by Rachel Reid
This was it.
Shane’s mother put her hand on his arm. She was as nervous as he was. Maybe more.
Shane gave her a weak smile, and waited.
* * *
The reception afterward was as raucous as anyone would expect a Vegas hotel banquet hall packed with professional hockey players to be. Most of the guys were pretty drunk, but Shane couldn’t have gotten drunk even if he had been legally old enough to order a drink in Nevada because he was faced with an unending parade of people slapping him on the back and congratulating him. Some even tousled his hair.
The only person Shane hadn’t seen that night was Ilya Rozanov.
Secretly, Shane had been searching for him all night. Half the times he’d been talking to someone, he’d been looking over their shoulder. He never caught even a glimpse of golden-brown curls, which should have been easy to spot, given Rozanov’s height.
He wondered if Rozanov had just gone back to his room.
The thought made Shane angry. What a fucking baby. If Rozanov had won, Shane would be here, in this room, ready to congratulate him. If Rozanov wanted to spend his first NHL Awards sulking in his hotel room, that wasn’t Shane’s problem.
Or maybe he just wanted to stealthily get drunk in his hotel room, and then come to the party. Rozanov wasn’t old enough to order a drink here either.
“You seen Roz anywhere?” someone asked him suddenly.
Shane flinched. He felt like his mind had been read.
“No!” he said, way too quickly. And with more blushing than was necessary. He took a breath. “Why would I know where Rozanov is?”
The guy—a forward for Toronto—shrugged. “Thought you guys might be at the kiddie table together or something.”
“No,” Shane said. “I haven’t seen him. At all.”
“Okay, well. Congratulations, kid.” He squeezed Shane’s shoulder and walked past him.
It was hot in the room. Too many people. Quite a few of the guys had removed their jackets and ties. It was getting harder to tolerate the atmosphere of the place without the help of alcohol.
Shane scanned the room for his parents. He spotted his father slumped in a chair, drinking what Shane was sure was a Sprite. Shane’s mother seemed to be talking a star goaltender’s ear off.
“I’m just gonna step out for some air,” Shane told his father. “Just for a minute. I’ll be back.”
“Sure,” Dad said. He looked exhausted. “I’m going to try to convince your mother it’s bedtime in a minute anyway.”
“Good luck.” Shane smiled.
As soon as he left the room, Shane felt the relief of the air-conditioning that flowed, unencumbered, through the mostly empty hallway. He leaned against the wall for a minute and exhaled.
He wondered what room Rozanov was in.
No, he thought. He’s a fucking baby and he doesn’t deserve...anything.
Was Rozanov really that upset, though? He was normally so cool and collected. If anything, Shane would have expected him to show up at the party just to show everyone how unbothered he was about losing.
He knew where Rozanov couldn’t be right now: the casinos. The bars. He could be in his room. Or...someone else’s room. Or in his own room with someone else.
Shane frowned. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his tuxedo jacket so he could check the time. Almost two in the morning. Not that time meant anything in Las Vegas.
Shane had never been to Las Vegas before. He had just flown in the night before, and hadn’t really done any sightseeing yet. He probably wouldn’t get a chance, because he was flying out tomorrow afternoon. He had been told, when he had checked in, that the hotel offered a spectacular rooftop view of the city. Feeling restless, and not wanting to rejoin the party, he decided he may as well check it out.
He took the elevator to the top. There was a trio of loud, drunk girls in the elevator with him. He pressed himself into the back corner and fixed his eyes on the glowing floor numbers as the elevator ascended.
“Oh my god! Is it your wedding day?” one of the girls asked him suddenly.
“Pardon?”
“The tuxedo,” she said. “Did you get married today?”
“Oh. No.”
“He doesn’t have a ring,” one of her friends hissed.
They all erupted into giggles.
Shane turned his eyes back to the numbers above the doors. They weren’t moving fast enough.
“Are you going to Strat-speeeer?” the first girl asked.
“To where?”
“Strat-o-sphere,” she said again, more slowly.
“Um.”
“Stratosphere,” one of her friends explained. “The bar on the roof.”
“There’s a bar on the roof?”
They all laughed again. “You are so cute,” the friend said. They nodded and giggled some more. “Come to the bar with us!”
“I can’t. Sorry.” Jesus, this was a long elevator ride.
By the time they finally reached the top, the girls had forgotten about him. They stumbled out of the elevator and turned right, presumably in the direction of the rooftop bar. Shane turned left.
There was a lot of noise coming from the bar. Pulsing music and loud, drunken voices. On the other side of the roof, there was a quiet corner that looked out over the city. It was a place that Shane guessed was normally used for weddings. It was empty now.
Almost empty.
Shane didn’t see him, at first. All black in his tuxedo, with his head bent down over the railing, Rozanov blended right into the darkness. Then he raised his head and let out a white cloud of smoke.
“It’s not worth jumping over,” Shane said, moving to stand just behind him.
Rozanov turned. He didn’t even seem surprised to see Shane. He took another long drag of his cigarette then said in a tight voice, “Is the party over, then?”
“No. I just needed some air.”
