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Shane had had no less than five beautiful scoring chances. He’d taken shots that should never have missed. But they had. And the Bears had capitalized on the Voyageurs’ mistakes. One man had capitalized more than anyone. The most hated man in Montreal: Ilya Rozanov.
Hollander and Rozanov.
“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.
“Shut up, Rozanov,” the referee said. “Last warning.” Rozanov stopped talking, but he managed to find an even more effective way of getting under Hollander’s skin: he winked. And then he won the face-off.
Then it was time to face the press. At that moment, Shane would have preferred to see a pack of starving wolves enter the room, but he knew there was no avoiding the reporters. They always wanted to talk to him, specifically, after every game, and especially after games where he faced Rozanov.
got away as soon as I could,” Rozanov said, his tone less teasing. “Didn’t want to draw attention, right?” “Sure.” And that was the last word Shane got out before Rozanov’s mouth crashed into his.
They both took off everything, and Rozanov fell on top of Shane, kissing him and moving a hand down to grasp his already embarrassingly rigid cock. Shane arched up into his touch, making stupid, desperate noises. “Don’t worry, Hollander,” Rozanov said, his lips brushing Shane’s ear, “I am going to fuck you like you want, yes?”
Part of him wanted to lie back and close his eyes and let himself believe that it was anyone other than Ilya
Rozanov making him feel so good. But most of him wanted to see exactly who it was.
Shane hated this, but he had taken great pains to protect it, and he would continue doing so as long as Rozanov was willing. Their lives being what they were, this was not an easy thing to get. Maybe, when they had started seven years ago, they hadn’t expected their lives, their famous rivalry, to get to the point it was
at now. Maybe they should have stopped by now. But, despite the wrongness of it, this was comfortable. This was familiar. And it was as close to safe as either of them were going to get. That’s all it was.
Shane took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He hated that voice so much on the ice, and in the interviews he saw on television where Rozanov mocked him in an obnoxious, teasing tone. But here, in this bed, Rozanov’s tone was patient and gentle, his voice soft and his accent wrapping elegantly around boxy English words.
“There. This is what you wanted, yes?” “Yes.” Because it was. It was what he always wanted.
Rozanov put a hand in Shane’s hair and guided their mouths back together. After a long, oddly
tender kiss, Shane lifted his head and saw that Rozanov was, again, looking at him very seriously. He swallowed, but didn’t say anything as Rozanov brushed fingers through his hair. He hoped the fear he felt wasn’t showing on his face. “You are very beautiful,” Rozanov said suddenly. It was said very matter-of-factly. Shane wasn’t sure how to react. They didn’t really say things to each other. Not like that.
Shane turned his eyes up and found Rozanov gazing down at him with that damn crooked smile. Shane immediately closed his eyes and felt his cheeks flush and, to his embarrassment, his own cock get harder.
Rozanov laughed. “You need to get laid, Hollander. Waiting for a quick fuck every couple of months is not healthy.”
“I’m not waiting,” Shane said. It wasn’t quite a lie. He obviously wasn’t one hundred percent straight, but having sex with women didn’t repulse him. It just didn’t do it for him like men did. One man in particular.
Rozanov rested a hand on Shane’s face and tipped his head up. He looked at him fondly, with a little smile on his lips, and then he kissed him. “I have ruined you,” Rozanov said when they broke apart. “No one else will do.” “Fuck off.” “Such a mouth on you.”
Shane pushed the other man back against the shower wall and kissed him aggressively. It was always like this. Shoving and cursing each other and battling for control until one or both of them gave in and allowed themselves the release they both craved.
“Was it me tonight?” “Was what you?” “Distracting you. On the ice tonight.” It took Shane a moment to realize what he was suggesting. “Fuck. You.” Rozanov’s smile spread. “Couldn’t play at all, thinking about my dick, right?” “Good night, Rozanov.” Rozanov blew him a kiss on his way out the door, leaving Shane furious and strangely relieved. It
was good to be reminded of the fact that they didn’t actually like each other.
He realized, as he was making this plan, that he was brushing his fingertips over his lips. They still tingled from the memory of the other man’s mouth pressed against them. He knew making plans to end this was pointless. As long as this was being offered, Shane would never be able to say no.
