Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

He didn’t know if Rozanov felt anything. But in that moment, Shane wanted...something. He couldn’t even name it. He passed the water bottle back, and this time he could swear Rozanov let his fingers brush Shane’s wrist on purpose. It was a moment that seemed to last forever, but was probably less than a second. Shane wanted Rozanov to touch him again. Shane wanted to touch him back.

Maybe Shane wanted to kiss him.

Shane scrambled to his feet. “I’m going to bed. I guess I’ll...see you around, right?” Rozanov looked up at him from the floor...

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.

That night in the hotel gym in Los Angeles, six months ago now, Ilya had very nearly embarrassed himself. He probably could have covered it up with his usual cocky charm, but he had been damn close to flirting with Hollander. Or possibly just pressing him against a wall and taking his mouth.

The thing was, he wasn’t so sure that Hollander would have hated it. Unless Ilya was very bad at reading people—and he definitely wasn’t—Hollander probably would have kissed him right back. And, Jesus, that thought had consumed Ilya since draft day.

He’d been in a great mood for the entire tournament, and he’d been playing outstanding hockey. And now it was the night before the gold medal game, and Canada would be facing Russia for the second year in a row. And Shane would be facing Ilya Rozanov. He hadn’t seen Rozanov at all for this entire tournament.

He had mostly forgotten the way it had felt when Rozanov had brushed his fingers against his hand when he’d handed him the water bottle in that hotel gym six months ago. He had barely thought at all about his flushed skin, or the way the damp curls of his hair had fallen into his hazel eyes.

There was one other thing that had changed: Shane had found himself noticing men. Not his teammates or his friends or anyone like that. Just...like a guy at the airport Starbucks. Or the guy who’d been in the cereal aisle of the grocery store in Kingston a few weeks ago. Or the guy who was on Friday Night Lights. But it’s not like he wasn’t into girls. Girls were very into him, and they were throwing themselves at him now that he was about to become a millionaire superstar. So, yeah, he’d been hooking up with girls. Plenty of girls.

On the ice, in the lineup to shake hands at the end of the game, Hollander had looked into Ilya’s eyes. It had only been for a second, but it had felt like everything around them had frozen and fallen silent. Hollander’s damp, sweaty hand had wrapped

itself around Ilya’s damp, sweaty hand and, when their eyes had locked, he’d squeezed Ilya’s fingers, just a little. 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.

And by the time Ilya had shaken the last Canadian hand in the

lineup, he was smirking to himself. Because soon the real battle between himself and Shane Hollander would begin. And he couldn’t fucking wait.

Shane had signed a lucrative endorsement deal with CCM, one of the biggest hockey equipment companies. He hadn’t played a single game in the NHL yet, so he was pretty stoked about it. Then he found out that CCM had also signed Rozanov. And then he found out that they wanted to launch an ad campaign with both of them. Together.

This felt like he was starring in a movie. Costarring. He took a couple of laps around the ice while he waited for the crew to finish setting up. He was wearing head-to-toe CCM gear, of course, including a custom black jersey with a big CCM logo on the chest where a team logo would normally go. His name and number, 24, were on the back.

“Very pretty,” Rozanov teased him. “Like a doll.” “You’re painted up too.”

Rozanov leaned on the top of the boards and grinned. “Yes, but I’m not pretty.” Shane rolled his eyes. He had been called “pretty boy” a few times before, usually during games, and he hated it. He wished he hated it this time.

They finished with a posed photo of the two of them hunched over in the face-off position. They held the pose for what felt like an eternity,

with their faces inches apart, staring into each other’s eyes. “Try not to laugh, fellas,” the director said. “I know it’ll be challenging.” Laughing was not what Shane was worried about. He needed to relax his eyes so Rozanov’s features blurred, just to keep himself from staring at the man’s lips.

He saw Rozanov’s lip twitch, and then the big Russian snorted and started laughing. Shane cracked too, and started giggling. “Just a few more seconds, guys. Please.” “Sorry,” Shane said, trying to school his features back into a fierce glare. It was no use. As soon as he looked at Rozanov, both men started laughing again.

Shane undressed quickly and went into the shower, which was, like most rinks, communal style with a row of showerheads facing each other on both sides of a corridor. If he hurried, maybe he could be out of the shower before Rozanov came in. No such luck. Shane had just gotten his hair wet when Rozanov entered the showers and stood under one

almost directly across from him.

He glanced up again, and saw that Rozanov had turned his back to him. Shane was left to stare helplessly at the display of naked, rippling muscle. His eyes trailed over Rozanov’s broad shoulders and down the muscles of his back down to his tapered waist and his... Shane blushed hard. He couldn’t...why would he want to check out another guy’s ass? That was just weird. But it was a really impressive ass. Not that he was comparing

it to others. It was just...perfect. And as Rozanov scrubbed water over his face, the muscles in his ass flexed and Shane was transfixed. And aroused. Visibly aroused. In a shower. With Rozanov.

Rozanov glanced down at Shane’s crotch and raised an eyebrow. “Fuck off,” Shane grumbled. “It’s nothing.” “Like what you see, Hollander?”

Shane wished he could at least make himself look away from Rozanov, but he was spellbound. Rozanov just seemed to be considering him curiously, and maybe enjoying the effect he knew he was having on him.

He was so busy being mortified that he didn’t immediately notice that Rozanov’s own dick was starting to swell. The grin had faded from Rozanov’s face.

