Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

“No?” He kissed him again. “No.” As they kissed, Rozanov reached a hand down and gripped Shane’s cock...

“Let me show you,” Rozanov murmured, “how to do this.” He kissed his way down Shane’s body, which felt so good t...

When he reached Shane’s cock, Rozanov greeted it with a long, slow lick with the entire surface of his tongue, like it was a fucking ice-cream con...

He gripped the hotel bed comforter and tried to hold on. Rozanov was shockingly good at this. How many fucking times had he met up with his coach’s son? Shane felt like he should be paying attention—maybe taking notes—but his brain had left the room.

Shane reached down to run his fingers through the golden-brown curls of Rozanov’s hair. He dragged his fingers down over the stubble on his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw.

Shane had enjoyed watching some truly hot girls sucking him off in the past, but this was beyond anything he had ever experienced before. Watching this big, beautiful man, who knew exactly what to do with his tongue and lips and—god, his teet...

“Ah, god. Rozanov! I’m gonna...” He expected Rozanov to get the hell out of the way, but instead he sucked him harder and Sh...

A stream of nonsense fell out of Shane’s mouth. “Holy shit. I’m sorry. Oh my god. I’m ...

Rozanov pulled off, not at all hurried, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He laughed at Shane’...

Shane choked out a hysterical laugh. “I don’t know! I just... I wasn’t expecting you to...” Rozanov shrugged as if Shane was thanking him for ...

Shane felt stupid that he hadn’t even tried to...properly finish the job on Rozanov. This guy was determin...

“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.”

Shane had the stupid urge to ask him to stay. He imagined falling asleep in his arms and what the fuck?

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.

When Rozanov was fully dressed, he gave Shane one of his playful, crooked smiles.

Shane wanted to kiss him one more time, because he was sure he would never get the chance again.

Shane hadn’t seen, or spoken to, Rozanov since their...encounter...in the Toronto hotel room over two months ago. He would like to be able to say that he hadn’t thought of him either, but that would be far from the truth.

Suddenly, Rozanov’s face filled the screen. Shane felt his own face flush a bit, which was ridiculous because he was alone and not actually in the presence of those sparkling hazel eyes or that playful, lopsided smile.

“Do you feel pressure to outperform Shane Hollander this first season?” the interviewer asked. “Who?” Fuck. You. Rozanov.

Rozanov looked directly at the camera, and Shane froze. He can’t see you, dummy. He watched Rozanov wink at the camera and Shane’s eyes narrowed. He was going to shut this fucker up when their teams finally met.

“It’s a nice lamp!” she argued. “They don’t make nice things anymore.”

Definitely not aw nice as they used to

Shane laughed. “Yeah. I know.” He’s better at blow jobs than me. The thought crashed to the front of Shane’s brain, and he quickly grabbed for his water glass, nearly knocking it over.

“You will. Screw Ilya Rozanov, right? That can be your mantra tonight.” Or not. Shane forced a smile. “Sure. Screw him.”

“Shane Hollander,” he said casually when he reached his opponent. “Rozanov.” Ilya let his lips curl up a bit into a little smile. Hollander’s face hardened and he shook his head slightly.

Ilya wished he didn’t have the mouth guard in because he would have loved to do something distracting and sexy with his tongue.

He probably should have been focusing more on the puck and less on bothering Hollander, because he lost their first face-off. And that was something he’d never get back.

He turned on the television, and there was Shane fucking Hollander’s face, filling the screen. All sweaty and flushed and happy. Answering questions in perfect goddamned French.

Ilya couldn’t even say a basic English sentence without sounding like a cartoon villain. He hated his stupid accent. He hated his asshole family.

Shane Hollander was speaking French and he was breathless and smiling and drenched in sweat with his hair sticking up in all directions. His cheeks were pink and his lips were dar...

Ilya told himself the twisted feeling in his stomach was just jealousy, but he was terrified that it w...

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?

Why was Shane Hollander so fucking hard to shake? They’d hooked up once. Months ago. It had been a mistake, obviously. A giant, ridiculous mistake. Or, at the very least, something that should be forgotten about. Not a big deal.

Ilya actually loved playing against Hollander. He would never actually tell him, but Hollander was really fucking good. He challenged ...

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.

Okay. It wasn’t entirely easy to focus on the game. And after the games...and all the days between their games...when Ilya had to watch Hollander being interviewed with his lovely fucking manners and his adorable, boyish smile.

And besides, the press love the idea of getting you two together.” Shane had flushed a little.

The large Russian man next to him—who was sitting so close their forearms were almost touching where they rested on top of the table—was the one responsible for Shane’s dry mouth and (probably) noticeable stammering.

Rozanov took a moment to reply. Shane wondered if he was working through all the English words.

I love that he actually thinks of this

Shane watched the way Rozanov was slowly rubbing the knuckle of his forefinger with his thumb. He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. Rozanov had nice hands...

“Shane?” “Sorry?” Shane snapped his eyes forward. “Just a quick one from the Toronto Star: Would you like to play on an All-Star team with Ilya in the future?”

“Oh. Sure. Yeah. I mean...” He took a breath. “Ilya’s a great player.” “Ilya? Same question?” “If Hollander does not mind me being starting center. Yes.”

Shane could swear there was an electric current in the narrow space between them. He felt like the hair on his arm was standing up.

Unfortunately, the reporter didn’t pick up on the fact that Rozanov was clearly struggling with understanding the question,

He gave the room one of his playful smiles, and everyone laughed again. Shane looked at him, and Rozanov caught his eye and winked. Shane pursed his lips to stifle a grin.

Under the table, he felt Rozanov’s foot tap against his own. It was the chastest contact in the world, but it still made Shane’s heart stop.

Shane offered Rozanov his hand, and Rozanov shook it. When Shane released their handshake, Rozanov slowly slid his fingers along Shane’s palm.

“I’ll see you later, Hollander,” he said in a tone that was far more suggestive than it should have been. Shane swallowed. “Yeah. Later.”

Rozanov just winked and nudged Shane a little as he passed him. Shane heard the crowd’s delighted reaction. Fuck it. Fuck him. Shane could do this. He could do this with his fucking eyes closed.

He smirked at Rozanov as he skated back to his teammates. Rozanov wasn’t smiling now, but the look in his eyes was... Shane flushed and turned his attention to his teammates.

Rozanov leaned down. His breath ghosted over Shane’s ear when he said, in a low voice, “Twelve twenty-one.” A shiver ran through Shane’s body, and before it had even left him, Rozanov was gone.