by Rachel Reid
Shane wasn’t sure how to react. They didn’t really say things to each other. Not like that.
“Hottest Man in the NHL, according to Cosmopolitan,” Shane joked. It was the only way he knew how to talk to Rozanov, besides yelling obscenities at him.
“They are idiots,” Rozanov said, the spell broken. “They put me at number five. Five!”
“It does seem generous.”
Rozanov rolled over, pinning Shane to the mattress. Shane looked up at him, laughing.
“I have to go,” Rozanov said, and he sounded like he truly regretted it. “Shower first, but then I have to get back to the hotel.”
“I know.”
They showered together, and Shane dropped to his knees because he couldn’t let Rozanov go without tasting him. Rozanov murmured his approval as he loomed over Shane in the spacious rainfall shower. His strong hands cradled Shane’s head and long fingers curled in his wet hair. Shane turned his eyes up and found Rozanov gazing down at him with that damn crooked smile. Shane immediately closed his eyes and felt his cheeks flush and, to his embarrassment, his own cock get harder.
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.
He brought Rozanov right to the brink and then pulled off, catching the man’s release on his chin and lips and probably on his neck. The evidence was quickly washed away, down the drain, and Shane fell back to a sitting position against the shower wall. He scrubbed his hands over his face and pulled his knees in. He heard Rozanov panting in Russian.
“Shit,” Rozanov said, still standing with his head leaning back against the tile opposite where Shane was sitting. “You been practicing that, Hollander?”
“No,” Shane grumbled.
“No? You been saving it for me?”
Shane didn’t reply, which was as good as confirmation.
Rozanov laughed. “You need to get laid, Hollander. Waiting for a quick fuck every couple of months is not healthy.”
“I’m not waiting,” Shane said. It wasn’t quite a lie. He obviously wasn’t one hundred percent straight, but having sex with women didn’t repulse him. It just didn’t do it for him like men did.
One man in particular.
But women were safe and easy and everywhere. And maybe if he kept trying he might find one he’d like to spend more than a single night with. Someone who could finally put an end to...whatever this was.
Rozanov turned off the water and reached a hand out. Shane rolled his eyes and took it, letting Rozanov pull him to his feet. They stood, chest to chest, and Shane watched the water that dripped from Rozanov’s hair onto his shoulder and down toward his navel.
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.”
“God, 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.
“I do have to go,” Rozanov said, but even as he said it he was scraping his teeth along Shane’s jaw.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? I don’t care. I think we’re done here anyway, aren’t we?”
Rozanov stopped kissing him and looked at him, considering. “I suppose we are.”
They left the shower and got dressed quickly. Shane stripped the comforter from the bed and loaded it into the washing machine. He would make sure the place was left as spotless as he had found it.
“Three weeks, then,” Rozanov said as he stood at the door, ready to leave.
“Yup.”
Rozanov nodded, and Shane thought that was going to be it, but then the other man grinned and said, “Was it me tonight?”
“Was what you?”
“Distracting you. On the ice tonight.”
It took Shane a moment to realize what he was suggesting.
“Fuck. You.”
Rozanov’s smile spread. “Couldn’t play at all, thinking about my dick, right?”
“Goodnight, Rozanov.”
Rozanov blew him a kiss on his way out the door, leaving Shane furious and strangely relieved. It was good to be reminded of the fact that they didn’t actually like each other.
Shane pulled another beer out of the fridge and sat on the sofa to wait for the comforter to be clean. It was late and he was exhausted, but he wouldn’t sleep here. He should really talk to a Realtor about selling this building.
He would sell the building, and he would stay in his goddamn hotel room when they played in Boston and not slip out into the night to Rozanov’s penthouse. He would end this, and he would move on.
He realized, as he was making this plan, that he was brushing his fingertips over his lips. They still tingled from the memory of the other man’s mouth pressed against them.
He knew making plans to end this was pointless. As long as this was being offered, Shane would never be able to say no.
Part One
Chapter One
December 2008—Regina
Ilya Rozanov trudged through the bitter cold of the hotel parking lot to the team bus. Like most of his teammates, it was his first time in North America. He had expected to feel more overwhelmed by that, but Saskatchewan was hardly New York City. Here, there was nothing to focus on but cold and hockey, and those were two things that Russians were very familiar with.
