The Long Game: A Gay Sports Romance (Game Changers Book 6)

“I don’t know what you are trying to prove,” Ilya said.

“That I’m the fastest skater in the league. Obviously.”

Ilya huffed. There was no way Shane was the fastest skater in the league. Even if it were a competition between only the two of them, Ilya had always been considered the faster skater. He could admit that Shane was a better stick handler, but Ilya was faster. No question.

“We will see,” Ilya said.

They were sitting together on the Eastern Conference team bench at the NHL All-Star Skills Competition, which was mostly a fun night that no one took too seriously. No one except Shane Hollander.

Shane and Ilya liked to enter the same event each year, so they could compete directly. The league liked that too, as did the fans. For whatever reason, Shane had wanted to enter the fastest skater competition this year. Ilya suspected it had a lot to do with Shane’s impending thirtieth birthday.

Ilya wasn’t nervous—he was a fast skater. He’d done this event once before, years ago, and he’d won. Shane had been injured that year and hadn’t been at the All-Star Weekend. Ilya’s victory had probably been bothering Shane ever since.

“Ready?” Ilya asked as they watched the ice crew set up the last of the pylons for the event.

“Absolutely.”

“It can be dangerous,” Ilya warned. “Watch those corners.”

“I know how to skate.”

“Are your blades sharp? Good edges?”

Shane gave him a withering look. “Worry about your own skates, Rozanov.”

Ilya smiled. Game fucking on.

They watched as a rookie for Vancouver broke the previous leader’s time by four tenths of a second. The other players tapped their sticks against the boards to congratulate him. The Western Conference bench engulfed the kid in hugs and back slaps and noogies.

“Are you going to break that poor kid’s heart?” Ilya asked.

“Yep,” Shane said, and leaped over the boards onto the ice.

The crowd went nuts as Shane took his place at the starting line. The event was very simple: one lap around the perimeter of the ice surface, and the fastest time won. Ilya always thought the fastest skater competition was a little ridiculous because there was usually less than a second dividing first and last place, so essentially it was a tie.

He still wanted to win, though.

But mostly he didn’t want Shane to break his ankle trying to shave a fraction of a second off his time by going too hard in the corners.

The start signal sounded, and Shane was off. He whipped through the first two corners like he was being slingshotted, then pumped his legs hard down the straight length of the ice. No one wore helmets for the skills competition, so Shane’s long hair flew behind him as he charged toward the final two corners. Ilya’s heart was in his throat as he watched, terrified and dazzled at the same time.

Seconds later, Shane cleared the finish line, unharmed, and with the new lead time.

Well.

When Shane returned to the bench, he was met with more teasing and chirping than hugs.

“Wow, Hollander,” laughed a defenseman for Pittsburgh. “Couldn’t even let the kid finish celebrating before you destroyed him, huh?”

“Jesus Christ,” grumbled Wyatt, “you can’t just be the best player in the league, you’ve gotta be the fastest one too?”

“Hey!” Ilya protested. “He is not the best player in the league. Or the fastest.”

“Prove it,” Shane said with a sexy grin. Ilya wanted to devour him.

“When it is my turn, I will.”

The next three skaters failed to beat Shane’s time. Finally it was Ilya’s turn, as the last competitor in the event.

“Good luck,” Shane sing-songed as Ilya swung his legs over the boards.

“Maybe I will do it backwards,” Ilya said. “So it will be a challenge.”

Shane scowled at him, and Ilya laughed. Shane would never speak to him again if Ilya didn’t give this everything he had.

He skated slowly to the start line, waving at the crowd as he went. He’d do his best.

His best, as it turned out, was a fraction of a second too slow. Shane was declared the winner.

But, for real, it was basically a tie. So whatever.

Shane didn’t act like it was a tie. He flashed Ilya a smug little smile, as if Ilya even gave a shit about this thing.

“Congratulations,” Ilya said when Shane had stopped celebrating. “You are like one thousandth of a second faster than me. In this one race.”

