Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

But here, in this bed, Rozanov’s tone was patient and gentle, his voice soft and his accent wrapping elegantly around boxy English words.

Rozanov’s playful smirk faded as he held Shane’s gaze, and Shane felt suddenly breathless.

After a long, oddly tender kiss, Shane lifted his head and saw that Rozanov was, again, looking at him very seriously. He swallowed, but didn’t say anything as Rozanov brushed fingers through his hair. He hoped the fear he felt wasn’t showing on his face. “You are very beautiful,” Rozanov said suddenly. It was said very matter-of-factly.

Rozanov rested a hand on Shane’s face and tipped his head up. He looked at him fondly, with a little smile on his lips, and then he kissed him. “I have ruined you,” Rozanov said when they broke apart. “No one else will do.”

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.

Shane wanted Rozanov to touch him again. Shane wanted to touch him back. Maybe Shane wanted to kiss him.

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.

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.

Or his archrival’s freckles. Or his dark eyes. Or the way his cheeks glowed red when he exerted himself.

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.

Rozanov just seemed to be considering him curiously, and maybe enjoying the effect he knew he was having on him. Just another goddamn thing for you to hold over me, Shane thought.

“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 had never kissed a man, and somewhere in the back of his splintering brain he wondered if Rozanov ever had either. He certainly seemed to know what he was doing.

Rozanov’s soft, accented words and his gentle hands and his confident kisses were all working together to ensnare him.

He loved shit-talking him because his eyes would get all squashed up in anger and his pink lips would curl into an adorable little attempt at a snarl. Like an angry kitten.

And Shane Hollander was a bad fucking idea. The worst idea. Wrong in every way imaginable.

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.

Shane felt like there was an electric current running through him.

Rozanov grinned that sexy goddamned lopsided grin and Shane laughed too.

“Okay?” Rozanov asked again. He ran a hand over Shane’s back, slow and soothing.

He had never, ever felt like this with anyone before.

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.

And then, on a whim, pressing Shane against a wall and kissing him like he would die without Shane’s mouth on his. Kissing him until Shane’s senses were full of hard muscle pressed against him and the taste of cigarette and the slick heat of Rozanov’s tongue in his mouth.

Rozanov gave him that crooked grin that did absurd things to Shane’s stomach.

“You will move here?” “No. It’s just an investment, or whatever. And I thought it could be a safe place to...meet.” Hollander was damn cute when he was embarrassed. “Did you buy a building so we would have somewhere to fuck, Hollander?”

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

Ilya smiled against Hollander’s skin. He was such a little brat.

But Ilya laughed harder. He laughed until Hollander joined in, and then they were both holding each other and laughing until they were wiping tears from their eyes.

He seemed to legitimately enjoy making Ilya feel good. Ilya always did feel good with Hollander.

Ilya was grinning like an idiot for the entire cab ride back to his hotel.

“Touch yourself.” “What?” “Show off for me. Let me watch you.” “You—what?” “Is my special night, Hollander. I want to watch you.”

“Of course. Now, show me how you like it, Hollander.”

Shane didn’t know if Rozanov was saying something encouraging, or reverent. Or maybe he was calling Shane a slut. Shane felt a little slutty, in that moment. He felt wild

damn, Shane loved it when Rozanov lost his ability to stay cool and collected.

He realized, when he was back in his room, that they hadn’t even kissed. He also realized, with horror, that he regretted that.

Ilya watched the footage of Hollander taking a quick pass and scoring with the impossible accuracy that he was known for. Ilya watched him hug his teammates, and the way his face lit up with a wide, jubilant smile. Ilya found himself smiling a bit too, on his bench in Philadelphia.

He set the girls down, and they each took one of Shane’s hands. Shane’s heart clenched. Their hands were so tiny

He laughed when he said that. When he laughed his nose crinkled, and Ilya’s stomach flipped.

Instead of getting him out of his system with their hookups, each one just made him want more.

Rozanov brushed a thumb over the freckles on Shane’s cheek, just under his eye.

Rozanov covered that hand with his own, which surprised Shane. Rozanov never took his eyes off his face,

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.

Rozanov leaned in and pressed kisses to Shane’s hair and face and down to his throat. The kisses weren’t seductive or heated. They were light and sort of...adoring. 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.”

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. Rozanov smiled and kissed him. They stayed in the bed for a long time just...making out.

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.

Shane kind of couldn’t believe that Rozanov had made them both dinner. He found it, he realized with some horror, adorable.

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. “Not as a person, of course,” Rozanov teased. “But you have a good mouth.” He took a suggestive bite of his dill pickle.

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. And because the terror Shane was feeling was probably all over his face, Rozanov was the one who asked, “Is everything okay?”

He kept stealing glances at Rozanov while he ate, as if seeing him for the first time. Oh god. What the fuck?

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.