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This book is dedicated to Matt, the Frog to my Toad.
And that was the last word Shane got out before Rozanov’s mouth crashed into his.
Rozanov’s tone was patient and gentle, his voice soft and his accent wrapping elegantly around boxy English words.
“I have ruined you,” Rozanov said when they broke apart. “No one else will do.”
In the car, Shane told his parents that he had been talking to Ilya Rozanov. “What’s he like?” his mother asked. “Kind of a dick,” Shane said.
Rozanov had turned eighteen too. Just last week. Which Shane knew because he was obsessed with him.
For the rest of his life, Shane Hollander would have to live with the fact that he had ended his NHL draft day by getting himself off to thoughts of Ilya Rozanov.
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.
“There is not an ‘I’ in team, right?” “There’s an ‘I’ in ‘suck my dick.’”
He wanted the weight of his family, and his country, lifted. He wanted to be himself.
That look, and that squeeze, had said so many things to Ilya. I know. We were supposed to stand alone at the top, but we will always be there together. We will keep climbing until no one else can reach us, but it will always be together.
Rozanov leaned on the top of the boards and grinned. “Yes, but I’m not pretty.”
He saw Rozanov’s lip twitch, and then the big Russian snorted and started laughing. Shane cracked too, and started giggling.
“What were you thinking about?” Rozanov asked, his voice low. Shane swallowed. His throat was bone dry. “You,” he said quietly.
He wondered if he could possibly smash through the tile wall of the shower room and escape that way. Anything would be preferable to facing Rozanov again.
“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.” He kissed his way down Shane’s body, which felt so good that Shane forgot to be insulted.
Shane was a man of routine. He woke every morning at six o’clock, and immediately went for a ten-kilometer run.
whatever man
“Do you feel pressure to outperform Shane Hollander this first season?” the interviewer asked. “Who?” Fuck. You. Rozanov.
HILARIOUS. GET HIS ASS
“You will. Screw Ilya Rozanov, right? That can be your mantra tonight.” Or not. Shane forced a smile. “Sure. Screw him.”
oh you will be
He turned on the television, and there was Shane fucking Hollander’s face, filling the screen. All sweaty and flushed and happy. Answering questions in perfect goddamned French. Ilya couldn’t even say a basic English sentence without sounding like a cartoon villain. He hated his stupid accent. He hated his asshole family.
When the whistle blew, Rozanov wasted no time. He broke the top two targets with the first two shots, then missed the next one, then cleanly broke the bottom two targets with his fourth and fifth shots. Eight seconds.
The whistle blew and Shane just locked on to those targets. He watched each one burst apart with four perfect shots. Six. Point. Seven. Seconds.
So this was insanely hot
Ilya kissed his dumb mouth and swallowed his stupid little sighs and felt his annoying fingers in his hair. He pulled back so he could look at his horrible face with its ridiculous freckles. Fuck.
Whoever came out first was going to have to be brave as hell. It sure as shit wasn’t going to be Shane.
SCOTT MF HUNTER BABY!!!!!!!
Shane squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. If he didn’t, he was going to do something embarrassing, like whimper.
ok
Shane wanted to crosscheck him in the mouth, and then kiss it better.
“Not everything is about you, Hollander.” He didn’t look at Shane at all when he said it. His voice hadn’t been angry. He just sounded...tired. And sad.
Shane had been shocked to find tears in his own eyes as he’d watched the raw emotion explode out of Rozanov. It was as if, with every heave of the cup over his head, Rozanov was saying “Fuck you, fuck you. I did it. Fuck you,” To someone.
Made me tear up ngl
And their kids were adorable, even if naming the twins Jade and Ruby was a choice.
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.
They held each other, both breathing heavily as they waited for their hearts to stop racing. But Shane didn’t think his heart would ever stop racing. Shane. He called me Shane.
“Ilya,” he said, barely more than a whisper.
THE FIRST NAME DROP OH IM FUCKING SCREECHING. THIS IS SO TENDER IM SICK AND NOW THE NARRATIVE IS SWITCHING TO THEIR FIRST NAMES GOD ILL NEVER NOT LOVE THAT TROPE
Ilya didn’t answer. Instead, he crushed their mouths together and kissed Shane in a raw, uncontrolled way that felt like an apology. Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh no.
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.
“Are you and her not...” Shane shook his head. “We’re not. No. It was just a short thing. She’s great. We just weren’t, um...compatible.” He looked seriously at Ilya then. Ilya wanted to kiss him.
“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.
HOW FUCKING CUTE IS THIS GUY!!!!
“You kids know who that guy is?” Ilya asked. “Shane Hollander!” most of them said at once. “Really?” Ilya said, feigning shock. “You’ve heard of that guy?”
AND HES GOOD WITH KIDS? FUCK
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.
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.
oh they BOLD today
“Good night. Shane.” A jolt of pleasure zipped through Shane’s body every time Ilya called him by his first name. “Good night, Ilya.”
it gets me every fucking time
Shane: No. Come on. We both know that’s a bad idea. Lily: Everything we do is a bad idea. Come over.
“Tell me everything you want to say,” he said. “In Russian. I won’t understand but...maybe it will help?”
still here btw (months later)
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.
best scene in the whole book
Shane shifted on the stairs. “I wish you were here now.”
this is so tender and special to me I can feel the love radiating. Shane hasn’t admitted it yet but this is “oh fuck i love him” moment
He felt his mortification melt away when Ilya said, in a low voice, “Me too.”
Something occurred to Ilya after he ended the call with Shane: maybe Shane had recorded that call and was going to run it through some sort of translating app later.
Mostly he had just been ranting about his family, but he had included an admission that he wished things could have been different with his father. That he had stupidly always hoped that his father might tell him that he was proud of him.
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.”
FMLLLLLLLLLL ILYA CONFESSION FIRST IM SICK
“Should you really be alone right now?” Shane asked. “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.
