by Rachel Reid
“What do you want?”
Andrei was quiet. Ilya’s heart sank. “Is Dad...?”
“Fine. Why wouldn’t he be?”
Ilya’s jaw clenched. His brother could pretend all he wanted that there was nothing wrong with their father, but it was increasingly obvious that it wasn’t the case. He decided to ignore Andrei’s lies for the moment.
“Do you need money, then?” Ilya asked. It was the only other possible reason for Andrei’s call.
“Just...not much. Like...twenty thousand?”
“Twenty thousand! Dollars?”
His brother laughed. “Not rubles. Of course dollars.”
“What the fuck for?”
“Life,” his brother said vaguely. “You know what it’s like here.”
He knew what his brother was like. He was either making a bad investment, or had already made a bad investment. Or was gambling. Or something else that a police officer really shouldn’t be doing.
“I gave you ten thousand like two months ago. Where the fuck is that?”
“Life, Ilya. Like I said.”
“Life. Right.”
“It’s not like you can’t afford it. I know what your signing bonus was.”
“I’m sure you do.” It was probably the only part of Ilya’s career that Andrei had bothered to follow.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Ilya.”
Ilya rolled his eyes at the phone. He could say no. He should say no. He didn’t owe his asshole brother a goddamned thing.
But if he said no, then his father would call next to give him the speech about family and being a good son. And as much as Ilya hated Andrei, he was still his brother. But this was the last fucking time.
“I’ll send you the money. But don’t ask again.”
“Could you send it now? What time is it there?”
“What? No! Fuck you, I’ll send it tomorrow. I’m going to bed.”
“Fine. Good night then.”
“You’re welcome.”
Andrei ended the call. Ilya threw his phone down on the bed.
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 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.
Chapter Six
January 2011—Nashville
Ilya swiped his key card for the third time and his hotel room door finally unlocked. Once inside, he fell back on the king-size bed with his arms outstretched, pleasantly buzzed from the drinks he’d consumed at his All-Star team’s dinner.
He had expected to be on a team with Hollander, since they played in the same conference, but the league had decided to change it up this year and have North American players form one team, and European players form the other. No secret as to why. The league couldn’t get enough of the Rozanov/Hollander rivalry.
Ilya was close to making good on his promise to score fifty goals by the end of February. He had already scored thirty-eight.
Hollander had scored forty-one.
Fucking Hollander.
Ilya’d spotted him in the lobby earlier that evening, but that was it. No words had been exchanged. He hadn’t even gotten a nod of acknowledgment from him.
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.
On the ice it was easy enough to focus on the game. 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.
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. When Ilya watched him play against other teams, and watched how he moved with flawless, calculated grace. When Ilya heard him switch effortlessly between perfect English and perfect French at press conferences. When Ilya thought about how eager his mouth had been back in that hotel room in Toronto...
He didn’t even have Hollander’s phone number.
He’d see him tomorrow night.
* * *
Shane should have been expecting the press conference.
Saturday morning, the day of the All-Star Skills Competition, he had received a phone call from someone from the NHL’s PR office telling him there was a short press conference scheduled for that afternoon. Two o’clock. It would just be him...and Ilya Rozanov.
“Why?” Shane had asked.
“It’s your first All-Star Game! You’re both having legendary rookie seasons! And besides, the press love the idea of getting you two together.”
Shane had flushed a little.
So now he found himself sitting behind a raised table, staring at a room full of reporters and cameras. That part was very familiar, and didn’t cause Shane any stress. 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.
“Ilya,” one reporter said, “you announced at the beginning of the season that you would score fifty goals by the end of February. You’ve scored thirty-eight so far. Do you think you’ll keep your promise?”
Rozanov took a moment to reply. Shane wondered if he was working through all the English words.
“Yes,” Rozanov finally answered. There was scattered laughter when it became clear that he wasn’t going to elaborate.
“Shane, you’ve scored forty-one goals this year already. Do you think you’ll beat Rozanov to fifty?”
“I don’t really think about stuff like that,” Shane said carefully. “This is a team sport, and I’m happy when my team is doing well. I just try to contribute.”
Rozanov was wearing a ball cap and had his head down so the reporters couldn’t see his reaction, but Shane could feel him rolling his eyes beside him.
“Ilya, how’s it feel to play with a team of Europeans for this All-Star Game?”
“Good. Perfect. Locker room makes more sense than usual.”
More laughter.
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...
The questions kept coming, and they were all exactly what Shane had been expecting. He did his best to answer them, and even chanced a glance over at Rozanov’s profile next to him. His curls poked out from under his All-Star Game ball cap, and his jawline was covered in stubble. He was wearing a V-neck T-shirt, and Shane could see the glint of his gold chain where it disappeared beneath the fabric.
Shane turned his head abruptly back to the reporters.
He took a sip of his water and sat back in his chair. Except now he had an even better view of Rozanov, and the way he was hunched forward over the table. Shane could see the muscles in his back and shoulders straining against the thin material of the T-shirt.
“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 made a show of rolling his eyes as the room laughed. He clasped his hands together and rested them on the table in front of him, leaning over his microphone as he awaited the next question. Rozanov’s elbows were resting on the table too. His left elbow was almost brushing Shane’s right. 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.
“Both Montreal and Boston have been out of the playoffs for three seasons now. Do you guys feel the pressure to restore your team’s legacies, even this early in your careers?”