It was two days before Christmas, but for the world’s best teenage hockey players, Christmas meant the World Junior Hockey Championships. For Ilya, it meant the chance to finally get a firsthand look at Shane Hollander.
There had been much made of the seventeen-year-old Canadian phenom. Ilya was sick of hearing the name, which had caused such a stir in the hockey world that even Moscow wasn’t far enough to escape the hype. Both Ilya and Hollander were eligible for the NHL entry draft that coming June, and they were already expected to be the number one and two overall picks. The expected order of those two picks depended on who you asked.
Ilya knew his answer.
He had never met Shane Hollander. Never played against him. But he was already determined to destroy him.
He would start by leading Russia to a gold medal victory, here in Hollander’s own country. Then he would lead his team back in Moscow to their championship. And then, surely, he would be chosen first in the draft. This was the year of Ilya Rozanov. Since he was twelve years old, 2009 had always been the year he was expected to burst onto the world stage. No Canadian pretender would change that.
The Russian team arrived at the rink for their scheduled practice at the tail end of the Canadian team’s. Ilya paused with some of his teammates to watch the Canadians run drills. The practice jerseys didn’t have names on them, so he couldn’t pick out Hollander before he was told by his assistant coach to get his ass into the dressing room. The schedule at the practice rink was very tight.
They took to the ice as soon as it had been cleared by the Zamboni. The rink was small, and kind of dumpy. The actual games would be in the large arena downtown. There were a few people sitting in the stands, watching the Russian team practice. Some scouts, no doubt, and the few family members who had actually made the trip from Russia, as well as s
everal local hard-core hockey fans.
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...
“Care to join us, Rozanov?” his coach bellowed in Russian across the ice. Ilya turned, embarrassed to find the rest of his teammates huddled around the coach.
He didn’t like that Hollander—if that was Hollander—was here watching them. Or maybe he did. Maybe Hollander was nervous about facing him later in the tournament. Maybe he felt threatened.
He should.
After the practice, Ilya showered and dressed quickly. He headed back out into the rink to stand behind the glass and look at the stands. Hollander and his parents were gone. The Slovakian team had taken to the ice for their practice.
Ilya shrugged and made his way to a vending machine. He bought himself a bottle of Coke and wondered if he could slip outside for a quick smoke before getting back on the bus.
He zipped his Team Russia parka up to his chin and slipped out a side door. It was cold as fuck outside. He pressed himself against the wall of the brick building, stuffed his Coke into his coat pocket, and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter.
“You’re supposed to smoke over there,” someone said. It took Ilya a moment to translate all of the words.
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, so Hollander didn’t look exactly Asian. 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.
“What?” Ilya said. Even the single word sounded stupid with his accent.
“The smoking area is over there.” Hollander pointed to a far corner of the parking lot, next to a large snowbank. It looked very windy there.
Ilya settled back against the wall and lit his cigarette. This fucking country. Bad enough he couldn’t smoke indoors anywhere—he needed to go sit in the fucking snow while he did it?
“I’m surprised you smoke,” Hollander said.
“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.
When Ilya didn’t say anything else, Hollander changed the subject. “Are your parents here with you?”
“No.”
“Oh. That must be rough. With Christmas and everything.”
Ilya struggled a bit to translate so many words, then said, “Is fine.”
Hollander shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “It’s cold, huh?”
“Yes.”
They leaned against the wall together, side-by-side. Ilya rolled his head against the brick to look down at Hollander, who stood a good four inches shorter than him. He was very interesting to look at. His cheeks were rosy from the cold, and his breath was emerging in white clouds from between his pink lips.
“Next year these are gonna be in Ottawa. My hometown,” Hollander said.
Ilya finished his cigarette and dropped the butt on the ground. He decided to make an effort, since this guy seemed so determined to talk to him. “Is Ottawa more exciting?”
Hollander laughed. “Than here? I don’t know. A little. It’s just as cold.”
“Your parents are here.”
“For this? Yeah. They’re here. They always try to come see me play wherever I go.”
“Nice for you.”
“Yeah. I know. They’re great.”
Ilya didn’t have anything to add to that, so he stayed silent.
“I should probably go. They’re waiting for me,” Hollander said. He moved away from the wall and turned to face Ilya. Ilya’s eyes went right to those damn freckles. Hollander stuck out his hand again.
