Heated Rivalry (Game Changers Book 2)

May 2017—Ottawa

“Rozanov is hurt.”

Shane turned his head from where he was lying on the couch to look at his mother. “What makes you say that?” he asked.

“He’s protecting his ribs. You can tell by the way he was angled. Look,” she said, pointing at a slo-mo replay on their television. “Right there. He turns away from the hit. He could have taken Hunter off the puck there, but he chickened out.”

Mom was right, of course. Shane already knew that Ilya was secretly playing the second round of the playoffs with bruised ribs.

Montreal had been knocked out in the first round by Detroit, and Shane felt terrible about that. Detroit had just squeaked into the playoffs, and it should have been an easy round for Montreal. But Shane hadn’t been able to play, and their goaltender had gotten some sort of flu, so the team had struggled and, ultimately, lost.

Shane should have been there, helping his team, but instead he was recovering at his parents’ house in Ottawa. His headaches were getting better, but he was still very tired. His collarbone was mostly healed.

He hadn’t heard from Ilya as often as he would have liked, but he knew he was busy. Focused.

“I think New York is going to win the Cup,” his mother said.

“New York, eh?”

“Yes. Scott Hunter is determined. You can see it. Nine seasons without a cup! He’ll make sure he gets this one.” Yuna Hollander was rarely wrong about these things.

“Well,” his father said cheerfully, “at least we won’t have to watch Rozanov lift the cup.”

Shane grimaced. In truth he would love to see Rozanov lift the cup.

“It was nice of him to visit Shane in the hospital, though,” Mom pointed out. “He gets points for that.” Dad made a noise of agreement.

Shane wished he could remember the details of that hospital visit. His brain had been muddled by the injury, and more muddled by the drugs. He could remember Ilya’s gentle fingers on his face and in his hair. He remembered being so happy to see him. Even now, just knowing that Ilya had made the trip to the hospital filled Shane with a tingly warmth.

Shane was so completely in love with him. He would hit his head all over again just to be alone in that quiet hospital room with those careful fingers and those concerned eyes.

He was in love with him and he could never, ever tell him that.

But maybe…maybe he could at least tell his parents…part of the truth?

Jesus, but how? Just…blurt it out? How did people do this?

Not while watching hockey together, surely.

“Have you heard from Rose Landry lately?” his mother asked, completely out of nowhere. And wasn’t that a fucking sign?

“Yeah, she texted me when I was in the hospital. She saw that I got hurt.”

His mother looked pleased by that.

Well, no time like the present. “We’re not…we’re just friends, Mom.”

“I know. Your schedules would make a relationship very difficult. But other players do it. Look at Carter Vaughan and that Gloria what’s-her-name from TV.”

“No, it’s…” Shane sat up a little, and winced at the pain in his head. “It’s not our schedules. I mean, yeah, that would make it hard, but that’s not the reason.”

His mother looked at him sympathetically. “When the right one comes along, you’ll know,” she said.

And Shane chickened out. Because he couldn’t tell them that the right one had come along, and it was the pissed-off Russian man who was currently heading to the penalty box on their television.

“Yeah,” he said, “I know.”

He had the most ridiculous urge to send Ilya a text that just said I love you. He had those words trapped inside of him, filling every part of him, and, the strain of keeping them from slipping out was getting harder to endure.

Instead, he texted Rose.

Shane: My mom is wondering when we’re getting back together.

She replied a few minutes later. Ha!

Then,

Rose: Sorry. It’s not really funny. How are you? How’s your head?

Shane: Getting better. I can watch tv without sunglasses now.

Rose: But watching tv with sunglasses on is COOL!

Shane replied with the sunglasses face emoji.

Rose: Do you have a hot male nurse taking care of you?

Shane laughed, which caused both of his parents to look at him.

Shane: No. I’m at my parents’ house.

Rose: That’s a shame.

Shane: Maybe I could ask them to hire me a hot male nurse? Is that a good way to come out?

Rose: I legit LOL’d, Shane.

Shane laughed too.

“Who are you texting?” his mother asked.

“No one,” Shane said quickly. “Hayden.” Lies upon lies.

“How’s the baby?”

Baby? Oh! “Great! You know. Hayden and Jackie are totally in love with her.” Probably.

“You shouldn’t be looking at your phone so much. It’s not good for your concussion.”

“I know, Mom!” Shane snapped.

She threw her hands up dramatically. “Sorry for caring about the health of your brain!”

He rolled his eyes. “Trust me. Plenty of people are concerned about the health of my brain.”

He’d been staying with his parents since leaving the hospital, and it was starting to wear on him. He was lucky to have them, and he couldn’t imagine having to suffer through this recovery on his own, but he was craving his independence.

Although, there was one person he wouldn’t mind having around. But that person was looking frustrated as hell on his television.

Sexy too, though. Ilya had a thick playoff beard—the kind that Shane had always been envious of. Even when Shane had played all the way to the Stanley Cup finals, the best he’d been able to manage was a few pathetic tufts of hair, spaced out like islands on his face. Ilya had a full, dark beard that framed his plush lips, and oh god. Now all Shane could think about was wanting to feel that beard rub against his thighs.