“I won. That’s all that matters.”

Ilya wanted to say something obnoxious about how all of Shane’s food restrictions and self-sacrifice translated to exactly point one three seconds’ worth of athletic supremacy, but he decided to let Shane enjoy his victory instead.

Besides, winning stuff always made Shane horny, so Ilya considered himself the real winner.

Unfortunately, they had to watch Dallas Kent win the shot accuracy competition next, which was a real boner killer. Except the way Shane was huffing angrily beside Ilya was kind of hot.

“I fucking hate him,” Shane said.

“Yes.”

“I want to… I don’t know. I want him to be punished.”

“That would be nice,” Ilya agreed.

Shane glanced up to the box where Commissioner Crowell was sitting. “I wish he’d do something.”

Ilya snorted, then realized he hadn’t told Shane the latest thing he’d heard about Crowell. “He will not help. He called Troy, a few days ago, and told him to stop posting about sexual assault on his Instagram.”

Shane’s head whipped around to face Ilya. “What? Wasn’t Troy just posting about, like, where victims could seek help? And about charities people could donate to?”

Ilya nodded. “Only helpful things, yes.”

“Why the fuck would Crowell want him to stop?”

Ilya nodded in the direction of Dallas Kent. “I think because it hurts Kent’s feelings.”

Shane’s mouth dropped open. “Seriously? Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Or because it makes the league look bad.”

Shane scoffed. “Probably.”

At that moment, Kent skated by them. Ilya glared at him, and he was sure Shane was doing the same.

“I meant to tell you,” Shane said, once Kent was out of earshot, “I was impressed with what Troy was doing.”

“Did you forget to tell me, or did you not tell me because you still hate him?”

“I don’t hate him.”

“Hm.”

“I’m glad you’re friends, or whatever,” Shane grumbled.

“I will tell him you said that,” Ilya said, “next time we are showering together.”

Shane elbowed him in the arm. “Shut up. I’m trying to watch this.”

“They are setting up pylons. Is that what you want to watch?”

Shane ducked his head, which meant his cheeks were turning pink.

Wyatt suddenly appeared in front of them and leaned one elbow on the boards. “How’s it going, fellas?”

“Shhh. Shane is watching the men set up pylons.”

“Would you fuck off?” Shane snarled.

Wyatt glanced at the ice. “That’s cool. The ice crew’s hard work isn’t appreciated enough. Except the Zamboni drivers. Talk about all-stars.” He slapped the boards. “There should be a Zamboni competition. With obstacles and stuff.”

Ilya blinked at his goalie. “Yes. Great idea, Hazy.”

“Congrats on winning the skating thing, Shane.”

“Thanks.”

“It was a tie, basically,” Ilya said.

“That’s not what the clock said,” Shane argued.

“If we did it again right now, I would probably win.”

“Well, you should have won the first time, dickhead.”

Wyatt furrowed his brow at them. “You know, you two don’t have to sit together.”

“Hello, Hunter,” Ilya said cheerfully as he sat in the chair next to Scott Hunter. A bunch of the players were gathered in the hotel bar, most of them sitting at large tables.

“Rozanov,” Scott said with a wary nod.

Ilya plunked his pint of beer on the table and leaned back in his chair. “Too bad about the thing you lost.”

Scott huffed. “The stickhandling event is stupid anyway. It’s designed to make us look bad.”

“Mm. Someone still won, though.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t win your event either. Hollander smoked you.”

“Was basically a tie.”

Scott took a sip of his own beer and seemed to glance around for someone else to talk to. Finally he sighed and said, “Your team’s been playing well lately.”

It was an understatement. Ottawa had been on fire since returning from their nearly ill-fated trip to Florida, and was enjoying a franchise-record winning streak. “We’re making the playoffs this year,” Ilya said.

“Might be a bit early to be stating that as fact.”

“I don’t think so. We are very good. Remember when we beat you? We haven’t lost since then. Since that time we beat you.”

Scott snorted. “Man, you’re annoying.”

