by Rachel Reid
“You want me to...”
“Da. Yes. Let me see you.”
“You’ve already seen me. In the shower.”
“I want a better look.”
Shane removed his clothes quickly. Being naked in the presence of other guys was not foreign to him, but there was nothing familiar about this scenario. He stood in his underwear for a moment, then tried not to blush as he removed them.
Shane stood with his arms out. Well?
Rozanov grinned and waved a hand over his own chest. “So smooth.”
“Look...”
“Like a swimmer.”
“I don’t...it’s natural, all right?”
“Yes. Come here.” Rozanov patted the bed next to him.
Shane blew out a breath and moved onto the bed. He lay flat on his back next to Rozanov, unsure of what to do next.
“What do you want?” Rozanov asked.
“I don’t know.”
“No?” Rozanov asked, and he leaned over him and kissed him. “Nothing?”
“I...”
“What about...” 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.
“Relax,” Rozanov said, and kissed him again. His hand stroked Shane carefully, without lube, and Shane was spellbound. Rozanov’s soft, accented words and his gentle hands and his confident kisses were all working together to ensnare him.
Dizzy with sensation and lust, Shane lightly pushed on Rozanov’s shoulder until he was flat on his back. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, Shane slid down his body and took his cock into his mouth again. He wasn’t any surer of his abilities, but he knew what he wanted. He wanted to get Rozanov off. He wanted to take him apart.
He let his jaw slacken and took Rozanov as deep as he could. He was nervous about biting him by accident, so he kept his mouth open wider than was probably necessary and used a lot of tongue. It was sloppy and very wet, but he could hear the encouraging sounds Rozanov was making. When Shane turned his eyes up, he could see Rozanov had propped himself up on his elbows and was watching him give his first blow job with great interest.
Shane wrapped a hand around the base of Rozanov’s cock and stroked up to meet his mouth. When Rozanov arched and moaned, Shane repeated it, stroking him hard and fast.
“Hollander...fuck.” Rozanov switched to Russian, and Shane didn’t know what he was saying, but he figured he should probably get out of the way because he wasn’t sure he was ready to take a load in his mouth.
He pulled off just in time. Rozanov put his own hand on his dick to replace Shane’s mouth and stroked himself roughly until his release fell all over his own stomach.
Shane stared, dumbfounded. It was the hottest thing he had ever seen.
Rozanov flopped back on the bed, breathing hard. “Not bad, Hollander,” he said.
Shane was still staring at the mess on Rozanov’s stomach. His own cock was like iron. He thought about stroking himself until he came on Rozanov. He thought about Rozanov putting his mouth on him...
“Okay. Well. Goodnight,” Rozanov said, and moved to get up.
Shane’s mouth dropped open, and he was about to be furious when he noticed the playful, crooked grin.
“Fuck you,” Shane said.
“Did you need something?” Rozanov asked innocently.
Shane glared at him. Rozanov chuckled and grabbed some tissues from the nightstand so he could wipe his stomach off a bit.
“Lie down,” Rozanov instructed.
Shane did. Rozanov crawled on top of him and kissed him.
“You think I’m an asshole,” Rozanov said.
“You are an asshole.”
“I would not leave you like that.”
“No?”
He kissed him again. “No.”
As they kissed, Rozanov reached a hand down and gripped Shane’s cock. Shane gasped into his mouth.
“Let me show you,” Rozanov murmured, “how to do this.”
He kissed his way down Shane’s body, which felt so good that Shane forgot to be insulted. 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 cone or something.
“Jesus.” Shane shuddered.
Rozanov licked and sucked the head, tonguing the slit and pushing Shane dangerously close to the edge already. 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 teeth—work him like there would be a medal awarded for performance...
“Ah, god. Rozanov! I’m gonna...”
He expected Rozanov to get the hell out of the way, but instead he sucked him harder and Shane emptied himself into his mouth.
A stream of nonsense fell out of Shane’s mouth. “Holy shit. I’m sorry. Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Fuck. Wow. God.”
Rozanov pulled off, not at all hurried, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He laughed at Shane’s babbling. “Sorry? Why sorry?”
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 bringing in the mail. “I don’t mind it.”