It was two days before Christmas, but for the world’s best teenage hockey players, Christmas meant the World Junior Hockey Championships. For Ilya, it meant the chance to finally get a firsthand look at Shane Hollander.
they were already expected to be the number one and two overall picks. The expected order of those two picks depended on who you asked. Ilya knew his answer. He had never met Shane Hollander. Never played against him. But he was already determined to destroy him.
This was the year of Ilya Rozanov. Since he was twelve years old, 2009 had always been the year he was expected to burst onto the world stage. No Canadian pretender would change that.
Halfway through the practice, Ilya noticed a young man sitting
few rows above the penalty box, wearing a Team Canada ball cap and jacket. He was flanked by a man and a woman, who were probably his parents. It was hard to tell from the ice, but Ilya thought it might be Hollander. His mother was Japanese or something, right? He was sure he had read that somewhere...
“You’re supposed to smoke over there,” someone said. It took Ilya a moment to translate all of the words. He turned to see the person that he now definitely recognized as
Shane Hollander. He had a very distinct look. Some of his features were clearly from his mother—jet-black hair and very dark eyes—but his father was of some bland, Anglo-European heritage. His skin, however, was flawless. Distractingly so.
“I’m surprised you smoke,” Hollander said. “Okay,” Ilya said, exhaling a long stream of smoke between his lips.
“I should probably go. They’re waiting for me,” Hollander said. He moved away from the wall and turned to face Ilya. Ilya’s eyes went right to those damn freckles.
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.
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.
“Shane, could you move a little closer to Ilya, please?” Shane felt Ilya Rozanov’s arm brush against his as he stepped closer to him for the photographer.
Shane had spent the past six months since the World Juniors being a little bit...obsessed...with Ilya Rozanov.
Both men had been named league and playoff
MVPs, and both had been the scoring leaders of their respective leagues. The only difference between them was that Shane had a silver medal at home, and Rozanov had gold.
It wasn’t all bad. Shane had been drafted by the Montreal Voyageurs, who, besides being the most legendary franchise in the league, were also only a two hour drive from his hometown of Ottawa. It was a good fit for
Shane, who was fluent in both French and English,
Adding to the drama of the day was the fact that Rozanov had been drafted by Montreal’s archrivals, the Boston Bears. Shane knew his career was now going to be inescapably linked to Rozanov’s.
“Congratulations,” he said, turning to shake Rozanov’s hand when the photographers were done. There was a definite smugness in Rozanov’s smile when he said, “Thank you.” Rozanov didn’t congratulate Shane. Instead, he patted Shane’s fucking shoulder, like he was consoling a child who had struck out at Little League.
The lobby was packed with athletic young men in suits, but even in that crowd Rozanov stood out. He was one of the taller men there, and cleaned up—with his dark navy suit hugging his body—he looked like a GQ model.
Shane felt short. He had turned eighteen last month, but he felt like a kid. Rozanov had turned eighteen too. Just last week. Which Shane knew because he was obsessed with him.
He didn’t notice when someone else entered the gym. He only realized he wasn’t alone when the other man stepped onto the treadmill next to him. Ilya Rozanov gave him a quick nod and turned to face the white wall at the front of the room as he started running alongside Shane.
Rozanov increased the speed on his machine. He didn’t glance at Shane at all. Because Shane was petty and competitive, he increased the speed on his own machine...just a little faster than Rozanov’s. Within a minute, Rozanov did the same thing, raising the bar and silently waiting for Shane to match him. Shane glanced over and saw a slight smirk on Rozanov’s lips. Shane shook his head and fought his own smile. He cranked up the speed.
Rozanov ran a hand through his damp hair in a move that
was more interesting to Shane than it should have been. Rozanov was so...masculine.
Rozanov took a long haul from his water bottle. Shane pretended he was only looking longingly at the way his throat worked because he had forgotten to bring a bottle for himself. It wasn’t until Rozanov’s Adam’s apple stopped bobbing and his lips were dark and glistening that Shane realized he was staring.
Rozanov shook the bottle at him, and Shane took it. He needed water. It would be dumb to refuse. The tips of their fingers touched briefly together. Shane held the bottle away from his lips and quickly squirted water into his mouth. Rozanov watched him. It was the first time that Shane felt it. It was like the air in the room had thickened.
