Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

“I have ruined you,” Rozanov said when they broke apart. “No one else will do.” “Fuck off.” “Such a mouth on you.” “Don’t say it.” “I preferred it when it was on me.” “Dammit, Rozanov.”

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.

Ilya had more important things to think about than freckles and polite Canadian boys.

“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.”

“Yeah, um. Thanks, I guess.” Rozanov nodded, then turned to pick up his scattered clothing. Shane went to the bathroom, closing

Rozanov was a lot of things, but he wasn’t boring. He frustrated Shane on the ice, and flustered him off the ice. Shane wanted to crosscheck him in the mouth, and then kiss it better. He wanted to forget about him, and he wanted to play every game against him. He wanted...

Ilya liked it when Hollander was angry. He liked it when Hollander took out his frustrations on Ilya’s body. He liked him cursing him as he fucked Ilya’s mouth.

“So she wants to meet up after the game tomorrow night. She’s hot for hockey players, and she said she could bring her friend. You want in?” Oh, no thanks. I will be busy fucking Shane Hollander in a hotel room.

“Did you buy a building so we would have somewhere to fuck, Hollander?”

“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 knees and suck my dick. Please.”

Shane laughed. “Well, you’re doing a shitty job of that!” “Not in public. I can’t... I would not be able to go home.” “Your family?” “Russia. I could not go home to Russia.” Shane looked horrified. “What would happen to you?” “I do not want to find out.”

“Would your parents...help?” Ilya shook his head and sat himself on the floor against the wall. “My father is a cop.” “Oh,” said Shane. “Jesus.” “My brother is a cop.” “What about your mother?” “Dead.” “I’m sorry.”

“I was young,” Ilya said, waving a hand as if his mother’s death was of no consequence to him, which was far from the truth. “I have a stepmother. She is...very young for my father.” He snor...

Ilya shook his head. “When will I have you for as long as I want?” Shane’s heart leapt. “I don’t know. As soon as possible?” “Yes.” Ilya leaned in and kissed him. “After I win the Stanley Cup this year, we should go somewhere.” Shane huffed. “You’re not winning that cup. And where on earth would we go?” “I don’t know. Somewhere no one knows us.” “What, like the moon?” “No, like... Fiji.” “Nope. All it takes is one Canadian tourist with an iPhone.”

“I’m fine,” Ilya said. He said it calmly and easily. Shane didn’t buy it. “Is it...is your dad...” Ilya sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face. “My father is dying. But that is not the problem.” “Oh.”

“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.”

“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.

“I’m fucked,” he murmured in Russian. “I am so fucking in love and it’s horrible.”

“He probably doesn’t want to meet my mom in a dark alley, though,” he joked. “She’s out for blood.”

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

Shane laughed. “You wanna kiss me on television?” “Yes. After I win the Stanley Cup.” Shane spread his arms out. “Oh, so in this romantic scenario, you’ve just defeated me?” “Yes. Sorry.” “I’m not going to be in the mood to kiss you if I’ve just lost the Stanley Cup, Rozanov.”

“But you would be so proud of me!”

“I want to sleep in your bed, Shane Hollander,” Ilya murmured. “I want to do lots of things in my bed.” “Show me. Take me to bed.”

“Mine.” Ilya’s breath tickled Shane’s skin when he spoke the single word. “Yours,” Shane said dreamily. “All of this. For two weeks. Is mine.” Forever, Shane wanted to say. Forever if you ask.

“I love you.” Shane froze. And then Ilya froze. “Holy shit,” Shane whispered. It wasn’t how he had meant to respond. “I...” Ilya’s eyes were so wide and so scared. “I love you too,” Shane said.

“Does it...does it feel like agony for you too?” Ilya started to nod, then stopped. He shook his head slowly instead. “Not anymore.”

“I have been with lots of women. That was not...fake. But...” He looked at Shane, and Shane held his breath. “I have only been in love with one person.”

Ilya wanted to tell Shane that it had been one of the best days of his life. It had been awkward, sure, but Ilya felt that, if he hadn’t quite been already, he would be welcomed into Shane’s family, and that was no small thing. In fact, to Ilya, who had barely been welcome in his own family, it was huge.

He wanted to tell Shane that the closest he felt to home was when he was with him.

It didn’t matter if it was in a hotel room, or Ilya’s apartment, or at that weird hideout building Shane bought in Montreal, or here at Shane’s cottage; he was himself when he was with Shane. He’d left Russia, he was uneasy in America, and he’d spent his entire adult life drifting between continents and between lovers. But now he had been reeled in by this annoying Canadian, and...

Ilya nodded, and leaned in to kiss him. It was exactly how Ilya had secretly always wanted to kiss Shane: a shameless display of adoration and care.