Heated Rivalry (Game Changers Book 2)

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 glass, 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?”

“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.