by Rachel Reid
Shane felt short. He had turned eighteen last month, but he felt like a kid.
Rozanov had turned eighteen too. Just last week. Which Shane knew because he was obsessed with him.
That night, in his private hotel room (his proud parents were across the hall), Shane couldn’t sleep.
It had been an exhausting day, and, yes, he had been drafted by the NHL. He had achieved the thing he had worked his whole life toward. And being chosen second overall was nothing to sulk about.
He wasn’t sulking. Not really. He was just...bothered. By something.
He sighed and rolled out of bed. He threw on some sweats and his sneakers and headed down to the hotel gym. Maybe he could shut his mind off with some exercise.
The gym was mercifully empty. Shane stepped onto one of the two treadmills and started running at a gentle pace. He didn’t wear headphones; he just lost himself in the noise of the machine.
He didn’t notice when someone else entered the gym. He only realized he wasn’t alone when the other man stepped onto the treadmill next to him.
Ilya Rozanov gave him a quick nod and turned to face the white wall at the front of the room as he started running alongside Shane.
Shane tried to ignore Rozanov’s presence. There was nothing weird about it; he must have been having trouble sleeping too. Or maybe he always hit the gym after midnight. Or maybe the time zone was messing with him. Or maybe...
Rozanov increased the speed on his machine. He didn’t glance at Shane at all. Because Shane was petty and competitive, he increased the speed on his own machine...just a little faster than Rozanov’s.
Within a minute, Rozanov did the same thing, raising the bar and silently waiting for Shane to match him. Shane glanced over and saw a slight smirk on Rozanov’s lips. Shane shook his head and fought his own smile. He cranked up the speed.
They kept on this way, caught in a silent battle, until they were both testing the limits of their machines. They were running at a sprint pace for far longer than was comfortable, and Shane’s entire body was burning in protest. But he didn’t want to stop, or even slow down, until Rozanov did. Rozanov smoked, for fuck’s sake. Shane could beat him.
But Rozanov showed no signs of quitting.
They kept up that pace for another minute or two, and Shane finally slammed his hand on the emergency stop button and stumbled off. He leaned against the back wall, gasping for breath, before sliding down to sit on the floor. Rozanov stopped his own machine, and was holding on to the console for support.
“Fuck,” Shane wheezed. Rozanov laughed and sat himself on the floor against the wall facing Shane. Rozanov’s gray, sleeveless shirt was soaked through with sweat. They both sat with their legs sprawled out in front of them; Rozanov’s sneakers were almost touching Shane’s ankle.
Rozanov ran a hand through his damp hair in a move that was more interesting to Shane than it should have been. Rozanov was so...masculine. Shane was baby-faced and short, and couldn’t grow proper facial hair, and barely had any chest hair. Rozanov was almost exactly the same age as him, but he looked like he had crossed over a magical line to adulthood.
Shane quickly turned his gaze to the floor, and hoped the flush from the exercise covered his blushing.
“What a fucking day, huh?” Rozanov said.
“Yeah. Totally.”
“Everything you dreamed of?”
Shane looked him dead in the eye. “Almost.”
Rozanov grinned back. “Sorry I ruined your big day.”
“Fuck off.”
“Montreal is nice, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Is Boston nice?”
“Sure. Yeah. I’ve only been there a couple of times, but it’s a good town.”
Rozanov nodded.
They were silent a moment, and then Rozanov tapped Shane’s ankle with the bottom of his sneaker. “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.”
Rozanov took a long haul from his water bottle. Shane pretended he was only looking longingly at the way his throat worked because he had forgotten to bring a bottle for himself. It wasn’t until Rozanov’s Adam’s apple stopped bobbing and his lips were dark and glistening that Shane realized he was staring. The lips quirked up a bit, and Rozanov extended his arm, offering Shane his bottle.
“Oh. I’m all right. Thanks.”
Rozanov shook the bottle at him, and Shane took it. He needed water. It would be dumb to refuse.
The tips of their fingers touched briefly together. Shane held the bottle away from his lips and quickly squirted water into his mouth. Rozanov watched him.
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.
Shane scrambled to his feet. “I’m going to bed. I guess I’ll...see you around, right?”
Rozanov looked up at him from the floor. “You will be seeing plenty of me.”
Shane nodded and left the room as fast as he could. He waited until he was back in his room before he let himself freak out.
What the fuck was that?
He had never... Jesus Christ, he had a girlfriend. He wasn’t...
A girlfriend you are hoping will break up with you. She didn’t even come on this trip to see you get drafted.
Well, that was true. But she had just started a new summer job...
And you haven’t thought about her all day until right now. You haven’t even called her yet.
Yeah, all right. Maybe it wasn’t really working out with her, but it wasn’t like she was the only girl he’d ever...done stuff with.
You’re half hard right now. From sitting on the gym floor with another man.
Okay, that one he couldn’t explain.
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.
Chapter Three
December 2009—Ottawa
Ilya watched the red glowing numbers on his hotel room’s alarm clock flick from 11:56 to 11:57.
The room was completely dark. His roommate was down the hall, along with half the team, watching the American New Year’s Eve celebrations on television.
Ilya had been in that room too. He had watched the Black Eyed Peas perform and had eaten chips and made jokes with his teammates.
And then he just wanted to be alone.
11:58.
There was no mistaking that Ottawa was Shane Hollander’s hometown. It was Shane Hollander fucking mania here. His face and his freckles were everywhere: newspapers, television, buses, banners, the sides of buildings.
Of course Hollander was from Canada’s capital city. Of course the city was as inoffensive and bland as he was.
Their teams hadn’t played each other yet, and they likely wouldn’t before the gold medal game. It would be a shocking upset if it didn’t end up being Canada and Russia in the finals.
11:59.
