Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

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 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.

“So, um...” Shane said, still keeping his back to Rozanov. “This won’t leave this room, okay?” “You think I will tell people?” Shane sincerely doubted it. “No.” “No.” He felt the bed shift as Rozanov stood up. Shane had the stupid urge to ask him to stay. He imagined falling asleep in his arms and what the fuck? This thing they’d just done was, above all things, a huge mistake. As far as hookups went, Shane really could not have chosen a less appropriate person. And even forgetting that, there was no reason to pretend this was anything more than a quick, no-strings fuck. And why would Shane even want to pretend that? He didn’t. He wanted Rozanov out of his hotel room. He wanted to forget that this ever happened. He did not want to reach for him. To pull him back on the bed. To do everything they just did two or three more times.

“Tonight I will go easy on you.” 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.

This, he realized, was why people were so wild about sex. He had never, ever felt like this with anyone before. And of course Ilya Rozanov, all of nineteen years old, fucked with the confidence and skill of, like, a sex god.

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... He wanted to win this fucking Rookie of the Year award. He wanted to rub it in Rozanov’s face. He wanted to rub himself on Rozanov’s face.

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.

But that’s the way it had been for over six seasons: Shane Hollander was the wholesome, heroic sweetheart, and Ilya Rozanov was the obnoxious rock star. They were polar opposites, according to any NHL analyst, and therefore destined to clash forever—neatly dividing hockey fans in the process. It’s the way it should have been. 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.

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. 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. “Ilya,” he said, barely more than a whisper. Ilya didn’t answer. Instead, he crushed their mouths together and kissed Shane in a raw, uncontrolled way that felt like an apology. Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh no.

“I can’t keep pretending I don’t like you,” he said finally. “You don’t like me,” Ilya argued. “I do. I... I maybe like you too much.”

Shane wondered if Ilya felt it too. The heaviness of the aftermath of their encounters. The impossibility of everything. Shane felt it every time. The whole point of their hookups was to provide release, but Shane only felt more tangled up each time.

“When will I have you for as long as I want?”

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 wanted a whole day with Shane. A weekend. A week. He wanted to be somewhere that no one could possibly interrupt them. Maybe that would be all he would need. Just the opportunity to get Shane Hollander out of his system. He needed to drink his fill and walk away. Because he would have to walk away. This thing was already getting too complicated.

He still knew, in the back of his mind, that this thing with Shane needed to end. That it couldn’t be more than sex. But somehow it had just evolved on its own, and suddenly he no longer worried about looking too eager. He could admit to himself that he wanted to see Shane as much as possible, and he found that he wasn’t worried about letting Shane know it anymore. For now, at least. The day would come when they would have to end it, but for now Ilya was happy to steal as many moments as possible.

“Goodbye, Hollander.” “Wait,” Shane said, way too loudly. Ilya waited. “Just...call me, all right? If you need to talk. Or text me. Whatever. But... I’ll listen. I want to help, if I can.” Ilya was silent for a moment. “You did. Thank you.”

“Tell me everything you want to say,” he said. “In Russian. I won’t understand but...maybe it will help?” There was a silence that was long enough for Shane to physically cringe at himself. He was about to take it back, when he heard Ilya quietly say, “Okay.” The next several minutes were filled with Ilya’s voice, sounding more animated and flustered than Shane had ever heard him. He was used to Ilya saying more with a teasing smile or a calculating look than with actual words. But now it was like a dam had burst, and Shane sat himself on the stairs and let it wash over him. Without the ability to translate any of it, Shane could just enjoy the sound of Ilya’s voice, which he barely recognized now. The words were so quick and confident, unrestricted by Ilya having to carefully piece together his sentences like when he spoke English. It felt intimate—like they were somehow sharing a bigger secret now than when they slept together. And there was something undeniably sexy about hearing Ilya speak so fluidly in his mother tongue. When he was finished, Ilya gave an embarrassed-sounding little laugh and said, “I am done.” It was jarring to hear him switch suddenly back to English. Shane felt his head clear like he was waking from a dream. “Feel better?” he asked. “Yes. Thank you.” Shane lowered his voice and said, “Maybe you could teach me Russian someday.”

Shane shifted on the stairs. “I wish you were here now.” Shane couldn’t believe he had actually allowed himself to say that out loud. They didn’t wish to be together. They reluctantly hooked up when they were in the same city because it was something to do. He felt his mortification melt away when Ilya said, in a low voice, “Me too.”

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.” It was saying those words out loud, even more than venting his frustrations about his family, that had truly made Ilya feel lighter. It was a secret he had been carrying for far too long, locked away so deep inside that he had even been keeping it from himself. But as soon as he let himself acknowledge it, and now say it, he felt relieved. Not because he could do anything about these feelings, but at least he had allowed himself to accept them. And he had, in the most cowardly way possible, said them aloud to Shane.

“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.

“You should come to the cottage this summer.” “Cottage? What are you talking about, Hollander?” “My cottage. In Ontario. You’re not going back to Russia, so...come to my cottage with me. It’s quiet, and beautiful and...private.” For a moment, Ilya didn’t say anything, and Shane thought he really had fallen asleep. “I will think about it,” Ilya said finally. “Okay.”

He’s never going to be your boyfriend, Shane. Oh god. That was what Shane wanted, wasn’t 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. He would take the short phone call they had just shared over any of their sexual encounters. Well, almost any of their sexual encounters. Shane groaned and fell back on his bed, covering his face with his hands. He was super fucked.

“Holy shit, Hollander! Do you wear glasses?” “Oh!” Shane reached up and touched the frames of his glasses, as if he didn’t believe Ilya. “Just when I read. It’s, um...new.” He pulled them off. “No!” Ilya said, grinning. “I like them.”

