Heated Rivalry (Game Changers Book 2)

April 2017—Montreal

Shane could see Ilya standing near the centerline as their two teams warmed up before their final match of the season. He was talking to one of his teammates, helmet off, his hair still soft and dry around his face.

Shane hadn’t seen him, hadn’t talked to him, since Ilya’s team had arrived in Montreal. They had texted a few times after Ilya had returned from Moscow, but he hadn’t seen him face-to-face after their memorable Skype call, if that counted.

He was on the ice now, standing on the edge of the centerline that served as a barrier between the teams during warm-ups. Shane watched the toe of Ilya’s skate swivel onto the wide, red line on the ice. It looked like a dare—or an invitation.

Shane skated the perimeter of Montreal’s half of the ice and came to a slow stop in front of Ilya. “Hi.”

Ilya glanced at him and nodded. “Hollander.”

Shane flipped his stick around so he could pretend to be inspecting the tape on his blade. “We still on for tonight? After?”

Ilya nodded again, his gaze fixed on the corner of the arena. “Same place?”

“Yeah.”

Shane could see a tightening in Ilya’s jaw. “Hey,” he said, as quietly as possible. “You all right?”

Ilya turned and met Shane’s eyes, and Shane felt a stab of longing in his heart. They were so close, but they couldn’t be more under the microscope than they were right now.

“We’ll talk later,” Shane promised.

“Yes. Later.”

Ilya skated away. Shane watched after him, and then he felt Hayden’s elbow bumping his arm. “What did Rozanov want?”

“Nothing,” Shane said, blinking and turning to face Hayden. “I was just…offering my condolences. You know.”

The news had gotten around that Rozanov’s father had died. Shane hoped the press wouldn’t ask Ilya too many questions about it.

“Oh. Yeah. That’s nice of you,” Hayden said. “I should have thought to do that. It’s just…Rozanov, y’know?”

“He’s not a bad guy,” Shane said, a little daringly. “It’s mostly an act.”

“Pretty convincing one.”

“Yeah, well…” Shane almost said we all have secrets, but he stopped himself. Instead, he said, “Let’s just make sure we win this one, all right?”

“Fucking right.”

Ilya loved playing against Hollander almost as much as he loved fucking him.

He was in the corner with him now, battling for the puck, and this was his favorite part of any game.

Hollander won, and skated away with his prize. Ilya smiled to himself and raced off after him. Shane was a better stick handler, but Ilya was a faster skater, and he caught up with him and poked the puck off his blade from behind.

Ilya had the puck for all of three seconds before Shane forced him into the boards and stole it back. Then he took off again, with a challenging (and somewhat flirty) glance back at Ilya. Ilya grinned and launched himself after him, but this time Shane was flying and Ilya was struggling to close the gap and then…

Oh god. No.

It happened so fast, Ilya could barely process it. One second, Shane was racing down the ice, and the next he was slamming against the boards after colliding hard with Cliff Marlow.

And then he was crumpled and motionless, on the ice, and Ilya didn’t know what to do.

“Shane?”

Blurry, bright shapes and screeching noise.

“Don’t move, all right? Just stay still. We’re going to take you off the ice.”

Ice?

“Hollander?”

A different voice.

“Ilya?” Did I say that? Shane heard his own voice, but had he moved his lips? He blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus.

“Is he all right?” That was Ilya’s voice for sure. It sounded different, though. It was…unsteady. Panicked.

“Mmokay,” Shane murmured. He had no idea if it was true, but he didn’t want to hear the worry in Ilya’s voice anymore.

“We’re going to move you onto the spinal board, Shane. Keep your head still, please.”

Spinal board?

“Ilya, please stand back,” the authoritative voice said. And the dark blur that had been looming over Shane disappeared.

“We’re not alone,” Shane slurred. “Ilya. They can see us.”

He felt hands on his arms and legs. He felt straps securing him to a board.

“Is he all right?” Ilya’s voice again.

No one answered him.

“Tell him,” Shane said. “Tell him I’m fine.”

He wanted to turn his head to look at Ilya, but he couldn’t now.

Suddenly, he was in the air. He watched the lights and the rafters and the banners that hung from them pass in front of his eyes as he was carried off the ice. He heard applause.

Oh god. What if I’m not okay?

What if I never walk again?

“What happened?” he gritted out.

“You took a blow to the head. You went into the boards.”

Fuck.

“There’s an ambulance waiting.”

Shane pressed his lips together. His eyes were stinging. He was scared.

“My parents,” he said. “They’re at the game.”

He watched the paramedics share a look, then one of them nodded. “We’ll make sure they know where we’re taking you.”

Shane closed his eyes because keeping them open was too difficult.

“We need you to stay awake, Shane. All right?”

“Yeah. Sure,” Shane said. As the confusion started to clear, he was able to focus on the pain that shot through him.

He felt cool air on his feet as someone removed his skates. “Can you move your toes?”

Fuck. He really, really hoped so. Feeling the cold air had to be a good sign, right?

“Good,” the paramedic said, because apparently Shane had successfully wiggled his toes.

Thank god. Thank god. Thank god.

The paramedics did things around him and talked to each other and reminded Shane to stay awake every time his eyelids closed.

Shane thought of his parents. They must be so worried.