Shane felt stupid that he hadn’t even tried to...properly finish the job on Rozanov. This guy was determined to one-up him at every turn.
Rozanov sat on the edge of the bed with his back to Shane. He rolled his neck and idly rubbed his jaw. Shane sat up and swung his legs over the opposite side of the bed. He gripped the mattress with both hands and looked at the floor. He felt panic surge up in him again.
He heard Rozanov blow out a breath, which made Shane laugh for some reason. The absurdity of the situation was hitting him.
“You’re laughing.”
“Yeah, well...this whole thing is a little nuts.”
“I want a cigarette,” Rozanov said.
“You’re not allowed to smoke in the hotel.”
“I know. Stupid country.” Rozanov sighed. “Doesn’t matter. Bears told me to quit. I am trying not to smoke.”
“Oh. That’s good. Smoking is bad for you.”
“Is it?” Shane could hear Rozanov’s eyes rolling.
“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.”
He felt the bed shift as Rozanov stood up.
Shane had the stupid urge to ask him to stay. He imagined falling asleep in his arms and what the fuck? This thing they’d just done was, above all things, a huge mistake. As far as hookups went, Shane really could not have chosen a less appropriate person. And even forgetting that, there was no reason to pretend this was anything more than a quick, no-strings fuck. And why would Shane even want to pretend that?
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 o
f his playful, crooked smiles. Shane had managed to put his underwear back on, but other than that, was still naked.
“My flight is early tomorrow,” Rozanov said. There was maybe a note of apology in it. Or maybe Shane was imagining things.
“All right.”
Rozanov nodded. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” Shane said awkwardly. “I’ll see you on the ice, I guess.”
“Yes.”
Shane wanted to kiss him one more time, because he was sure he would never get the chance again. But Rozanov was already opening the door.
“Goodbye, Hollander.”
“Bye,” Shane said to the closed door.
Chapter Five
September 2010—Montreal
Shane was a man of routine.
He woke every morning at six o’clock, and immediately went for a ten-kilometer run. He would then return to his (new) apartment to do sets of pull-ups, push-ups, and crunches. Then he would stretch before he would make himself a smoothie and a bagel, which he would eat while watching SportsCenter. Then he would shower.
The rest of his day would be dictated by whatever was scheduled for him. He very rarely had a day with nothing planned.
He had completed his first NHL training camp, and he had secured himself a spot on the Montreal Voyageurs’ roster for the 2010–2011 season. That was no surprise, but he was still damn proud of himself. He was starting the preseason games the next day. The city of Montreal had already warmly embraced him. He was excited.
On the television, the SportsCenter anchors were talking about Ilya Rozanov.
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.
He was watching the television, entranced, but not listening to a word of the interview. He didn’t snap out of it until he heard Rozanov say, without a trace of irony, “The Bears will be happy with me this season. I will score fifty goals.”
“Fifty goals?” the stunned interviewer asked.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Shane asked at home.
“Yes. By end of February,” Rozanov said.
Shane snorted. He was stunned by the audacity of this guy. He was announcing before the season had even started, before he had any idea how much ice time he’d even be getting with the Bears, that he would be scoring fifty goals this season? As a nineteen-year-old rookie?
Shane had every intention of scoring at least as many goals himself, but he certainly wasn’t going to announce it. Jesus Christ, what would his new teammates think of him? They’d think he was a cocky little asshole, that’s what. And if Shane didn’t perform, he’d look like a fucking idiot.
But there was Rozanov, bold as brass, calmly announcing his intention to do what maybe four or five rookies had been able to do? Ever? In history?
Ridiculous. Infuriating.
“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.
* * *
The opportunity came a month later.
The hype leading up to the first meeting between Hollander and Rozanov seemed, to Shane, to be a bit much. They were both only nineteen, and their NHL careers were only weeks old. He wasn’t sure what anyone was expecting to happen.
Montreal was hosting Boston. Shane met his parents for lunch the day of the game. They came to every home game, but this day they came up from Ottawa a little early because they knew how nervous he was.
“The league is always looking for a marketing angle, Shane,” his father said. “It’s just a game like any other.”