Ilya grinned. “Hollander told me you want to coach our camps.”

“One of them, maybe. Yeah.”

“What are your qualifications? We have a boring guy already: Hollander.”

“You know what? I might be busy this summer after all.”

Ilya nudged him. “We are happy to have you. Really. The kids will be very excited.”

Scott eyed him suspiciously. “Okay?”

“Yes. And bring Kip. We go out at night sometimes and have fun. Ryan Price brings his boyfriend.”

Scott’s face relaxed a bit. “Kip said he’d like to see Montreal.”

Ilya gasped. “Ottawa is also good!”

“Yeah, but Montreal is Montreal.”

Ilya couldn’t argue that. He glanced across the room and spotted Shane, talking to Colorado’s team captain, Matheson. Shane was wearing that sexy silk T-shirt that Rose bought him—the one that was practically transparent—and Ilya had been stealing glances at him all night.

Ilya briefly rubbed his own chest, searching for and finding the round outline of the ring hidden under his shirt.

“How is married life?” he asked.

Scott’s expression shifted back to suspicious. “Good…”

“You are happy? Kip is happy?”

“Last I heard.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows.

“This morning!” Scott clarified. “I was talking to him this morning! He was going to come with me, actually, but he’s doing some volunteer work in Brooklyn this weekend instead.”

“Nice of him.”

“Yeah,” Scott said defensively. “He’s nice.”

“Good.” Ilya took a drink of beer. Shane was laughing at something Matheson said. His eyes were all crinkled. “Is Kip happy you are retiring this year?”

“Fuck off. I’m not retiring this year.”

Ilya widened his eyes in mock surprise. “No? But your body is so old!”

“Okay,” Scott said, and began to stand. “Good night, Rozanov.”

“Do you remember where your room is?”

“Shut up.”

“Do you need help?”

Scott kept walking and didn’t reply. Ilya couldn’t help but admire his hulking body as Scott walked away. In all honesty, he looked like he could play hockey for many years to come.

Ilya finished his beer, then stood. He caught Shane’s eye right away, and nodded in the direction of the elevators. Shane gave the barest suggestion of a nod in reply, which was enough.

Shane rode the elevator with a Finnish rookie from Vancouver—the same one who’d been in the fastest skater competition—who Shane didn’t know at all. He seemed to be more interested in his phone than in Shane, though. Shane gave him a brief, friendly smile, then stared straight ahead at the elevator doors.

The All-Star Weekend was always fun, but also a little exhausting between the interviews and the events and the socializing with other players. The weekends also involved a lot of high-risk sneaking around, which was stressful. Well, stressful and a bit sexually thrilling, if Shane was being honest. It had been hard to focus on anything Matheson had been saying to him because Ilya had been sitting across the room, drinking a beer and looking so fucking hot that Shane had been internally struggling to tamp down an erection for the past half hour.

Shane went to his own room first. Partially because the rookie was still walking behind him, and partially because he wanted to freshen up a bit.

When he pulled his phone out of his pocket he saw a text from Ilya: Where are you?

Shane smiled to himself and decided not to reply. He liked an impatient Ilya.

Once Shane had changed, brushed his teeth, fixed his hair, and had gotten himself clean everywhere he wanted to be clean, he made his way to Ilya’s room down the hall.

He knocked as gently as possible on the door, and Ilya opened it immediately.

“Finally,” Ilya said. He stepped back so Shane could enter and quickly shut the door behind them.

“Did I keep you?”

Ilya stepped into his space. “You are too slow.”

“Not according to the skills competition.”

Ilya exhaled hard through his nose, then kissed Shane furiously.

It always felt like before whenever they met in a hotel room. Hotels had been their go-to meeting place for years, grabbing a precious hour or two together when they were in the same city. Now their cities were so close that their teams rarely stayed in town after the games. Sneaking into Ilya’s hotel room like this set Shane on fire like nothing else.