He thought of Ilya. He wished he could text him. He wished he could tell him he wiggled his toes.

He wondered who had hit him. He had no memory of it.

They must be showing the footage of the hit over and over again on television.

This had never happened to Shane before. Somehow, in all his years of playing, he’d never been laid out cold.

It only takes one time.

His vision was blurry again, but this time it was because of the tears that had formed in his eyes.

The game had been almost over, right? Shane couldn’t remember, but he was sure it had been the third period. Montreal had been winning.

What if I can’t play in the playoffs?

He was two goals ahead of Ilya in the scoring race with one week left of the regular season. He could kiss that lead goodbye.

“Shane? We need you to keep your eyes open, okay?”

“Sorry.”

Ilya had to wait until morning before he could go to the hospital. His team was leaving for the airport in two hours.

He was the team captain. It wasn’t unheard of for the opposing team captain to check to make sure the player his teammate had taken out was all right.

Fucking Marlow. He knew Cliff felt bad. He hadn’t mean to hit Shane so hard, or at such an awkward angle. But Ilya still wanted to kill him.

He was given Shane’s room number by an overly interested woman working behind a desk at the hospital. She seemed to be impressed at Ilya’s display of sportsmanship.

The door was open a crack, so Ilya gently pushed it open. Hollander was elevated a bit by the hospital bed into an almost-sitting position. The room was, to Ilya’s relief, otherwise empty.

“Ilya!” Shane exclaimed. He had his left arm in a sling.

“Hi,” Ilya said awkwardly. “I just needed—are you—?”

“I’m okay,” Shane said. He smiled shyly, and Ilya knew he was happy to see him. “I mean, I have a concussion, and a fractured collarbone. I’m out for the playoffs. But…”

“Could have been worse.”

“Yeah.”

“Marlow is…he feels bad,” Ilya said stupidly. “He was very…angry at himself. And I am mad at him as well.”

Shane snorted. “It’s part of the game. I know he’s not a vicious player. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”

Shane must have been on some good drugs. He was actually grinning.

“He probably doesn’t want to meet my mom in a dark alley, though,” he joked. “She’s out for blood.”

“I will warn him.”

Ilya wanted to touch him and know that he was really, really okay. He had barely slept last night. He’d spent the whole night sick with worry and refreshing sports sites looking for news of Shane’s injuries. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing Shane’s unmoving body on the ice.

It must have shown in Ilya’s eyes, because Shane extended his good hand and said, in a soft voice, “Hey.”

Ilya nudged the door closed and crossed the room until he was right next to Shane’s bed. He gently brushed his fingers over Shane’s face as Shane gazed up at him and smiled.

“You scared me,” Ilya admitted.

“Scared myself.”

“But you will be okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. I wanted to tell you last night. I wish I could have texted you. I was—”

“Shhh.”

Shane’s eyes fluttered closed as Ilya’s fingers trailed into his hair. “I had been looking forward to last night,” Shane murmured.

“Yes.”

“I’m mostly mad at Marlow for fucking that up.”

Ilya laughed.

“When will we get a chance again?” Shane asked.

And, so help him, in that moment Ilya wanted to tell him he would stay with him. That he would move into his apartment and help him with his recovery and make him sandwiches and watch the playoffs with him and read him his boring hockey book.

But, of course, he couldn’t.

“I will be busy. Winning the Stanley Cup,” Ilya said with a forced smirk.

Shane grimaced.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, and he meant it.

Shane closed his eyes again. “It sucks.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to talk to you last night, before this happened.”

Ilya had wanted to talk too. But he was sure Shane wouldn’t have liked what he had planned to say. He had convinced himself that the only sensible thing to do was to end this thing between them entirely. No good could possibly come of it. Ilya’s heart had entered into it, and that changed everything. It wasn’t thrilling or fun anymore—it was torture. He was going to tell Shane as much last night, but now…

“Shane,” he sighed.

Shane reached his hand up and took Ilya’s, tangling their fingers together and holding tight. “Will you come to the cottage?”

“I—I don’t know.” No. No, there was no way Ilya could do that. He couldn’t possibly spend that much time alone with Shane. Not if he ever wanted to be free of this.

“We can have a week or two, Ilya,” Shane said. “Haven’t you ever wanted more time?”

Ilya’s stomach clenched. He should just say no. Let Shane believe that he didn’t want any more from him than the hour or two they stole a few times each season.

But instead he brushed his thumb over the back of Shane’s hand and said, “Of course.”

“Then come to the cottage. Please. It will just be the two of us, completely alone for as long as you want to stay.”

And, god, that sounded so perfect. And Shane was looking at him like his heart would shatter if Ilya said no.

So Ilya took the coward’s way out.

“Maybe.”

Shane beamed at him like he wasn’t a man who was in a hospital bed with serious injuries.

The door handle turned and Shane quickly released his hand. Ilya jumped back and turned to face the nurse who entered the room.

“Uh-oh,” she said with a smile. “You’re not trying to smother him with a pillow, are you, Mr. Rozanov?”

“No,” Ilya said, giving her a shaky smile in return. “I was just…leaving, actually.”

“Thank you for coming,” Shane said, all business. “I appreciate it.”

Ilya nodded. “Get well soon, Hollander.”

He quickly left the hospital room of the man he loved, and forced himself to focus on winning the Stanley Cup.