Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

Hollander crossed the room and opened yet another door. This one led to... ...a fully finished bedroom. Like, a really nice one. “I, uh, I kinda made the bedroom the priority. And the bathroom. So we could—” But Ilya didn’t let Hollander finish his sentence. He gripped Hollander’s arms and pushed him back against the closest wall and kissed him. Hollander had bought them a fucking building.

“Fuck. Fuck. You have to stop. If you want me to fuck you...” Hollander ripped his mouth away from Ilya’s cock, but then

he went very still. “Shit. Oh god. Fuck.” Ilya felt wetness splash against his thigh. Hollander’s body jerked a couple of times, and then he buried his face in Ilya’s shoulder. “Fuck.” “Hollander?” “I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I can’t believe I just...you didn’t even touch me!” And Ilya just...laughed. Because it was fucking funny. “Don’t fucking laugh at me.”

Ilya laughed. “Hey, remember when you shot your load for like no reason at all?” Hollander glared at him, but Ilya could tell he was trying not to laugh. “Oh my god. Go to hell.” “Amazing trick.” “Your cab must be out there, right?” Ilya put his hand on the door, but before he pushed it open,

he leaned down and kissed Hollander quickly on the mouth. “Good night, Hollander.” “Good night.” Ilya was grinning like an idiot for the entire cab ride back to his hotel.

“Hey,” Shane said. Rozanov looked at him and shook his head. “Not here,” he said tightly. “No, I’m not... I just wanted to see...how you’re doing.” “Fine. Go. Sit down.” Shane frowned. Rozanov looked exhausted. He had dark rings under his eyes, and his face was very pale. 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 felt sorry for him, but then Rozanov turned the shame of losing so horribly in the Olympics into fuel that propelled him, and the Bears, all the way to the Stanley Cup. Shane had watched that final game with Hayden and some of the other guys who had stuck around Montreal after their team had been eliminated in the third round. 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. Shane had been shocked to find tears in his own eyes as he’d watched the raw emotion explode out of Rozanov.

“Hey,” Rozanov said, “before we give out the award, can I get a selfie?” “What?” Shane asked. It was all part of the script. “Just a quick one. I mean, when will this happen again, right?” “Fine, but hurry up.”

Rozanov wrapped an arm around Shane’s shoulders and pulled him tight against him. Everyone laughed. Rozanov held his phone out and snapped, Shane noticed, at least six quick photos.

“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 ...

“No.” He let go of Shane, and stepped back. “What?” Shane sputtered.

“No. I will not do anything to you in here. We will go back out there, and sit in our seats, and then go to the party. And then, when you have been waiting all night for it, you will come to my hotel room. And I will maybe do more than suck your dick.”

“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?” Fuck.

Or maybe he was calling Shane a slut. Shane felt a little slutty, in that moment. He felt wild. He wanted Rozanov’s cock in every part of him at once. He wanted to come right away or not for hours. He wanted to kiss Rozanov and maybe also punch him for being such an arrogant fucking prick. And he hated himself for wanting any of this. But not enough to stop. Never enough to stop.

“See you,” Shane called out. “Goodbye, Hollander,” Rozanov replied from the other room. And Shane left. He realized, when he was back in his room, that they hadn’t even kissed. He

also realized, with horror, that he regretted that.

On the television, Hollander was standing on some sort of dock surrounded by the calm blue waters of an enormous lake. Thick green forest lined the banks. “When the demands of the season are over, this is where Shane Hollander comes to relax and recuperate: his five-thousand-square-foot lakefront cottage.”

Ilya sat up. He had never seen any place that Hollander called home.

Then, without warning, they cut to a shot of Hollander doing fucking yoga on the dock. “I got into yoga last year and I think it’s really helped me focus, and it’s definitely increased my flexibility.” Hollander’s voice played over a lingering shot of him holding some ridiculous pose. “Jesus Christ, you are so fucking boring,” Ilya muttered. Hollander did look flexible, though.