“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.” “Stunning?” “Yes. Am I not using that word right? Very beautiful. Um...take my breath?” “Wow. All right.” The skin under Shane’s freckles turned very, very pink. “The first time I met you. Those freckles...”

“Do you ever think of me?” Shane asked. “When you’re doing this? Alone?” He blushed furiously as soon as he said it. Cute as hell. “Yes.” “I do too. A lot. All the time. Maybe...every time, honestly.” Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Every time?” He saw Shane’s shoulder lift in a tiny shrug. “I’ve never...had anything. Like this. With anyone else.”

“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.

“We can have a week or two, Ilya,” Shane said. “Haven’t you ever wanted more time?” Ilya’s stomach clenched. He should just say no. Let Shane believe that he didn’t want any more from him than the hour or two they stole a few times each season. But instead he brushed his thumb over the back of Shane’s hand and said, “Of course.” “Then come to the cottage. Please. It will just be the two of us, completely alone for as long as you want to stay.”

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.

“When the right one comes along, you’ll know,” she said. And Shane chickened out. Because he couldn’t tell them that the right one had come along, and it was the pissed-off Russian man who was currently heading to the penalty box on their television.

He had the most ridiculous urge to send Ilya a text that just said I love you. He had those words trapped inside of him, filling every part of him, and, the strain of keeping them from slipping out was getting harder to endure.

The moment Shane’s mouth opened under his, everything made sense. All of Ilya’s nerves left him, and he grabbed at Shane’s T-shirt and pulled him closer. Shane made a little moaning sound and plunged his fingers under Ilya’s ball cap, knocking it to the floor. He tangled his fingers in Ilya’s hair and began walking him backward to the leather sofa. 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. But now he felt like he was going to burst if Shane didn’t touch him the way he’d not been able to stop thinking about.

“I have an idea,” Shane said. He was brushing his thumb over Ilya’s bottom lip as he said it. “What?” Ilya asked, with more bravery than he felt. “Let’s be honest with each other. For these two weeks, let’s just...say what we’re actually thinking. Maybe...say how we really feel.” I can’t, Ilya wanted to say. I can’t because if I do you’ll think I’m pathetic, or, worse, you’ll say it back and then what the fuck are we supposed to do?

Ilya cheated and murmured, “I would stay here forever if I could” in Russian. He felt Shane sigh around him, but it sounded more dreamy than exasperated. Maybe he understood what he meant. Maybe some feelings couldn’t be hidden behind foreign words.

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

His dark eyes, and his freckles, and his smile. 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.”

“Don’t tease me,” Ilya said. “I have waited too long for this.” “Mm.” Shane opened the front of Ilya’s shorts and playfully nipped at his chest. “Months.” “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.”

Ilya was here, and Shane would finally know what it was like to be with him when they had all the time they wanted. Ilya had promised him two weeks, and Shane was giddy with the vastness of time that was spread before him.

“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.

The real actual truth—the truth that Shane mentally stomped on every time it dared try to get his attention—was that he wanted Ilya to meet his parents for the same reason anyone wanted their boyfriend to meet their parents: he loved him, and he wanted them to love him too.

“I don’t want you to think she was weak,” Ilya said. “She wasn’t. She was...amazing. But she was so sad. And my father was so hard on her and...” Ilya didn’t cry. Not really. He wiped quickly at his eyes to remove the moisture and just breathed Shane in.

But mostly he just wanted to hold Shane close to him in this place where no one would ever find them. He wanted to stand in the spotlight of the campfire under the endless stars and feel Shane’s fingers stroking his hair and not think about his horrible father or his wonderful, desperately sad mother. He didn’t want to think about hockey, or rivalries, or what was going to happen when these two weeks were over.

“That’s not why I do this. With you. Maybe it was when we started, I don’t know, but it isn’t now and it hasn’t been for a long time.” Ilya moved the hand Shane was holding to brush the hair out of Shane’s eyes. “Okay.”

“Yes. Listen. These women, they are so sexy and fun, but is no matter. I cannot stop thinking about this short fucking hockey player with these stupid freckles and a weak backhand.” “A weak backhand?” Shane couldn’t stop smiling. “Yes. And he is just so boring and he drives a terrible car and...that is my problem. All of these beautiful women and I am always wishing they were him.” Ilya bent to take his third shot. “Is terrible problem.”

“Do you want the problem to go away?” “No,” Ilya said seriously, looking Shane dead in the eye. “I do not want the problem to ever go away.” “Don’t marry Svetlana,” Shane blurted out. Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Just...don’t. I know it wouldn’t be...for love or whatever. But don’t. I couldn’t—we can figure something else out, okay?” Ilya looked surprised, but he nodded. “Okay.”

“You really think that far ahead, Hollander?” “I do about this.” “You want that? To be together?” “I do. So much it terrifies me.” Ilya turned his face away from Shane, and was silent. Cold dread flooded Shane’s stomach; he had admitted too much. But Ilya turned back and quickly rolled on top of Shane and was kissing him and kissing him and kept murmuring the same thing in Russian over and over again until he pulled back and translated: “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. Ilya gave a shaky smile and exhaled. “Thank Christ.” “Does it...does it feel like agony for you too?” Ilya started to nod, then stopped. He shook his head slowly instead. “Not anymore.”

Ilya felt like his smile was going to split his face. He was overwhelmingly happy. Shane was beaming up at him, eyes bright and freckles crinkled, and Ilya loved him. And Shane loved him. Holy fucking shit. Shane Hollander is in love with me. He wanted to kiss him, but he couldn’t stop looking at him.

“How could we let this happen?” Ilya asked, and his voice was shakier than he would have liked. “I don’t know. We are very stupid and irresponsible.” “Very dumb, yes. Oh god, Hollan...