Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

Fuck. This was really gay.

lmao

Shane. He called me Shane. He pulled back so he could see Rozanov’s face, and was shocked to see him staring at him with the same wide-eyed terror that Shane felt.

Besides. It wasn’t like Shane had anything better to do. Nothing besides watching the end of a Boston hockey game on television and quietly panicking about the freshly unearthed feelings he was harboring for Ilya Rozanov. He could definitely use a distraction.

When he was at the door, he finally allowed himself to look back at Ilya. He was sitting up, the white bedsheet covering his bent knees. He was chewing his lip, as if considering whether or not to say something. There was a long, tense silence between them, and then Ilya said, “Good night. Shane.” A jolt of pleasure zipped through Shane’s body every time Ilya called him by his first name. “Good night, Ilya.” He checked to make sure the hallway was empty, then slipped out of Ilya’s room. Because the hall was empty, no one saw the smile that nearly split Shane’s face in half.

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.”

He smiled at Ilya. “I think you know exactly what I’d do, after all these years.”

“Hey, um, Ilya?” “Yes.” He watched Shane’s hand lift out of the frame, probably so Shane could run it nervously through his hair. Ilya stilled his own hand. “Something wrong?” he asked. “No. But... I think I’d rather see your face.” Ilya was grateful that Shane couldn’t see his face at that exact moment, because he was pretty sure it had the world’s sappiest expression. “Sure, Hollander,” he said gently.

“You’re very attractive, Ilya,” Shane said, in an exaggerated, placating tone. “Not good enough. I want details.”

“Tell me about this man in Mexico.” “There’s not much to tell. He was big. He looked like he was, y’know, what I was looking for.” “A big, strong top?” Shane looked so embarrassed, Ilya took pity. “Was he? What you needed?” “No. I mean, sort of. But...” “Did he hurt you?” “No. He just wasn’t...” Ilya needed to hear it. “Wasn’t what?” Shane clenched his eyes shut and said, “You. He wasn’t you.” Ilya damn near lost it. Shane was going to ruin him, saying things like that.

Jane: I can’t believe New York is finally going to win the cup. Ilya couldn’t believe it either. Scott fucking Hunter was going to be a Stanley Cup champion in about forty seconds. Ilya: I hate Hunter. Jane: No you don’t. Ilya: I do. Jane: Stop. I’ll get jealous if you keep talking like that. Ilya laughed. Alone, in his penthouse in Boston, he laughed.

Ilya just stared at the television, at Scott Hunter and his probable boyfriend. Or Scott Hunter and the random cute man he had pulled out of the crowd. Ilya couldn’t process what he was seeing. How could it possibly be real? But there Hunter was, smiling at this mystery man like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. And holding his face as he leaned in to kiss him again. Ilya felt like he was watching all the worst things about his life getting sucked up by a tornado.

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