Heated Rivalry (Game Changers, #2)

by Rachel Reid

Rozanov stopped talking, but he managed to find an even more effective way of getting under Hollander’s skin: he winked. And then he won the face-off.

The knock at the door came almost forty minutes later. It had been enough time that Shane had almost convinced himself to leave. To put an end to this foolishness. But, of course, he hadn’t. And if the knock had come hours later, even, Shane would still have been on that sofa, waiting for it.

“Fuck.” He kissed Rozanov again, rough and needy. God, he needed this. This horrible, fucked-up thing.

He wanted a lot tonight, but they didn’t have time for a lot.

They both took off everything, and Rozanov fell on top of Shane, kissing him and moving a hand down to grasp his already embarrassingly rigid cock. Shane arched up into his touch, making stupid, desperate noises. “Don’t worry, Hollander,” Rozanov said, his lips brushing Shane’s ear, “I am going to fuck you like you want, yes?” “Yes,” Shane exhaled, a mixture of relief and humiliation sweeping through him.

He propped himself up on his elbows so he could watch. Part of him wanted to lie back and close his eyes and let himself believe that it was anyone other than Ilya Rozanov making him feel so good. But most of him wanted to see exactly who it was.

Rozanov was a stunning man. Light brown curls that were always a mess fell into his playful hazel eyes and over his dark, thick eyebrows. His strong jaw and cleft chin were covered in stubble. His smile was lopsided and lazy, and his teeth were unnaturally white due to most of them not being real. His nose was crooked, having been broken more than a few times, but the fucking thing only made him look more rugged. And for a Russian living in Boston, his skin was a lot more golden than it had any right to be.

Shane fucking hated him. But Rozanov was really good at sucking cock, and he was, for...

Shane hated this, but he had taken great pains to protect it, and he would continue doing so as long as Rozanov was willing. Their lives being what they were, this was not an easy thing to get. Maybe, when they had started seven years ago, they hadn’t expected their lives, their famous rivalry, to get to the point it was at now. Maybe they should have stopped by now. But, despite the wrongness of it, this was comfor...

When he was ready, Shane wordlessly handed Rozanov a condom before rolling over and getting on his hands and knees. He couldn’t look at Rozanov. Not tonight. Not after that humiliating loss.

This was slow and considerate. Shane felt big hands on his hips and waist, holding him steady as Rozanov pushed inside. He even felt Rozanov’s thumbs brush gently over his lower back. “There. This is what you wanted, yes?” “Yes.” Because it was. It was what he always wanted.

Rozanov put a hand in Shane’s hair and guided their mouths back together. 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.

It was bad enough that he loved being fucked so much, that he loved having a dick in his mouth. But for it to have to be this son of a bitch, to the point that on the extremely rare occasion when it wasn’t, Shane was left wanting... So maybe it wasn’t just that this was convenient. But that was something Shane didn’t want to think about.

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.” “Fuck off.” “Such a mouth on you.” “Don’t say it.” “I preferred it when it was on me.” “Dammit, Rozanov.” Shane pushed the other man back against the shower wall and kissed him aggressively. It was always like this. Shoving and cursing each other and battling for control until one or both of them gave in and allowed themselves the release they both craved.

Halfway through the practice, Ilya noticed a young man sitting a few rows above the penalty box, wearing a Team Canada ball cap and jacket. He was flanked by a man and a woman, who were probably his parents. It was hard to tell from the ice, but Ilya thought it might be Hollander. His mother was Japanese or something, right? He was sure he had read that somewhere...

He turned to see the person that he now definitely recognized as Shane Hollander. He had a very distinct look. Some of his features were clearly from his mother—jet-black hair and very dark eyes—but his father was of some bland, Anglo-European heritage. His skin, however, was flawless. Distractingly so. Smooth and tan with—and this was his most striking feature—a smattering of dark freckles across his nose and cheekbones.