He hooked his leg around Ilya’s ass and gripped his shoulders, practically trying to climb him. Ilya huffed out a laugh into his mouth and slid a hand under Shane’s ass to help support him. “Talking to Matheson made you horny,” Ilya said.

“Looking at you made me horny,” Shane corrected him. “Not being able to touch you. Just—fuck—just shut up, okay?”

Ilya, thankfully, went back to kissing him, and Shane sank back into the wonderful, rare sensation of not giving a fuck about anything except Ilya’s hands on his body and Ilya’s tongue in his mouth.

Shane was, of course, as hard as granite already and knew, distantly, that he was thrusting a bit against Ilya’s thigh, and that he should probably stop because it would be embarrassing if he shot his load already. But he also kind of didn’t care.

Fortunately, Ilya cared. He broke their kiss and extracted himself from the embrace of Shane’s leg wrapped around him. “Sometimes faster is not better,” Ilya said with a crooked smile. He took Shane’s hand, then lifted it to his lips and gently kissed his knuckles.

“Yeah, but—oh.” Shane’s argument was cut short when Ilya flicked his tongue between two knuckles. For some reason the sensation sent ripples of pleasure throughout Shane’s body. How did Ilya know? What made someone even decide to do that?

“We are going slow tonight,” Ilya informed him. Shane could only nod, his head as wobbly as the rest of him.

Ilya tugged on his hand and led him to end of the bed. He paused there, and began lightly playing with the ends of Shane’s hair with one hand, while the other rested on Shane’s hip.

“I want to look at you,” Ilya said. “Everywhere. And touch you. And kiss you. I want to take my time until you are dying for it.”

Shane’s tongue felt heavy. “You’d better make it worth the wait.”

“I will.” Ilya trailed a fingertip delicately along the line of Shane’s jaw. “Because I will be dying for it too.”

Shane hadn’t touched alcohol for a year, almost, but he felt a bit drunk in that moment. Ilya’s hand on his hip was possibly the only thing that was preventing him from toppling forward onto the floor. “Sounds like hard work for you.”

Ilya’s lips curved up. “It is your reward. For winning today.”

“Oh,” Shane said thickly. “Fuck.”

Then they were kissing again, Ilya’s big hand gripping Shane’s face, his thumb pressing into the hinge of his jaw. Shane pressed his own hands to Ilya’s chest and found the ring there. He wanted to see it. He wanted Ilya’s shirt off. He wanted all of their clothes off. He wanted Ilya inside him and—

“Relax,” Ilya chuckled. Shane realized he’d been grabbing at Ilya’s shirt, possibly trying to tear it off.

“I fucking want you,” Shane said. It sounded whiny.

“I know.” But instead of doing anything to speed things along, Ilya lightly kissed his forehead, then his right eyebrow, then his cheek.

Shane let out a long, slow breath and closed his eyes. He needed to accept that Ilya was in charge here. He stood very still and let Ilya kiss his jaw, his chin, his throat. He focused on Ilya’s breath against his skin, the fingers in his hair, and the steady beating of his own heart.

Ilya only wanted to pamper him. The least Shane could do was let him.

A sudden burst of yelling and laughter came from the hallway, outside the door. Loud male voices of their peers—Shane was pretty sure one of them was Dallas Kent. He flinched at the reminder that they were dangerously close to the rest of the hockey world here.

“Ignore them,” Ilya whispered.

“I’m trying.”

Ilya licked at the hollow of Shane’s throat, then kissed down until he reached the low collar of Shane’s shirt. “I like this shirt,” Ilya said.

“That’s why I wore it.”

Ilya peeled it away and kissed the newly exposed skin of Shane’s collarbone and chest. He kissed his shoulders as he gently pushed Shane backward onto the bed.

Shane shuffled on his back until his head reached the pillows. Ilya followed, hovering over him and continuing to drop soft kisses wherever he liked. It was luxurious and indulgent for Shane to just lie there while Ilya made him feel wonderful. It did feel like a prize he’d earned, and that fucking did it for Shane. He loved being rewarded like this.