Shane rubbed his arm and furrowed his brow. He turned his head and saw that Ilya was looking at him, and his face showed that he was hoping Shane would field this one. Rozanov probably only understood about half the words. Shane thought it was a pretty stupid question, honestly.
“Um,” he said. “I can’t speak for Rozanov, or what it’s like in Boston, but I know the fans in Montreal love their team and definitely are expecting us to turn things around and get back in the playoffs and win some cups. And, you know, I feel the exact same way. So... I guess my answer is that I don’t really feel any pressure that I’m not already putting on myself.”
He hoped that satisfied him. Unfortunately, the reporter didn’t pick up on the fact that Rozanov was clearly struggling with understanding the question, and said, “Ilya?”
“Ah,” Rozanov said. “What Hollander said. Yes.”
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.
The press conference ended. Both men stood as the room erupted into the chaos of dozens of people packing up recording equipment. 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.”
* * *
Shane allowed himself a moment, on the ice, to take everything in. The NHL’s All-Star Skills Competition was held the night before the All-Star Game, and was a chance for the stars to show off and try to prove themselves the fastest skater, or the hardest shooter. It was just a laid-back, fun night, and no one took it very seriously, but he was here, dammit. He was a rookie and he was an NHL All-Star. He could be a little proud of himself.
All of the players from both teams were on the ice now, clustered in front of their respective benches. Some of the players kneeled as they waited for their events to be called. Others stood and chatted with their just-for-this-weekend teammates. The league had been less than subtle about their desire to see Shane and Rozanov go head-to-head in one of the competition events. That event ended up being the shot accuracy competition.
Rozanov went first. The net had four foam bull’s-eye targets—one in each corner—fastened to the goalposts. When the timer started, the object was to break all four targets with shots from the blue line as fast as possible. The league record was about seven seconds.
When the whistle blew, Rozanov wasted no time. He broke the top two targets with the first two shots, then missed the next one, then cleanly broke the bottom two targets with his fourth and fifth shots.
Eight seconds.
Shane shook his head and watched Rozanov play to the crowd. Rozanov skated around the ice holding his stick like a rifle, celebrating his skills by pretending to shoot at the rafters.
Shane skated up to replace Rozanov on the blue line, and Rozanov came to a stop right in front of him. “Sorry about that, Hollander.”
“You think I can’t beat that?”
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.
The whistle blew and Shane just locked on to those targets. He watched each one burst apart with four perfect shots.
Six. Point. Seven. Seconds.
The crowd went wild. Shane threw his arms over his head and celebrated more than was probably necessary or sportsmanlike, but fuck, it felt good.
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.
His contribution to the competition completed, Shane could now just relax and enjoy himself as he watched the others battle each other. He would like to say his gradual movement down the line in front of the bench to where the two teams met was not deliberate, but that would be a lie. And it seemed he wasn’t the only one making that journey.
Shane leaned casually against the boards at the end of the bench, pretending to focus on the players competing for hardest shot, instead of on the man who was standing a couple of feet from him.
“Nice job, Hollander,” Rozanov drawled.
“Thanks.”
“Have fun last night?”
“Last night?”
“With your teammates. Dinner somewhere? Get drunk?”
Shane looked down at the ice. “Oh. Yeah. It was fun. Um...how about you guys?”
“Lots of fun. No fucking Canadians or Americans. Was perfect.”
“Ah.”
He turned his gaze to Rozanov’s face. No one wore helmets for the skills competition, since there was no actual body contact, and Shane could admire the profile of his chiseled jaw, and the soft curls of his hair.
“Going to bed early tonight. I think,” Rozanov said suddenly.
Shane’s mouth went a little dry. “Oh?”
“Yes.”
They stood in silence, watching the action on the ice. Loud music blared and the crowd cheered as another record was broken.
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. Shane watched him skate down the ice to talk to a fellow Russian player.
Shane hoped he wasn’t blushing.
“The fuck did Rozanov want?” asked Liam Casey, a defenseman for Pittsburgh.
“Nothing,” Shane said quickly. “Just shit-talking, you know?”
“Guy’s a fucking asshole.”
“Yeah,” he said.
* * *
Ilya wasn’t surprised at all when the knock came.
It was late. After midnight. He had been back in his room for almost two hours.
Hollander pushed into the room as soon as Ilya opened the door. He turned and flipped the bar latch as if someone was going to burst in any moment.
He looked terrified.
“Is there a ghost out there?” Ilya asked, amused.
“No. Fuck you. This is fucking dangerous and you know it.”
“Is it? We are not doing
anything.”
Hollander looked at him hard. His dark eyes were a mixture of anger and lust. Ilya decided to drop the act.
“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. He gazed up at Ilya. Those onyx eyes, always so sharp, were hazy with desire. Hollander leaned forward to nuzzle and mouth at the bulge in Ilya’s sweatpants.
“Christ, Hollander,” Ilya breathed, gently pulling at Hollander’s hair as he pressed hot, openmouthed kisses to the fabric that pulled tight over Ilya’s erection. He felt dizzy and less in control than he wanted to be as Hollander tucked fingers into Ilya’s waistband and pulled down until Ilya’s cock was freed.
Hollander didn’t hesitate. He dragged his tongue up the length before wrapping his lips around the head and sinking down. Ilya couldn’t even make a smart remark. He just gasped and let his head fall back, completely overwhelmed by Hollander’s need for this. He certainly didn’t have the ability to conjure English words right now.
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.