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It was the first time that Shane felt it. It was like the air in the room had thickened. Everything inside him was buzzing and on edge, like he was about to jump out of a plane. He didn’t know if Rozanov felt anything. But in that moment, Shane wanted...something. He couldn’t even name it.
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 probably fucked, in his rough estimate, dozens of women since then. He certainly had no reason to obsess over his fucking archrival. Or his archrival’s freckles. Or his dark eyes. Or the way his cheeks glowed red when he exerted himself.
“Look,” Shane said to the floor, “that was...we can just pretend that never happened, okay?” “Is that what you want?” Shane’s answer should have been a lot faster. “Yeah. I mean...yeah. Of course.” Rozanov stood and crossed the floor until he stood right in front of Shane. “You are a bad liar.” Shane scowled at him. “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.”
Ilya wondered what Hollander was doing right now. He wondered if there were any cute girls at the hotel bar. Was Hollander in his own room, lying on his bed? Was he wondering what Ilya was doing?
Plus, Ilya hated this guy. He hated his pretty boy face and his perfect goddamned English and his perfect goddamned French and his loving parents and his polite little manners and his million-dollar smile. He hated how serious he was. How earnest. He was everything the league wanted from their stars. Ilya kissed his dumb mouth and swallowed his stupid little sighs and felt his annoying fingers in his hair. He pulled back so he could look at his horrible face with its ridiculous freckles. Fuck.
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.
“You can. Take it.” “I hate you.” “Yes. I know. Show me.”
he was now consumed by one thought: No one makes me feel like Ilya Rozanov does.
They held each other, both breathing heavily as they waited for their hearts to stop racing. But Shane didn’t think his heart would ever stop racing. Shane. He called me Shane.
Stupid fucking Shane Hollander. Stupid Rose Landry. Oh god, what was wrong with him? Why did he care?
The truth—the truth that he tried so very hard to ignore—was that no one set him on fire like Shane Hollander. All of these women...they were gorgeous. Fun. Very sexy. But he didn’t think about them after they were gone. He didn’t long for them.
Shane’s tongue darted out to lick his upper lip. Ilya could have sworn it happened in slow motion. “Nice shirt,” Shane said with a grin. “Thought I’d get in the spirit. You know.” “You can pull it off.” He raked his eyes over Ilya’s body, and Ilya’s heart sped up. “Looks good.”
“They should give us a chance to get to know each other,” Ilya said. He leaned in and dropped his voice. “We might even have something in common.” Shane smiled at the floor, the color rising in his cheeks. “You look good too,” Ilya said. “Someone take you shopping?” Shane looked at him. “If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone? Or make fun of me?” Ilya felt an icy stab of dread in his stomach. He braced himself, and said, “Sure.” “I, uh...” Ilya waited for the words. I’m seeing someone. I’m engaged. I don’t need you anymore. “I hired a personal stylist.” For a moment, there
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Ilya hoisted himself out of the pool. Shane’s breath caught a little as he watched him make his way over to his chair. His wet swimsuit clung to his thighs and his crotch, and water ran in little rivulets down his chest. When he reached Shane’s chair, he shook his head violently so water flew all over Shane’s dry clothing. “Ah! Fu—” Shane stopped himself. “Knock it off!” Instead, Ilya swooped down and wrapped his arms around him.
he’d been waiting a long time for an opportunity to play with Shane. And playing with him was everything he had imagined it would be. He actually felt bad for their left wing linemate, Carson, because as far as Ilya was concerned there was no one else on the ice. Hollander could actually keep up with Ilya, and it was like they were reading each other’s minds when they passed the puck. They had barely had any time to practice together; they just clicked in a way Ilya never had with any other player. It was exhilarating.
Ilya wished they could go for a walk or something—a moonlit stroll on the beach. He was tired of hotel rooms.
Ilya gave in and reached for him. As soon as he had Shane in his arms, he was done for.
That maybe Ilya’s stomach fluttered with excitement too, every time their teams were scheduled to meet. That maybe Ilya was also sometimes randomly struck by a memory of a teasing remark, or a smile, or of gentle fingers stroking his hair, and would have to hide his giddy little smile. That maybe he watched Shane’s games and was secretly proud when Shane did well. Because that’s how Shane felt when Ilya had a good night. Which was ridiculous.
Hes the sweetest
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 didn’t just want to be Ilya’s dirty secret. He didn’t want their relationship to be nothing but sex. He wanted to comfort Ilya when he was sad, and talk to him on the phone, and snuggle together on the couch and watch movies.