“Okay,” Ilya said, exhaling a long stream of smoke between his lips. There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Hollander made another attempt at conversation. “I wanted to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “Shane Hollander.” Ilya stared at him, and then felt his lips twitch a bit. “Yes,” he said. He pinched the cigarette between his lips and shook Hollander’s hand. “You’re an awesome player to watch,” Hollander said. “I know.” If Hollander was expecting Ilya to return the compliment, he was going to be waiting a long damn time.

Every face-off he had taken against Rozanov, the Russian had looked him dead in the eye and smirked. Shane was not easily shaken by anyone, but that goddamn smirk threw him off balance every time.

“Hey. We will see a lot of each other.” It took Shane a minute. “Oh. Yeah. Montreal and Boston play against each other a lot.” “Should be interesting.”

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. He didn’t know if Rozanov felt anything. But in that moment, Shane wanted...something. He couldn’t even name it. He passed the water bottle back, and this time he could swear Rozanov let his fingers brush Shane’s wrist on purpose. It was a moment that seemed to last forever, but was probably less than a second. Shane wanted Rozanov to touch him again. Shane wanted to touch him back. Maybe Shane wanted to kiss him.

But he could get in the shower and jerk off and try like hell to think about his girlfriend, or any girl. Anything other than those red, wet lips and that dark stubble and those hazel eyes... 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 wanted a real cigarette. He wanted to fuck someone. He wanted to go down to the hotel gym and find Shane Hollander on a treadmill.

That night in the hotel gym in Los Angeles, six months ago now, Ilya had very nearly embarrassed himself. 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. The thing was, he wasn’t so sure that Hollander would have hated it. 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. Ilya had probably fucked, in his rough estimate, dozens of women since then. 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.

He had mostly forgotten the way it had felt when Rozanov had brushed his fingers against his hand when he’d handed him the water bottle in that hotel gym six months ago. He had barely thought at all about his flushed skin, or the way the damp curls of his hair had fallen into his hazel eyes. It had been...adrenaline. The afterglow of the thrill of competition, when they had been sprawled out on the floor after pushing their bodies as hard as they could on the treadmills. It had been a glitch in his brain, which had been overstuffed with emotions from a roller coaster of a draft day. He had been tired and confused and his brain had just turned all of that into something ridiculous.

He wanted to be 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. Hollander’s damp, sweaty hand had wrapped itself around Ilya’s damp, sweaty hand and, when their eyes had locked, he’d squeezed Ilya’s fingers, just a little. That look, and that squeeze, had said so many things to Ilya. I know. We were supposed to stand alone at the top, but we will always be there together. We will keep climbing until no one else can reach us, but it will always be together. There had been nothing apologetic in Hollander’s eyes, but there had been no gloating either. And by the time Ilya had shaken the last Canadian hand in the lineup, he was smirking to himself. Because soon the real battle between himself and Shane Hollander would begin. And he couldn’t fucking wait.

Shane rolled his eyes. He had been called “pretty boy” a few times before, usually during games, and he hated it. He wished he hated it this time.

In his makeup, with his carefully styled hair, and in this dramatic lighting, Rozanov did not look pretty. He looked stunning. Once again, Shane was astounded and irritated by how manly Rozanov was. The sharp edge of his jaw framed cheeks that didn’t have any of the baby fat that lingered on Shane’s own. And his eyes were like sparkling...somethings. Shane couldn’t think of a gem that had that many shades of gold and green.

He glanced up again, and saw that Rozanov had turned his back to him. Shane was left to stare helplessly at the display of naked, rippling muscle. His eyes trailed over Rozanov’s broad shoulders and down the muscles of his back down to his tapered waist and his... Shane blushed hard. He couldn’t...why would he want to check out another guy’s ass? That was just weird. 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. And aroused. Visibly aroused. In a shower. With Rozanov.

He was so busy being mortified that he didn’t immediately notice that Rozanov’s own dick was starting to swell. The grin had faded from Rozanov’s face. His eyes were full of an intensity that was much more heated than what Shane had been facing during their photo shoot.