Rozanov exhaled. The smoke swirled around his face and then floated up into the desert sky. “Such an exciting night for you.”
“I guess.”
Rozanov rolled his eyes. “I guess.”
“It could have gone to either one of us.”
“It went to you.”
“Yeah, well, you know. Who knows how they decide these things?” Shane wasn’t sure why he was even saying this stuff. He didn’t need to apologize for anything. He’d earned that fucking trophy. “So you’re just sulking up here all night, then? It bothers you that much that I won?”
Rozanov took another drag and turned back to the view. He said something that Shane couldn’t hear.
“What was that?” Shane asked, moving to stand beside him against the rail.
“Not everything is about you, Hollander.” He didn’t look at Shane at all when he said it. His voice hadn’t been angry. He just sounded...tired. And sad.
Shane studied his profile. His own anger left him, and he found himself caring about Ilya Rozanov, which was an odd sensation. “So what is it then?”
Rozanov dropped the butt of his cigarette on the ground and stamped it out. He laughed a little, without any humor at all. “What do you want, Hollander?”
“Nothing. I just wanted some air. To see the view.”
“Well,” Rozanov said, sweeping a hand through the air in front of them, “here is view.”
Shane’s eyes turned toward the blanket of city lights that sprawled beneath them, but they quickly found their way back to Rozanov’s face. He saw the clench in Rozanov’s jaw, and the hardness of his eyes.
“I go back to Russia. In three days.”
“Oh.”
They were both silent for a long time. Shane wasn’t sure if Rozanov had more to tell him or not. He decided not to push. It wasn’t like they were friends.
“I should get
back,” Shane said, after several minutes of gazing down at the city. “My parents might still be at the party.”
“Your parents,” Rozanov said. “Right.”
“I guess... I guess I’ll see you next season.”
Shane stuck out his hand. Rozanov looked at it. Then he turned his head left and right, looking all around them.
A split second later, Shane found himself pushed back from the railing, against a wall. Rozanov’s mouth was pressed hard against his, and his hands gripped his arms roughly, fingers digging into his biceps.
Shane felt panicked. This was super fucking dangerous. And stupid. And confusing. And...
Shane kissed him back, just as angrily. Because fuck this guy for doing shit like this. Hiding away all night on a fucking rooftop, smoking a goddamned cigarette in the dark like the worst cliché of a brooding heartthrob. Making Shane feel bad for winning an award that he completely fucking deserved. And then, on a whim, pressing Shane against a wall and kissing him like he would die without Shane’s mouth on his. Kissing him until Shane’s senses were full of hard muscle pressed against him and the taste of cigarette and the slick heat of Rozanov’s tongue in his mouth.
What the fuck.
Shane grabbed Rozanov’s lapels and shoved him back. They couldn’t do this here. At all.
Shane looked frantically around them. There was no one. But, Jesus, there could have been.
Rozanov leaned in to kiss Shane again, and Shane dodged him.
“No,” he said. “No way. Not here. What’s wrong with you?”
Rozanov gave him that crooked grin that did absurd things to Shane’s stomach.
“We can’t,” Shane said. He meant it, but it hurt to say. “I have to go. You should go to bed, Rozanov.”
The smile disappeared.
“See you next season,” Rozanov said. Then he turned and walked toward the elevators.
Shane waited a few minutes so they wouldn’t have to ride down together.
Next season. Next season would be different. He was going to end this stupid thing between them and focus on his game.
Part Two
Chapter Nine
December 2013—36,000 feet over Pennsylvania
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Ilya could hear Ryan Price’s foot drumming against the floor, even with an empty seat between them. Even though Ilya was wearing headphones, and watching a very loud Fast and Furious movie.
Ilya glanced over. Price’s knee was bouncing, jostling the paperback novel he was balancing, open and upside down, on his thigh. Price was gripping both armrests and his eyes were closed. He looked bad.
And he was definitely going to drop that book on the floor. And then he would lose his place.
Ilya sighed, hit pause on the movie, and removed his headphones. He didn’t know Price very well. No one did; he had only joined the team at the start of this season. He was a gigantic defenseman, but his real position on the ice was enforcer. His job was to make sure no one interfered with the more talented players. Ilya could take care of himself, but playing with guys like Price meant he didn’t have to.
Ilya talked shit on the ice, got under other guys’ skin, and then Ryan Price had to take their punches. Pretty sweet deal for Ilya.
“Price,” he said. “Your book.”
No response.
“Price,” Ilya said again. Still nothing, so Ilya reached out and poked his arm. “You okay?”
Price’s eyes flew open and he jumped a little, causing his book to tumble to the floor. Ilya watched it fall in dismay. He had failed.
“Sorry,” Price said. “Was I tapping my foot?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry,” Price said again. “Just, um, nervous flier. Sometimes.”
“Ah.” Ilya bent and retrieved the book. He glanced at the cover before handing it back. Anne of Green Gables. Wasn’t that a children’s book for girls or something? “You lost your place.”
Price gave a thin smile. “It’s okay. I’ve read it before. It’s kind of just... I bring it on planes as kind of a comfort thing.”
