Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

And that was the last word Shane got out before Rozanov’s mouth crashed into his.

“You are very beautiful,” Rozanov said suddenly. It was said very matter-of-factly.

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.

Unless Ilya was very bad at reading people—and he definitely wasn’t—Hollander probably would have kissed him right back. And, Jesus, that thought had consumed Ilya since draft day.

But it was a really impressive ass. Not that he was comparing it to others. It was just...perfect. And as Rozanov scrubbed water over his face, the muscles in his ass flexed and Shane was transfixed.

“What were you thinking about?” Rozanov asked, his voice low. Shane swallowed. His throat was bone dry. “You,” he said quietly.

“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.”

Fuck. This was really gay.

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.

“I want to fuck you, Hollander,” Ilya said against his ear.

“That doesn’t mean we can... I mean, how would we? Where would we?” “Are you homeless?” “No.”

Shane wanted to tell him to fuck off, but Rozanov was kissing his throat, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin, so instead he threw his head back against the wall like the eager slut he apparently was.

“Just relax, Mr. Lots-of-Sex,” Rozanov said. “I will make sure you are ready for me.”

And of course Ilya Rozanov, all of nineteen years old, fucked with the confidence and skill of, like, a sex god.

“Did you buy a building so we would have somewhere to fuck, Hollander?” Ilya assumed he was trying to look stern, but the flush of his cheeks was ruining the effect. “No. It’s an investment. I’m having it renovated and then I’ll sell the condos. And I already have a tenant lined up for the commercial space on the main floor.” “Wow. Businessman.”

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

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.

“Jesus Christ, you are so fucking boring,” Ilya muttered. Hollander did look flexible, though.

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.

“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.

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.

But Rozanov’s chest was so warm and solid, and Shane could hear his heart beating where his ear was pressed against it. Rozanov’s fingers were idly playing with his hair, making Shane sleepy and unreasonably happy.

“You like that?” he growled. “You gonna come for me, Rozanov?” “Fucking make me, Hollander.”

The truth—the truth that he tried so very hard to ignore—was that no one set him on fire like Shane Hollander.

Shane shook his head. “We’re not. No. It was just a short thing. She’s great. We just weren’t, um...compatible.” He looked seriously at Ilya then. Ilya wanted to kiss him. “Anyway,” Shane said, gesturing toward the room with his beer bottle, “I should say hi to everyone.” He stepped away from the bar. “Right.” Ilya put his hand over his mouth to hide his ridiculous smile.

“You gotta watch, okay?” Ilya said. “Make sure none of these cheaters cheats.” “Okay.” “You kids know who that guy is?” Ilya asked. “Shane Hollander!” most of them said at once. “Really?” Ilya said, feigning shock. “You’ve heard of that guy?” They laughed. One of the braver ones said, “He’s the best player in the league!” “Okay, you’re out of the race. Out of the pool. Out of Florida. Goodbye. Where’s your dad?”

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?”

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.”

“What does that mean?” Shane asked. “Get on your knees.” “Oh.” Shane quickly scanned the stairwell again to make sure he was still alone. He was already more aroused than he should be after listening to Ilya pour his heart out. “And what other useful phrases could you teach me?” Ilya laughed. “I can think of many, Hollander.”

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.”

“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.

Shane smiled. “It’s good to see you again.” “I’d like to see you wearing nothing but those glasses,” Ilya said.

“You are very beautiful,” Ilya said. Shane smiled without opening his eyes. “Come on.” “Is the truth. Your freckles.” Ilya grazed a fingertip over his own cheek. “I am nuts about them.” “I have no idea why. I hate them.” “Noooo...” Ilya moaned. “Hollander. They are stunning.”

“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.”

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

Shane kissed the tips of two fingers and reached out and touched them to the screen. And Ilya’s heart fucking stopped.

Ilya loved playing against Hollander almost as much as he loved fucking him.

Shane was so completely in love with him. He would hit his head all over again just to be alone in that quiet hospital room with those careful fingers and those concerned eyes. He was in love with him and he could never, ever tell him that.

The moment Shane’s mouth opened under his, everything made sense.

They hadn’t been together for months. The ridiculous thing was, Ilya hadn’t been with anyone in all that time. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t wanted to be with anyone else.

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

Shane looked so happy. Somehow, Ilya made him happy. Ilya wanted to always make him happy.

Ilya shot the puck back to Shane. “It made me jealous,” he admitted. 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.”

“Years,” Ilya sighed. “Years I have wanted to have you in your real bed.” Shane froze. “Years?” Ilya wrapped long fingers around Shane’s jaw, and tilted his head up to meet his gaze. “Yes.”

“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.

Ilya’s face was slick with sweat, and his eyes were wild. “Shane. Fuck—I—holy shit. You’re amazing, Shane. So fucking good.”

“No,” Ilya said. “I like you, Hollander.” It wasn’t an earth-shattering confession, but the words still moved Shane enormously. “I like you too, Rozanov.”

Ilya took a sip of his beer. “Why the fuck are you making eight burgers?” he asked. “That’s how many the recipe was for!” “You can’t do math? Cut it in half?” “Leave me alone.”