“What were you thinking about?” Rozanov asked, his voice low. Shane swallowed. His throat was bone dry. “You,” he said quietly. Rozanov heard him, and smirked. He gave himself another stroke. “You want to touch me, Hollander?” Shane actually just wanted to watch Rozanov jerk himself off. But...

“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.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Shane said weakly. “What?” Rozanov said, tucking a knuckle under Shane’s chin and tilting it up. “This?”

Shane wasn’t sure what to do. He hesitantly slid his palms up Rozanov’s chest. He heard Rozanov give a soft moan when Shane’s fingers moved over his nipples, and that one little sound made Shane lose any remaining self-control.

And, oh, Shane had his hand on Ilya Rozanov’s dick.

He gripped Rozanov through the denim, and one clear idea of what he wanted popped into his head. He wanted the denim barrier to be gone. He wanted to see Rozanov’s cock and hold it and feel it pressed against him, which was weird. He shouldn’t want that. He shouldn’t want any of this. And yet...

Shane could see the tip of Rozanov’s cock poking out of the waistband, and he had the sudden, wild urge to kiss it. To press his tongue to the slit and taste him.

His mind was racing, worrying about technique and about what exactly this all meant. But then Rozanov’s fingers were tangled in Shane’s hair, and Shane was reminded that this was fucking hot. That he’d fantasized about exactly this, alone in his bedroom, even if he had been embarrassed afterward.

Rozanov made Shane a lot of things: confused, infuriated, terrified, aroused, and, yes, curious.

Now that there was some distance between them, Shane could take in the full splendor of Rozanov’s mostly naked body. Rozanov seemed to enjoy the attention, and stretched his muscular arms up over his head, grinning and arching his long torso. He had dark brown hair on his chest and trailing down from his belly button to his bobbing erection, which was still slick with Shane’s spit.

Rozanov pressed a palm against Shane’s erection and curled gentle fingers around it. “Okay?” Shane nodded. It was shockingly okay for Ilya Rozanov—a guy, a hockey player, his rival—to have his hand wrapped around Shane’s dick.

“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.

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 dark and wet. He looked so fucking proud of himself. Ilya told himself the twisted feeling in his stomach was just jealousy, but he was terrified that it was something much, much worse.

Ilya actually loved playing against Hollander. He would never actually tell him, but Hollander was really fucking good. He challenged Ilya in ways that Ilya wasn’t used to. He loved taking the puck from Hollander. He loved slamming him into the boards. He loved skating around 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.

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.

“You came anyway,” he said. “Yeah,” Hollander said, his voice tight and full of forced courage. “I guess I did.” Ilya nodded, and then Hollander swore under his breath and lunged forward to kiss him. He grabbed Ilya’s T-shirt in a tight fist and pulled him closer. Ilya moaned at the hot slide of Hollander’s tongue against his. He tugged roughly on the hair at the back of Hollander’s head, tipping his head back so he could deepen the kiss.

They broke apart and Hollander looked at him, eyes wild and dark hair a mess, silently begging for instruction. “On your knees,” Ilya said softly, just to see what he would do. Expecting Hollander to tell him to fuck off, Ilya’s breath caught in his throat as he watched him sink fluidly to the floor. His gaze stayed on Ilya. Those eyes that were always so sharp were now hazy with desire as he leaned forward to nuzzle and mouth at the bulge in Ilya’s sweatpants.

Hollander reached a hand up and slid it, fingers splayed, under the hem of Ilya’s T-shirt. He pushed the shirt up until Ilya took the hint and pulled it off over his head. He carefully stepped out of his sweatpants, Hollander’s mouth never leaving him, and planted a hand on the back of Hollander’s head. He was careful not to hold him too firmly in place. This wasn’t control—Ilya just wanted to touch him. To let the silky strands of his hair slip through his fingers as Hollander gave in to what he had clearly been craving.

The idea that Ilya was probably the only one who ever saw him like this—that he was the only person in the entire fucking world who knew what it felt like to have those pretty pink lips wrapped around his cock...

He wanted to know how much he would give him tonight.