Ilya kissed his chest as he undid Shane’s belt, and then the button on his shorts. He caught Shane’s right nipple in his teeth as he pulled his zipper down.

“Ah,” Shane gasped. He lifted his hips so Ilya could slide his shorts and underwear off and to the floor. Shane’s cock was hard and lay flat against his stomach, hoping for attention.

Ilya, of course, ignored it.

He continued to sweetly torture Shane with light kisses and caresses that made Shane’s toes curl and his blood thrum. He felt like he was sinking into the mattress, or floating to the ceiling. His head was cloudy with lust and happiness. He could still hear people—fellow NHL stars—talking loudly in the hall, but it seemed distant and unimportant. Nothing mattered but Ilya. The man he loved. His future husband.

“You are going to fuck me,” Shane murmured, “right?”

Ilya kissed Shane’s hipbone. “Maybe.”

Shane shivered. “God.”

Ilya laughed against his skin. “You work so hard on this body. You should like this attention.”

Shane did like it, dammit. “Take your shirt off?” He sounded pathetic.

Ilya sat up and pulled his T-shirt off over his head, then tossed it behind him. The ring glinted on its chain against his dark chest hair, and god, sometimes Shane forgot. It seemed impossible to be able to claim this man forever.

Shane reached out with one hand. “Come here. Kiss me.”

Ilya lowered himself and nipped Shane’s bottom lip, then pecked one corner of his mouth, then the other. When he finally took Shane’s mouth, he kissed him with maddening patience and control. Shane tried to take charge, desperate to move things along, but Ilya wouldn’t let him.

Be good, Shane instructed himself. Let him do this for you.

He wished Ilya would touch his cock. It was right there, but Ilya had positioned himself so he was mostly beside Shane, leaving Shane’s erection alone and miserable.

Shane tried to sneak a hand down to give himself a little relief, but Ilya grabbed his wrist and pinned Shane’s hand firmly on the pillow, above his head, then did the same with the other one.

“Stay,” Ilya said, his voice a low, delicious rumble.

Shane nodded, then said, to his embarrassment, “Please.”

Ilya’s lips curved up. “Please what?”

Shane didn’t even know. “Touch me. Whatever you want. Just…need you.”

“You have me, sweetheart.”

The first time Ilya had used that particular pet name, Shane had felt like he’d been struck by lightning. It had been so unexpected and earthshaking and hot. Shane could never get away with calling anyone sweetheart, but the word rolled effortlessly off Ilya’s tongue, in his sexy fucking accent. Despite that, Ilya rarely said it, so every time he did, it knocked Shane on his ass.

Ilya slid down the bed and began kissing Shane’s thighs, and up the crease along his groin. Shane shivered and gasped, but he kept his hands on the pillow and didn’t ask for more. After several minutes, he was rewarded for his good behavior when Ilya, without any real warning, sucked one of Shane’s balls into his mouth.

“Oh fuck,” Shane whimpered. Ilya was an expert when it came to Shane’s balls. He knew exactly how to roll them in his mouth, how to press his tongue along the seam of Shane’s sac, and how to use his fingers on the sensitive area just below. He’d made Shane come just from this, many times, but Shane didn’t think that was the plan tonight. He hoped not. “Fuck, Ilya. So good.”

Ilya hummed, which sent sparks shooting up to the tip of Shane’s dick. He released Shane slowly, letting the delicate orb slip out between his glistening lips. He stood and went to his suitcase in the corner of the room. A moment later he returned with a bottle of lube.

“Thank fuck,” Shane sighed.

Ilya smiled. “Turn over.”

Shane didn’t hesitate for a second. He went up on his knees and forearms and waited. He was expecting the welcome pressure of a slick finger, so he nearly yelped when he felt the warm, wet brush of Ilya’s tongue.

“Holy—yes. Fuck yes,” Shane panted.