“Good luck in the tournament,” he said.
Ilya accepted the handshake and grinned. “You will not be so friendly when we beat you.”
“That’s not happening.”
Ilya knew that Hollander truly believed that. That he would get the gold medal and be the NHL’s number one draft pick because he was the fucking prince of hockey.
Maybe Hollander expected Ilya to wish him luck as well, but Ilya just dropped his hand and turned to go back inside the rink.
* * *
In the car, Shane told his parents that he had been talking to Ilya Rozanov.
“What’s he like?” his mother asked.
“Kind of a dick,” Shane said.
* * *
When the final game of the tournament was over, the Canadian team had to suffer one more humiliation. The Russians stopped celebrating long enough to line up so the teams could shake each other’s hands—a show of sportsmanship that, at that moment, Shane did not feel in his heart.
For one thing, the Russian team had been dirty. He had hated playing against them.
For another thing, Ilya Rozanov was really fucking good. Infuriatingly good. And over the course of the tournament, the media had put a lot of effort into building up their rivalry. Shane tried to ignore the press, but it was possible that they were stoking the flames of his hatred.
When he reached Rozanov in the handshake lineup, he could see camera flashes all around them. He made sure he looked Rozanov right in the eye when he tersely said, “Congratulations.”
Rozanov smirked and said, “See you at the draft.”
They hung a silver medal around Shane’s neck that may as well have been a dead rat, for all he wanted it. He respectfully endured the playing of the Russian national anthem, blinking back frustrated tears that he refused to let fall, and then he was finally allowed to leave the ice.
It wasn’t supposed to have gone like this. He was supposed to have led his country to gold in his country. It was what the nation had expected. Canada’s hopes had been heaped onto his seventeen-year-old shoulders and he had let them all down.
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.
Maybe it was just that, after a life of playing at a level above everyone else, Shane had finally met his match.
He was sure that was all it was.
Chapter Two
June 2009—Los Angeles
“Shane, could you move a little closer to Ilya, please?”
Shane felt Ilya Rozanov’s arm brush against his as he stepped closer to him for the photographer.
“That’s perfect. All right, smile, boys.”
Shane’s eyes were bombarded with camera flashes. He stood pressed against Rozanov, who seemed to have grown another couple of inches since January. To Rozanov’s right was a giant American defenseman named Sullivan, who had been drafted third overall by Phoenix.
Rozanov had been drafted first.
Shane had spent the past six months since the World Juniors being a little bit...obsessed...with Ilya Rozanov. They had quite a bit in common, career-wise. They were both the captains of their respective teams,
and had both led their teams to the championship this season. Both men had been named league and playoff MVPs, and both had been the scoring leaders of their respective leagues. The only difference between them was that Shane had a silver medal at home, and Rozanov had gold.
And now Shane had come in second place again. After a life of always coming first in hockey.
This fucking guy.
It wasn’t all bad. Shane had been drafted by the Montreal Voyageurs, who, besides being the most legendary franchise in the league, were also only an hour’s drive from his hometown of Ottawa. It was a good fit for Shane, who was fluent in both French and English, and who had always had a lot of respect for the Voyageurs, despite having grown up an Ottawa fan. But still. Being picked second stung.
Adding to the drama of the day was the fact that Rozanov had been drafted by Montreal’s archrivals, the Boston Bears. Shane knew his career was now going to be inescapably linked to Rozanov’s. If one of them had been drafted by a team in the Western Conference, maybe the rivalry would never have gotten off the ground. But this was going to be intense.
Which didn’t mean that Shane couldn’t be polite to Rozanov now.
“Congratulations,” he said, turning to shake Rozanov’s hand when the photographers were done.
There was a definite smugness in Rozanov’s smile when he said, “Thank you.”
Rozanov didn’t congratulate Shane. Instead, he patted Shane’s fucking shoulder, like he was consoling a child who had struck out at Little League. Shane jerked away from his touch, and was about to say something that was decidedly less polite than “congratulations,” but they were both immediately pulled away in opposite directions for interviews.
Shane didn’t see Rozanov again until he was back at the hotel. The lobby was packed with athletic young men in suits, but even in that crowd Rozanov stood out. He was one of the taller men there, and cleaned up—with his dark navy suit hugging his body—he looked like a GQ model.