The thing that he had been trying not to worry about too much—because his situation was depressing enough—was that he wasn’t entirely confident that he would feel any part of Ilya rubbing against him ever again. And wouldn’t that be the world’s saddest joke? As soon as Shane finally admitted to himself that he wanted to be with Ilya, their weird arrangement might be permanently off the table.

Not that either of them had said anything specific about ending things. They hadn’t said much of anything to each other since the day Ilya had left Shane’s hospital room. Shane just had a sense that maybe this whole thing had become too much. It had become more difficult to contain, or to pretend it didn’t mean anything. The only safe option was to walk away.

Shane was expecting Ilya to tell him as much as soon as the playoffs were over. And it was looking, as the final minutes of the game ticked away, like the playoffs would be over for Ilya tonight.

The stupid part of Shane wanted to fight for Ilya. For them. The sensible part—the part that was in control of most things in Shane’s life—knew there couldn’t possibly be a future with Ilya. There couldn’t be a present with Ilya. They needed to end things quickly, and cleanly, and never look back. The other path led to nothing but heartache and scandal and misery and…soft Russian words being breathed against Shane’s skin. It led to falling asleep with strong arms wrapped around him, and waking up to a lazy, crooked smile and playful kisses. It led to homemade tuna melts and the precious times when Ilya would offer Shane the tiny pieces of himself that he usually kept so carefully guarded.

The game ended. Ilya’s season was over. It was only a matter of time before everything would be over. And Shane didn’t know what he could do to prevent it.

But he knew he wanted to.

June 2017—Boston

Jane: I can’t believe New York is finally going to win the cup.

Ilya couldn’t believe it either. Scott fucking Hunter was going to be a Stanley Cup champion in about forty seconds.

Ilya: I hate Hunter.

Jane: No you don’t.

Ilya: I do.

Jane: Stop. I’ll get jealous if you keep talking like that.

Ilya laughed. Alone, in his penthouse in Boston, he laughed.

The final seconds of the final game of the final series of the playoffs ticked down, and then the game was over. The ice filled with excited men in blue jerseys, and Ilya turned his full attention to his phone so he wouldn’t feel the sting of envy too sharply.

He was bored. The playoffs had ended for him weeks ago. At a loss for what to do or where to go, he’d holed up in Boston. It was his only home now, though he had no real friends in the city. There were teammates who stayed for the summers, but none he was close to.

But his car collection was here, and that wasn’t nothing.

Though the last time he had visited his garage, three days ago, it had kind of felt like nothing.

He wasn’t inviting Svetlana over anymore because…just because.

So he was watching hockey, alone, and texting the man he desperately wished he could be sharing his summer with.

Ilya: Do you think Hunter is going to drink tea out of the cup?

Jane: Caffeine? No way. Hunter isn’t that hard–core.

Ilya laughed again.

Ilya: Milk then.

Jane: Warm milk. And then straight to bed!

Ilya glanced up at the television and saw the Stanley Cup being handed to a beaming Scott Hunter.

Jane: I’m happy for him.

Ilya: Of course you are.

He’d had every intention of ending things with Shane. He hadn’t been able to do that. Not yet. For now they could text each other and tease each other and pretend they were just friends or whatever.

Shane’s invitation for Ilya to come to his cottage still existed. Shane wasn’t pushing it, and Ilya wasn’t acknowledging it, but it was there. If it weren’t the worst idea in the world, Ilya would be on his way to Wherever-the-Fuck, Ontario, already.

Players on the television were kissing their wives and holding their children. It would be nice, Ilya thought, to have someone to kiss after winning the Cup.

Maybe that should be his goal for next year: forget about Shane, and find himself a woman he could like enough to keep around until the end of the playoffs.

Ilya reached for the remote, and was about to turn off the television when…

Holy shit.

Holy. Shit.

Scott fucking Hunter was kissing a man. Not, like, one of his teammates on the cheek in an “I love you, bro” kind of way. Scott Hunter was kissing a man wearing street clothes full on the fucking mouth. It looked like tongues were involved.

Ilya’s phone buzzed.

Jane: Holy shit.

Jane: Are you seeing this?

Jane: What the fuck?!!!? Is that his boyfriend???!!!!!

Ilya just stared at the television, at Scott Hunter and his probable boyfriend. Or Scott Hunter and the random cute man he had pulled out of the crowd. Ilya couldn’t process what he was seeing. How could it possibly be real?

But there Hunter was, smiling at this mystery man like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. And holding his face as he leaned in to kiss him again. Ilya felt like he was watching all the worst things about his life getting sucked up by a tornado.

Then the cameras cut away, and Ilya looked at his phone.

Jane: What is happening??!!! Did he really just do that???!!!

Ilya stabbed the call button.

There was only one ring before, “Holy shit, Ilya! Can you belie—”

“I’m coming to the cottage.”