Ilya would be moving
to Boston this summer. To America. He had never been out of Russia for more than a couple of weeks at a time. He would begin his NHL career. He would be rich and famous. He would be his own man, away from his family.
Midnight.
“Happy New Year,” he muttered to himself.
He sat up on the bed and grabbed the package of nicotine gum off his nightstand. He popped a piece in his mouth and frowned as he chewed it. He could hear fireworks outside, and his teammates cheering in the rooms around him.
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.
But Shane Hollander wasn’t staying at this hotel. Shane Hollander was probably ringing in the New Year with friends and family in his perfect hometown that loved him so very, very much.
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.
Fuck. Anyway. Russia was undefeated in the tournament so far. Canada was also undefeated. Only one team would stay that way until the end. Ilya had more important things to think about than freckles and polite Canadian boys.
* * *
Shane couldn’t have been happier that his second, and last, World Junior Championship was being held in his hometown. He had spent Christmas with his family, and New Year’s with his teammates at the hotel. His parents had been at every game, as usual, and he had been able to visit with lots of friends.
He’d been in a great mood for the entire tournament, and he’d been playing outstanding hockey.
And now it was the night before the gold medal game, and Canada would be facing Russia for the second year in a row.
And Shane would be facing Ilya Rozanov.
He hadn’t seen Rozanov at all for this entire tournament. The Canadian and Russian teams had been practicing at different rinks and staying in separate hotels. This game would be their first match.
But Shane had watched every game Russia had played. And he’d been studying video footage of Rozanov. And this time he was going to beat his ass.
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.
So Shane had gone back to life as usual after that night. Well, he’d broken up with his girlfriend, but that had been overdue anyway.
There was one other thing that had changed: Shane had found himself noticing men. Not his teammates or his friends or anyone like that. Just...like a guy at the airport Starbucks. Or the guy who’d been in the cereal aisle of the grocery store in Kingston a few weeks ago.
Or the guy who was on Friday Night Lights.
But it’s not like he wasn’t into girls. Girls were very into him, and they were throwing themselves at him now that he was about to become a millionaire superstar. So, yeah, he’d been hooking up with girls. Plenty of girls.
Like, at least two girls. Since breaking up with his girlfriend.
Not, like, all-the-way sex. But sex stuff.
He had definitely been blown by two different girls since July. And he had enjoyed it. With his head tilted back. And his eyes closed.
And he hadn’t thought about Ilya Rozanov’s dark, wet lips or his crooked smile at all.
* * *
“Are you getting tired of second place?” Rozanov smirked.
“I’m winning this game,” Shane growled.
“There is not an ‘I’ in team, right?”
“There’s an ‘I’ in ‘suck my dick.’”
Rozanov raised an eyebrow as they bent for the face-off.
“There is also an ‘I’ in ‘silver,’” he said.
Shane made sure he won the face-off. And he made sure he was exactly where he needed to be to score a goal forty seconds later.
And he made sure they won that game.
* * *
For all his cockiness and teasing, Ilya took hockey very seriously. And he hated to lose.
But this time he had lost. And he would be going back to Russia with a silver medal. He wasn’t proud of it.
He didn’t want to return to Russia at all. He wanted to stay in North America and start the next phase of his life. He didn’t want to hear his father—who likely hadn’t even watched any of the games—shame him for not bringing home a gold medal. He didn’t want to live with his father, or depend on anyone anymore. He wanted to be rich and famous and loved and have a huge garage full of sports cars. He wanted expensive clothes and gorgeous women and hot nightclubs. He wanted the weight of his family, and his country, lifted. 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.
Chapter Four
July 2010—Toronto
Shane had signed a lucrative endorsement deal with CCM, one of the biggest hockey equipment companies. He hadn’t played a single game in the NHL yet, so he was pretty stoked about it.
Then he found out that CCM had also signed Rozanov.
And then he found out that they wanted to launch an ad campaign with both of them. Together.
So Shane found himself in a dark, mostly empty rink in the suburbs of Toronto on a Wednesday in July. He would be reporting to training camp in just over a month. He hadn’t seen Rozanov since the World Juniors back at the beginning of January.
Spotlights had been set up around the ice, creating some very dramatic lighting. There were going to be two parts to the day: first, they would do a photo shoot, both separately and together, and then they would skate around and do some fancy stickhandling for the television ads.
Shane was getting used to photo shoots, and to having cameras on him in general. This seemed like a bigger production than he was used to. This felt like he was starring in a movie.
Costarring.
He took a couple of laps around the ice while he waited for the crew to finish setting up. He was wearing head-to-toe CCM gear, of course, including a custom black jersey with a big CCM logo on the chest where a team logo would normally go. His name and number, 24, were on the back.
Shane was wearing makeup, and it felt weird. He wasn’t supposed to sweat at all before they did the photo shoot. He decided he’d better stop skating and sit on the bench while he was waiting. He watched the crew fiddle with the lighting.
After a few minutes, he felt the unmistakable presence of Rozanov at the end of the bench. He turned and saw him standing there, huge and handsome, and also wearing makeup.
“Very pretty,” Rozanov teased him. “Like a doll.”
“You’re painted up too.”
Rozanov leaned on the top of the boards and grinned. “Yes, but I’m not pretty.”
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.
The photo shoot took a lot longer than Shane had been expecting. It was mostly just standing on the ice, holding CCM hockey sticks in various positions. They did a few photos standing together, but most of them were separate. They finished with a posed photo of the two of them hunched over in the face-off position. They held the pose for what felt like an eternity, with their faces inches apart, staring into each other’s eyes.
“Try not to laugh, fellas,” the director said. “I know it’ll be challenging.”
Laughing was not what Shane was worried about. He needed to relax his eyes so Rozanov’s features blurred, just to keep himself from staring at the man’s lips.