, and then Hollander swore under his breath and lunged forward to kiss him.

Ilya Rozanov wanted to fuck him. Shane was both terrified and undeniably aroused by the idea. Undeniably extremely aroused by the idea.

Whoever came out first was going to have to be brave as hell. It sure as shit wasn’t going to be Shane.

Next week—Montreal Lily: I need your address. Shane: No. Shane smirked at his phone, very pleased with his prompt and clear reply to Rozanov’s text. Lily: Fuck off. What is it? Shane: None of your business. Lily: Fine. Your loss. Shane stopped smirking.

When Rozanov stood again, Shane couldn’t remember why exactly this was a bad idea.

“Come here,” Rozanov said. “No. You come here.” Rozanov grinned and shook his head, and stepped toward Shane.

Rozanov stilled both of his hands.

“God. Yes! Fuck. Keep doing that.” “I will. Don’t fucking worry.”

Rozanov was a lot of things, but he wasn’t boring. He frustrated Shane on the ice, and flustered him off the ice. Shane wanted to crosscheck him in the mouth, and then kiss it better. He wanted to forget about him, and he wanted to play every game against him.

“You seen Roz anywhere?” someone asked him suddenly. Shane flinched. He felt like his mind had been read. “No!” he said, way too quickly. And with more blushing than was necessary. He took a breath. “Why would I know where Rozanov is?”

Shane stuck out his hand. Rozanov looked at it. Then he turned his head left and right, looking all around them. A split second later, Shane found himself pushed back from the railing, against a wall. Rozanov’s mouth was pressed hard against his, and his hands gripped his arms roughly, fingers digging into his biceps. Shane felt panicked. This was super fucking dangerous. And stupid. And confusing. And... Shane kissed him back, just as angrily. Because fuck this guy for doing shit like this. Hiding away all night on a fucking rooftop, smoking a goddamned cigarette in the dark like the worst cliché of a brooding heartthrob.

Next season. Next season would be different. He was going to end this stupid thing between them and focus on his game.

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.

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.

“I am assistant captain, shithead. Do not tell me about your plan to break curfew.” “I thought that ‘A’ was for asshole.” “Funny.” “So, no to going out with me tomorrow night?” “No. But have fun.” “I remember when you used to be fun, Roz.” “I am fucking fun.” Gonna have a solid hour of fun before I’m back in time for curfew.

Shane tried not to begrudge these interviews. Whenever he had to do one, which was often, he would think of the kids who were watching. He used to love seeing his favorite stars interviewed on television before and after the games.

Hollander folded his arms. It did not make him look any more intimidating.

He tapped the head of his cock against Hollander’s lips. “You can. Take it.” “I hate you.” “Yes. I know. Show me.” “Fuck,” Hollander whispered, seemingly to himself.

Ilya was grinning like an idiot for the entire cab ride back to his hotel.

His father frowned at his hair for another minute, as if he could scare it back into Ilya’s scalp, before he crossed the room to the bar.

“Aagh. Who tied this for you? Your mother? She doesn’t know how to do this properly.” Ilya froze. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard before saying, as evenly as possible, “No, Father. Mom is dead. Remember?”

But the most noticeable—and alarming—change was in his eyes. The playful spark that always made Rozanov’s hazel eyes dance was just...gone. Extinguished.

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. There had been tears streaming down Rozanov’s face as he’d hollered and hollered, and Shane had seen that this was more than the pride of being the best player on the best team in the NHL that year. Rozanov had proved something to somebody.

“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?” “Hmm.” He traced a finger over Shane’s clenched jaw—so gently it made Shane close his eyes and part his lips involuntarily. “Maybe ask nice.” Shane wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But instead, to his mortification, he heard himself say, “Please.” Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “You want me to kneel on this dirty bathroom floor? You have to ask nicer than that, Hollander.” “Please,” Shane gritted out. “Get on your knees and suck my dick. Please.”

“Touch yourself.” “What?” “Show off for me. Let me watch you.” “You—what?” “Is my special night, Hollander. I want to watch you.” Every inch of Shane flushed red. “I—I’ve never...” Rozanov grinned. “I thought maybe not. So—” he gestured with the hand that wasn’t holding the drink “—show me. How do you touch yourself, Shane Hollander?”

Rozanov lowered himself until his nose was inches from Shane’s face. “Stay.” Shane couldn’t stay. There were probably a million reasons why he couldn’t stay. “Okay,” he said.

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.

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 were idly playing with his hair, making Shane sleepy and unreasonably happy.

He stroked faster, with his forehead resting on Rozanov’s shoulder. Shane was very close, and judging by the way Rozanov was thrusting his hips and babbling in Russian, he wasn’t far behind. “You like that?” he growled. “You gonna come for me, Rozanov?” “Fucking make me, Hollander.” Shane gasped, and his stroking became frantic and sloppy and he was so close...

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.

He held his phone out again, and Ilya grabbed it. He scrolled through four paparazzi photos of Shane having dinner with the gorgeous, dark-haired movie star. In one of them Shane was laughing. Ilya scowled and handed the phone back to Victor. “Probably nothing,” he said.

Stupid fucking Shane Hollander. Stupid Rose Landry.

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.

“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 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. “What the fuck?” Shane laughed. Ilya felt his own cheeks flush, which was a rare and uncomfortable feeling. “Nice goal,” he 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.

“Go. I didn’t ask you to come over to talk.” “Well...you can. If you ever want to. I mean, you can just call me. Or text. Or if we’re in the same city and you want to just talk instead of...” Ilya cracked a crooked grin at that. “Instead of?” “As well as?” “I like that better.” He leaned forward and kissed Shane. It was as soft and sweet a kiss as Shane had ever received from anyone.

He could admit to himself that he wanted to see Shane as much as possible, and he found that he wasn’t worried about letting Shane know it anymore. For now, at least. The day would come when they would have to end it, but for now Ilya was happy to steal as many moments as possible.