Shane needed to get out of here. This was too bizarre. He absolutely could not do...whatever this was. But Rozanov let a hand trail down his stomach and wrapped it around his own dick to give it a slow, firm stroke. Shane gasped. Loud enough that the running water couldn’t mask it. “What were you thinking about?” Rozanov asked, his voice low.

Shane swallowed. His throat was bone dry. “You,” he said quietly.

“You want to touch me, Hollander?” Shane actually just wanted to watch Rozanov jerk himself off. But... “Not here,” Shane ...

“What is your room number?” Rozanov asked. “Fourteen ten,” Shane said, far too quickly. 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.”

He could stay and just ignore Rozanov’s knock. There could be something satisfying in that. Give him a little bit of power over him. He could open the door when he knocked, invite him in, and they could talk about this whole ridiculous...misunderstanding. Then they could go their separate ways forever. Or...he could open the door and he could spend the evening exploring Rozanov’s body with his mouth.

He fixed his hair a bit. He switched his phone to silent mode. He decided to turn on the television, just so it wouldn’t look like he’d just been sitting there staring at the door. He flipped to a baseball game and turned the sound down low. He shut off the overhead light and turned on all of the lamps. He checked himself in the mirror. Again. The knock came at seven minutes after nine o’clock.

“Thought you might have chickened out,” Rozanov said in his infuriatingly blunt manner. “No,” Shane said. “I mean, I just want to talk. About...you know.” “I do know. Yes.” “Uh, do you want to...sit? Maybe?” Rozanov took a step toward him. “Not really.” He was so close that Shane could feel the heat of his body. Or maybe he was imagining it. “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?” He brought his mouth down on Shane’s, and Shane flooded with panic.

Shane felt like he was made of alarm bells. Like his panic was going to somehow wake up the entire hotel. If it was just that he was kissing a man, he might be able to get a grip. But kissing this man in particular was so absurd and wrong wrong wrong...

Rozanov crowded him back against a wall and started unbuttoning Shane’s shirt. When he got the last button open, he grabbed Shane’s hand and pressed it against his crotch. And, oh, Shane had his hand on Ilya Rozanov’s dick. Shane could feel the solid length straining against Rozanov’s jeans, and he felt his own cock grow harder even as he struggled against freaking out.

Shane could see the tip of Rozanov’s cock poking

out of the waistband, and he had the sudden, wild urge to kiss it. To press his tongue to the slit and taste him. Fuck. This was really gay.

But then Rozanov’s fingers were tangled in Shane’s hair, and Shane was reminded that this was fucking hot. That he’d fantasized about exactly this, alone in his bedroom, even if he had been embarrassed afterward.

When he was standing, he looked curiously at Rozanov. “Have you been...thinking about this?” Rozanov gave a crooked grin and shrugged. “I like trouble.” Shane laughed. “Well, I think we’ve found it.”

“Just fooling around. Not serious. Was...what is it?” “Curious?” Rozanov smiled. “Yes. Curious. And you make me curious.” “Oh.” He leaned in and breathed against Shane’s ear in his heavily accented English, “Do I make you curious?” Rozanov made Shane a lot of things: confused, infuriated, terrified, aroused, and, yes, curious. “Obviously,” Shane said, a little irritably. “Did you like sucking my dick?”

“Oh, those English words you know?” Rozanov licked under Shane’s ear, and Shane gasped. “Did you like it?” Rozanov asked again. Shane swallowed his saliva and his pride. “Yes.” “Would you like me to lie on the bed and let you do it some more?” “Let me?” Rozanov chuckled against Shane’s neck. “I’m a nice guy.”

Rozanov made the decision for him. “This is a bit...not fair.” He moved a hand through the air, back and forth between them. “You want me to...” “Da. Yes. Let me see you.” “You’ve already seen me. In the shower.” “I want a better look.”

“What do you want?” Rozanov asked. “I don’t know.” “No?” Rozanov asked, and he leaned over him and kissed him. “Nothing?” “I...” “What about...” Rozanov pressed a palm against Shane’s erection and curled gentle fingers around it. “Okay?”

Shane nodded. It was shockingly okay for Ilya Rozanov—a guy, a hockey player, his rival—to have his hand wrapped around Shane’s dick. “Relax,” Rozanov said, and kissed him again.

When Rozanov arched and moaned, Shane repeated it, stroking him hard and fast. “Hollander...fuck.” Rozanov switched to Russian, and Shane didn’t know what he was saying, but he figured he should probably get out of the way because he wasn’t sure he was ready to take a load in his mouth.

He pulled off just in time. Rozanov put his own hand on his dick to replace Shane’s mouth and stroked himself roughly until his release fell all over his own stomach. Shane stared, dumbfounded. It was the hottest thing he had ever seen.

“Okay. Well. Good night,” Rozanov said, and moved to get up. Shane’s mouth dropped open, and he was about to be furious when he noticed the playful, crooked grin. “Fuck you,” Shane said. “Did you need something?” Rozanov asked innocently. Shane glared at him. Rozanov chuckled and grabbed some tissues from the nightstand so he could wipe his stomach off a bit. “Lie down,” Rozanov instructed.

Shane did. Rozanov crawled on top of him and kissed him. “You think I’m an asshole,” Rozanov said. “You are an asshole.” “I would not leave you like that.” “No?” He kissed him again. “No.” As they kissed,