It’s the way it should have been. Shane and Ilya were opposites in almost every way imaginable, but it was getting harder for Ilya to

deny that there was something in his core that was drawn to Hollander. Instead of getting him out of his system with their hookups, each one just made him want more. It was dangerous fucking stuff.

He had lost count long ago of how many times he had broken this promise to himself over the years. Rozanov answered the door wearing low-slung sweatpants and no shirt. Shane swore under his breath. All thoughts of just talking to Rozanov left his mind.

Their relationship was weird. Obviously. Shane knew that nothing about this was normal. The facts were these: they were two of the biggest hockey stars in the world, and for whatever reason, they both enjoyed fucking

each other. The other thing they were in total agreement on is that no one could ever know that they enjoyed fucking each other.

When Shane’s orgasm hit him, it was hard and sudden. His release seemed endless, splashing his chest and even up to his throat. “Yes, sweetheart,” Rozanov panted, and Shane didn’t even have a chance to be shocked by the pet name before Rozanov was coming too. When it was over, he dropped to his elbows over Shane and kissed him messily.

Shane felt the same anxiety that had flooded him the last time they had been together. There was something a little too...tender...in the way Rozanov was looking at him. And there was something that was far too

soothing about the way Rozanov’s fingers combed through Shane’s short hair, and curved down to trace the bridge of freckles that stretched across his face.

Shane’s eyes fluttered closed, suddenly very sleepy, and he heard Rozanov murmur something to himself in Russian, and felt the words tickle the skin under his jaw. “Hm?” Shane asked distantly. “You could stay,” Rozanov said. “Stay?” “Stay here. Tonight.” Shane’s eyes opened. Rozanov was looking at him seriously again. “You want me to stay here?”

Rozanov seemed to realize what he had just asked, because his face changed and he shrugged, forcing a half grin. “I’m not done with you yet.” “Oh.” That was more familiar. “I can’t stay. You know that.”

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.

“I got, um, ginger ale. You like that shit, right?”

“Yeah. I do.” Shane looked at him oddly. Shane didn’t often drink because he didn’t want to do anything that might compromise his performance on the ice. Over the years he had developed an affinity for ginger ale as a substitute for beer. But it wasn’t like he’d ever talked about that to Rozanov.

“Do you like tuna melts?”

“You want to make me a tuna melt?” Rozanov shrugged. “I’m making one for me. I can make two. Ginger ale is in fridge.”

Shane sat at the opposite end of the couch. He’d first considered the leather recliner that was next to the couch. Whatever they were to each other, they weren’t boyfriends. He knew how to behave around him when they were naked and pressed against each other, and he knew how to play against him on the ice, but just hanging out with their clothes on was uncharted territory.

“Do you like them?” Rozanov asked after a minute of silent eating. “What? The tuna melts?” “No. Girls.”

“I keep a lot of things private!” Shane said. He waved a hand between the two of them and added, “Obviously.” Rozanov didn’t reply for a moment. Then he turned back to the television and said, “I like girls.” “Yeah, no shit.” “But I also like you.” “Well, lucky me,” Shane grumbled.

He wasn’t sure how any of the girls felt about it. Maybe they had just been excited to get into bed with a hockey star, and that was enough to distract them from how halfhearted his efforts had been. He didn’t like being the one doing the fucking all that much; he loved being fucked. Shane had

always been too embarrassed to ask the women he’d been with to use a dildo on him, so he more or less forced himself to endure the act of fucking women.

The problem was that he wasn’t so keen on reciprocating. He would, because he wasn’t an asshole, but he had to really psych himself up for it, and he was almost certainly terrible at it. He’d heard teammates talk about eating pussy like it was the closest thing to heaven

on earth. Shane had never gotten it.

“Sorry,” Rozanov said again when he sat back on the couch. “My father.”

“Oh.” And Shane knew he should ask whether or not everything was okay at home or something, but he was now consumed by one thought: No one makes me feel like Ilya Rozanov does.

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. Very 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.

“Wait.” Rozanov grabbed Shane’s wrist and stopped his furious stroking. He pulled Shane’s hand to his face and spit in his hand. Which was gross. But instead of making a face or bitching at him about it, Shane found it absurdly arousing.