Ilya was so fucking good with his tongue. He switched between long, confident strokes and soft flutters against Shane’s hole while he gripped Shane’s ass cheeks in his strong hands, pulling them apart to get deeper. Shane dropped his head to the pillow, mouth slack. He couldn’t focus his eyes on anything.

“You were so fucking beautiful today,” Ilya said, then kissed Shane’s right ass cheek. “When you were skating, with your hair.”

“You too,” Shane slurred. “Love watching you skate.”

He heard the click of the lube bottle, then felt the gentle press of Ilya’s finger against his entrance. “Can I tell you a secret?” Ilya asked.

Shane tensed, his stomach flipping in anticipation. “Yes.”

Ilya slid his finger inside. “You are a better hockey player than me.”

Shane gasped, both from the intrusion and the admission. “I’m just—just on a better team.”

“No,” Ilya said calmly. “You have always been better. Always.”

God, why was Ilya saying this? Did he really think so? Did it matter?

“It’s,” Shane gritted out as Ilya stroked his prostate, “a tie.”

Ilya chuckled. “Yes. Okay.”

Shane relaxed into the pillow and against Ilya’s fingers. He felt absolutely perfect, loose and happy and safe, not focused on anything except opening for Ilya. And even that wasn’t a chore because Ilya knew exactly how to get him there. His strong fingers sank inside him, twisted, curled, gently stretched apart while Shane breathed and sighed and sank deeper into the sensations.

Loud knocking jolted Shane out of the moment. The knocking was followed by the voice of Cliff Marlow. “Rozanov! You in there?”

All good feelings left, abruptly replaced by pure panic. Shane craned his neck to peer at Ilya over his shoulder. Ilya winked at him, gave Shane’s prostate another stroke, and called out, “Yes.”

Shane mouthed what the fuck? at him, but Ilya only grinned and continued to finger fuck him.

“We’re going out,” Cliff said. “I need my wingman, let’s go.” He sounded more than a little drunk.

“Where?” Ilya asked, and added a second finger.

“I don’t know. Some club. Can you open the fucking door?”

Shane wanted to die. But he also was oddly turned on by this weird situation. Which also made him want to die.

Of course Ilya decided this was the perfect time to finally touch Shane’s dick. He wrapped his hand around the shaft and Shane’s whole body jerked. Unfortunately, Shane also let out a loud moan.

“Shh,” Ilya scolded, as if any of this were Shane’s fault. Then, to Cliff he said, “I can’t right now. Sorry.”

There was silence, and then Cliff jumped to a slightly wrong conclusion. “Shit. You’ve got a girl in there with you, right? Sorry, man.”

“Maybe,” Ilya said.

Shane rolled his eyes.

Cliff laughed. “Probably two or three. Have a good night, you fucking legend.”

Shane bit his own forearm to keep himself from saying anything.

When Cliff was finally gone, Shane said, “Two or three, huh?”

Ilya huffed. “Cliff cannot even count to two or three.”

“I can’t believe you fucking chatted with him while you were fingering me,” Shane hissed. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me? I am not the one who fucking loved it.”

“I did not.”

Ilya rubbed his thumb over the head of Shane’s leaking cock, making Shane suck in a breath. “Your cock loved it.”

“My cock loves being touched, not whatever weird shit you’re into. Could you please fuck me now?”

Ilya released him and slid his fingers out of Shane’s ass. Shane flipped onto his back so he could watch him finish undressing. In less than a minute, Ilya was naked and slicking his own cock with lube, so maybe he was in more of a hurry than he’d been letting on.

Shane thought Ilya would haul him to the end of the bed so he could stand while fucking him. Shane loved it that way, with Ilya able to use all of his power and strength and Shane able to watch him and touch him and stroke himself for him.

But instead, Ilya left Shane where he was—relaxed against the pillows—and lowered himself carefully over his body. He kissed him in a slow, adoring way that absolutely annihilated Shane’s brain every time. Then, when Shane was fully reduced to a quivering mass of pure need, Ilya finally entered him.

