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Shane had spent the past six months since the World Juniors being a little bit...obsessed...with Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya had more important things to think about than freckles and polite Canadian boys.
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.”
“Fuck you and your loon!” Ilya said. “Stupid Canadian wolf bird.”
“Does it...does it feel like agony for you too?” Ilya started to nod, then stopped. He shook his head slowly instead. “Not anymore.”














