“I know.” He poked at his pasta. He couldn’t imagine what his parents would say if they knew the real reason he was nervous about facing Rozanov. Pressure he could handle. He lived for hockey, and he was extremely good at it. Normally he’d be looking forward to the chance to prove himself against a rival.
You had to go and make it weird, didn’t you, Hollander?
“Is Drapeau going to be starting tonight?” Shane’s mother asked. “He was weak on his left side last game. Is he hurt?”
“He’s fine,” Shane said with a small smile. In a nation of rabid, knowledgeable hockey fans, Yuna Hollander ranked near the top. Her parents had emigrated from Japan, but Yuna had been born and raised in Montreal. She couldn’t have been happier that her son had been drafted by her beloved Voyageurs.
Shane was the only child of Yuna and David Hollander, and they had given him all the support in the world. Shane loved them, and he knew how lucky he was. He definitely wouldn’t be where he was without them.
Shane knew most guys in the league didn’t have their parents coming to almost every home game, but he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was grateful his folks lived so close. He’d played his junior hockey in Kingston, which was close enough to Ottawa that he’d seen his parents at most games there too. He’d never really felt that need to distance himself from them. Maybe it was because he was an only child, or maybe it was because he knew how much his parents had given of their time and money and energy to get him to where he was now.
Plus, he liked them.
“You need a lamp beside your couch in that apartment,” Mom said, completely out of nowhere.
“What?”
“Your living room. It’s too dark. Do you want the one from the den at home? We don’t need it.”
“That’s okay, Mom. You keep that. I’ll get one.”
“Yuna! He doesn’t need our old furniture! He’s a millionaire!”
“It’s a nice lamp!” she argued. “They don’t make nice things anymore.”
“If you have the money, they’ll make anything,” Dad said.
“Next time you guys drive up we can go lamp shopping, Mom.”
That seemed to please her. “Have you had any friends over yet?” she asked.
“One guy. Hayden. You know...”
“Hayden Pike. The rookie. Left wing. Played in the Quebec league for Drummondville,” Mom recited. “Yes.”
“Yeah. He came over to check the place out one night before we went out with some of the other guys.”
“He seems like a nice boy,” Mom said. “I saw him interviewed.”
“He’s cool. Everyone has been great so far, really.”
Dad laughed. “Of course they have been! They’re damn lucky to have you.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “I’m just another guy on the team.”
His parents looked at each other, but didn’t say anything. Shane let it go. He knew how proud they were of him.
“Anyway,” Dad said, “what were we talking about? Rozanov? We’re not worried about Rozanov, right?”
“He’s a dirty player,” Mom growled.
“He’s a good player is what he is.” Shane sighed.
“Not as good as you. Not in any category,” Mom said firmly.
“He’s bigger than me.”
“You’re faster than him.”
“Maybe.”
“And you’re a leader. A nice young man. Rozanov is a jerk.”
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 glas
s, nearly knocking it over.
His mother narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong with you, Shane? You aren’t usually this nervous.”
“Nothing! I just want to win tonight. That’s all.”
It seemed to be the right thing to say, because she smiled. “You will. Screw Ilya Rozanov, right? That can be your mantra tonight.”
Or not.
Shane forced a smile. “Sure. Screw him.”
* * *
“All right, fuck it,” Coach LeClaire said. “Rozanov, get out there and take the face-off against Hollander. Let’s give ’em what they want.”
Rozanov vaulted over the boards and headed for the face-off circle. He was on the ice with Hollander for the first time in an NHL game.
“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.
The crowd was so fucking loud. This city was nuts.
“Will you disappoint them, Hollander?”
“Nope.”
They bent for the face-off.
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.
* * *
Ilya scowled at the ceiling of his Montreal hotel room. He was furious with himself—not at his team, at himself—for losing this first match against Hollander.
He didn’t know what to do with his anger. It was not the best moment for his phone to ring.
It was his goddamned brother, Andrei.
“What is it?” Ilya said, forgoing niceties. It wasn’t like Andrei was calling just to chat.
“Did you play tonight?”
“Yes,” Ilya said tightly. He had teammates from the Czech Republic whose families back home watched every game online.
“Oh. Did you win?”