Shane watched Ilya’s face as he pushed inside. His eyes were wide like the sensation still surprised him, after all these years. Like he hadn’t been expecting Shane to welcome him inside so easily. Like he somehow didn’t know he belonged there.

“I love you so much,” Shane whispered.

Ilya could only nod, his teeth biting hard into his bottom lip to keep himself quiet.

When he started moving, he used slow, deliberate strokes that weren’t enough, but were also too much. Every nerve in Shane’s body was buzzing. Ilya peppered Shane’s face with gentle kisses, his breath dancing across Shane’s skin in ragged puffs. Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya’s back, urging him to go deeper, and faster.

There was more noise from the hallway—more NHL players being drunk and rowdy—and Shane tried to ignore them. Or at least tried not to let their proximity turn him on even more. Because Ilya hadn’t been wrong; there was something hot about doing this surrounded by their peers.

Ilya finally sped up. He grinned at Shane, as if he knew what he’d been thinking about. “What if they could see?” Ilya’s voice was low and quiet and his words made Shane’s cock twitch. “If that wall was a window.”

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, which only helped him to imagine it. “Fuck,” he said.

“They could see how well you take it. How much you love it.”

“Stop,” Shane said weakly, not meaning it at all.

“They would be so jealous of me. Getting to have you like this.”

Shane opened his eyes. “They’d be jealous of me. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“Stroke yourself,” Ilya commanded, then began thrusting harder, snapping his hips and tipping his head back.

Shane loved this moment, when Ilya began to lose control and started to desperately chase his own release. Shane obediently stroked himself, biting his own lip to keep from crying out.

He came first, his release splashing onto his stomach at the exact moment someone in the hallway let out a loud whoop, which was a weird coincidence that Shane, unfortunately, found very hot.

Ilya was laughing, almost hysterically, but he was still thrusting and interrupting his own laughter with frantic grunts until finally, “I’m going to come, Hollander. Fuck.”

Shane wished he hadn’t said his name, but he stopped caring about it immediately because watching Ilya Rozanov’s face when he climaxed was Shane’s favorite thing in the world.

Ilya managed to stop himself from crashing down on top of Shane, and instead carefully pulled out and rolled to his side, breathing heavily.

“That was,” Shane said, “fucking hot.”

Ilya wrinkled his nose. “Ehn. Was okay.”

Shane let out a shaky laugh and lightly punched Ilya’s chest. “Fuck you.”

They took turns getting cleaned up in the bathroom. Shane got back into bed, still naked, as he waited for Ilya. He was thankful they’d managed to keep the sheets relatively clean.

“You are staying,” Ilya said.

Shane opened his eyes and found him standing outside the bathroom, also still naked.

“Well,” Shane said, gesturing to the hallway where they could still hear loud male voices. “I’m not going out there.”

“They will not assume we were having sex,” Ilya said reasonably.

“I know.”

“Maybe we watched a movie,” Ilya said as he sauntered toward the bed. No one should look that elegant naked.

“Who?” Shane asked dryly. “Me and the two or three women you were having an orgy with?”

Ilya gave him a crooked smile and slid under the covers beside him. “Two or three people is not an orgy, Shane.” He tilted Shane’s chin up with a finger and held him there while he kissed his lips. “I am glad you are staying.”

“I’m not saying I’m not nervous about it.”

“I know. But I hate when you are so close but not in my arms.”

Shane’s heart wobbled. “I suppose we’re almost married. So.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Next year we will be the first married NHL All-Stars.”

Shane’s whole body tensed. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“I hadn’t even thought of that.”

Ilya kissed him again, but it didn’t stop Shane’s brain from spinning out of control.

“Oh my god,” Shane said again when Ilya finished kissing him. “I’m so focused on marrying you and being a couple and stuff and dealing with the blowback from the hockey world that I never even thought about, like, being married and playing hockey.”

“Scary?”

It was fucking terrifying, but Shane didn’t want to say that. “We’ll deal with it,” he said with not nearly enough confidence.

“Deal with it?” Ilya said with a smile. “I can’t fucking wait.”