Ilya could not figure this guy out. He was even taller than Ilya, and much bulkier, with shoulder-length red hair and a beard that made him look like a biker gang member. He could knock a guy out with one punch. Some of the toughest opponents in the league were scared to face Price in a fight.
“Is it the red hair?” Ilya asked. He didn’t understand Price, but he could at least try to help him calm down. “Anne of Green Gables?”
Price stared at him like he had no idea what he was talking about, and then he laughed. It was quiet and uneasy, but it was still a laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”
This was, Ilya was pretty sure, Price’s fourth NHL season, but he had played for three different teams already. He was quiet in the dressing room, scary on the ice, and clearly a nervous wreck on planes, so Ilya imagined he didn’t make friends easily.
“Are you like this every flight?” Ilya asked. He couldn’t imagine what that would be like. Price was definitely in the wrong line of work if he hated flying.
Price shook his head. “Not every flight. I mean, yes, I’m always nervous, but not always this bad.” His cheeks flushed, as if he hadn’t meant to even admit that he was more terrified than usual. They were en route to Montreal from Raleigh, North Carolina, which wasn’t a particularly long flight, but it had been a turbulent takeoff. Maybe that had been the difference. Ilya didn’t really want to talk about it, and he figured Price didn’t want to either.
So he gestured toward his iPad. “Fast Five. Have you seen it?”
“Yeah. I think so. Is that the one with the bank safe chase scene?”
“Yes. Is the best one.” Ilya flipped down the table for the unoccupied seat between them, and moved his iPad onto it. He only had the one set of headphones, but he always had subtitles on. It helped to improve his English.
He handed Price the headphones, figuring he could use a fully immersive distraction.
“Oh, uh...” Price ran a hand through his bushy hair.
“Is okay. I will tell you if pilot says we are crashing.”
The joke was a risk, but it paid off. Price snorted and took the headphones. “Thanks.”
They watched the movie, Price listening and Ilya reading, and Price’s leg remained still for the rest of the flight. He even asked the flight attendant for a Coke, which had to be a good sign.
When Ilya got tired of reading movie dialogue, he stared out the window into blackness. He had, in truth, been trying to distract himself with the movie, because heading to Montreal always put him on edge. It wasn’t nerves, it was...something else. Anticipation, maybe. He didn’t want to say excitement.
They would play tomorrow night, their second game of the season. Montreal had been in Boston for their season opener in October. Boston had won in overtime, and Hollander had been in a terrible mood when he’d shown up at the room Ilya had booked in the hotel down the street from where Montreal was staying.
Ilya liked it when Hollander was angry. He liked it when Hollander took out his frustrations on Ilya’s body. He liked him cursing him as he fucked Ilya’s mouth.
These were the kinds of thoughts that Ilya had been trying to distract himself from with the Fast and the Furious movie. Because thinking about this fucked-up thing with Hollander made him feel pretty disgusted with himself. It also made him uncomfortably aroused, which only made him feel more disgusted with himself.
Yeah. Super fucking healthy.
“Roz, you awake?”
Ilya glanced up so see Cliff Marlow’s face peeking over the seat in front of him. Cliff was a year younger than him, a bit of an idiot, and probably Ilya’s best friend.
“No,” Ilya deadpanned.
“I’ve been talking to this chick in Montreal. We’ve been sending each other messages on Instagram f
or a couple of weeks. She’s hot as fuck. Check it out.” He thrust his phone into Ilya’s face. There was, indeed, a hot woman on the screen.
“Good job,” Ilya said.
“So she wants to meet up after the game tomorrow night. She’s hot for hockey players, and she said she could bring her friend. You want in?”
Oh, no thanks. I will be busy fucking Shane Hollander in a hotel room.
“We have a curfew tomorrow night. Early flight the next morning, yes?” Ilya reminded him.
“Yeah, I know, but...” Cliff looked wistfully at his phone. “I gotta see her. Maybe I can just...no. You know what, Ilya? I’m gonna be completely honest here: I’m probably going to break curfew. It’s not like I’ll miss the bus to the airport.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “I am assistant captain, shithead. Do not tell me about your plan to break curfew.”
“I thought that ‘A’ was for asshole.”
“Funny.”
“So, no to going out with me tomorrow night?”
“No. But have fun.”
“I remember when you used to be fun, Roz.”
“I am fucking fun.” Gonna have a solid hour of fun before I’m back in time for curfew.
Cliff nodded at Price, who was watching the movie intently and didn’t seem to notice him at all. Cliff’s face was a question mark, and Ilya had no idea what the question was. So Cliff, being an asshole, held a hand to the side of his face to block it from Price’s view, and mouthed Weird guy, right?
Ilya shrugged. Maybe Ryan Price was weird, or maybe he just wasn’t exactly what people were expecting him to be. Ilya was certainly in no position to fault someone for that.
The following evening—Montreal
“I’m telling you right now,” J.J. said, “if fucking Rozanov starts shit with you tonight, I’m taking him out.”
Shane pulled his shoulder pads over his head and began securing them in place. “If you go for Rozanov, Ryan Price is gonna go after you.”
“Fuck Price. I’ll send that dumb motherfucker crying back to wherever the fuck he’s from.”