Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

The knock at the door came almost forty minutes later. It had been enough time that Shane had almost convinced himself to leave. To put an end to this foolishness. But, of course, he hadn’t. And if the knock had come hours later, even, Shane would still have been on that sofa, waiting for it.

“Still have that stupid tattoo, I see,” Shane said quickly, to distract himself from whatever the fuck was happening. “Aw,” Rozanov said, the obnoxious little grin returning to his face. “He missed you.” Shane snorted. “He did,” Rozanov insisted. “Give him a kiss.”

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.”

Ilya had always been this way. He loved sex, and he loved it more when it was dangerous—when it was with someone he knew he shouldn’t be with. 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. 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. Plus, Ilya hated this guy. He hated his pretty boy face and his perfect goddamned English and his perfect goddamned French and his loving parents and his polite little manners and his million-dollar smile. He hated how serious he was. How earnest. He was everything the league wanted from their stars.

Shane felt himself being pulled away from the wall and carried—carried!—to the bed like a fucking child! “Put me down, asshole!”

“Is okay. I will tell you if pilot says we are crashing.”

His hair had fallen out of its little ponytail and was clinging to his forehead in a damp swoop.

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.

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

Shane. He called me Shane.

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.

Maybe Rose had taken him shopping or something. Suddenly he was dressing like the millionaire he was. He had on a white, button-up linen shirt, open at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up. They were in Florida, after all. It was tucked into slate blue pants that fit him perfectly. The outfit was finished with a woven belt and some stylish gray sneakers with no socks. Ilya was wearing shorts, and a shirt that was covered in palm trees because he’d thought it would be funny. Now he felt like a fucking idiot.

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.

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.

Shane flinched and fiddled with the can of ginger ale that he hadn’t even opened. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t like you,” he said finally.

Shane’s hands cradled Ilya’s face as he kissed him with the force of everything they had almost said out loud.

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.

He probably wore, like, full pajamas to bed. The kind with buttons.

He still knew, in the back of his mind, that this thing with Shane needed to end. That it couldn’t be more than sex. But somehow it had just evolved on its own, and suddenly he no longer worried about looking too eager. 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.

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.”

“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. “The first time I met you. Those freckles...”

“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.

“Uh-oh,” she said with a smile. “You’re not trying to smother him with a pillow, are you, Mr. Rozanov?”

He quickly left the hospital room of the man he loved, and forced himself to focus on winning the Stanley 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.

“I’ve, uh, I’ve been looking forward to this,” Shane said. “Yes. Me too.” Shane smiled and took one hand off the steering wheel. He reached over and Ilya quickly tangled their fingers together and squeezed. Two weeks. For two weeks they could pretend that their situation wasn’t impossible.

Ilya couldn’t believe what he had been reduced to. He was...infatuated. It was disgusting.

“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. He knew it was impossible, but in that moment he would do anything to make it work.

“You speak bird now too?” Ilya asked flatly.

But Ilya turned back and quickly rolled on top of Shane and was kissing him and kissing him and kept murmuring the same thing in Russian over and over again until he pulled back and translated: “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.”

Holy fucking shit. Shane Hollander is in love with me.

“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.

“I mean it,” Shane said softly. “I want to have a life with you. I know it will be awkward, and will still involve a lot of sneaking around for a while, but I’m playing the long game here. So, yeah. Whatever it takes, I’m in.”