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

“There are few things in life that I absolutely can’t stand,” Roger Crowell said. His voice was deceptively calm, and Ilya didn’t miss the danger in it. “One thing I hate is surprises. Another is disloyalty. And another is liars.”

And homosexuals, Ilya added in his head.

“But the thing I hate most,” Crowell continued, “is being embarrassed. And I especially hate it when the league is embarrassed.”

“That does sound bad,” Ilya said mildly.

Crowell shot him a warning look, and when Ilya turned to Shane, he saw a similar expression on his face.

“You can imagine,” Crowell said, “how I feel about you two right now.”

This time, Ilya was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. He could feel the tension radiating off Shane beside him. Ilya would behave. For Shane.

Crowell leaned forward, both elbows on the large table between them. “Your actions have put me in a very difficult situation. On the one hand, your behavior is completely unacceptable and absolutely cannot be allowed. On the other, you’re two of the biggest stars in the league, and the playoffs are about to start.”

“Can’t be allowed?” Shane asked quietly.

Crowell’s eyes narrowed. “I would think that part would be obvious. But I guess it wasn’t, because there’s a video flying around the internet of you two making out.”

“It was a mistake,” Shane said.

“You’re fucking right it was a mistake!” Crowell yelled.

“I meant,” Shane said, surprisingly steadily, “the video wasn’t supposed to show that. We didn’t know.”

“Well, it did,” Crowell barked. “And I had to fly to Montreal to deal with it. You think I have time for this?” He took a breath and said, more calmly, “We need to get things back to normal as soon as possible. I don’t want a media circus around this thing.”

“We don’t either,” Shane said.

Crowell nodded. “The league has prepared a statement.” He opened a folder that was on the table in front of him and produced two sheets of paper. He handed one to each of them.

Ilya steeled himself, and began to read.

For nearly eleven seasons, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have been elite players in the NHL. Their skill and performance on the ice demonstrates a rare level of talent that thrills hockey fans everywhere. Earlier this week, a video was circulated on social media that depicted Mr. Hollander and Mr. Rozanov in an intimate embrace. After being questioned by the league’s commissioner, Roger Crowell, both players have confirmed that the incident was a prank they were pulling on their mutual friend, Hayden Pike. Both men regret their actions and the confusion it may have caused. They will return to their teams before their next scheduled games.

It was an easy out. Ilya knew this statement wouldn’t fool everyone, but he suspected enough hockey fans would believe this lie. Pranks in hockey were normal, falling in love with your rival wasn’t. This was something the hockey world—even other NHL players—could understand.

Shane was still reading. He hadn’t brought his glasses with him and was squinting at the page. Ilya didn’t want to hide anymore, but the playoffs were about to start and he couldn’t honestly blame Shane if he chose this easy cover-up, just to make the drama die down for a while. Ilya would fucking hate it, but he’d agree to it, if it was what Shane chose.

Finally, Shane’s head came up, and Ilya held his breath.

“But this isn’t true,” Shane said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Crowell said.

“It fucking does matter! It wasn’t a prank. We’re together. We’re—we’re getting married this summer.”

Crowell’s eyebrows shot up in obvious surprise, but he quickly composed himself. “That,” he said coldly, “is not happening. Not if you want to remain in this league.”

“Really?” Ilya asked. He wanted to flip the fucking table. “You are going to kick us out?”

“We’ll sue the shit out of the league,” Shane said, which honestly shocked Ilya.

For a long moment, Crowell said nothing. Then he said, “You’re right. You could sue. But do you think any team would sign you after that? Either way, you’d be done.”

Shane sucked in a breath. Ilya trembled with rage. They’d both given this league—this game—so much.

“We release the statement,” Crowell said. “Most hockey fans will believe it because they’ll want to believe it. There’s no scandal, you boys get to keep playing for as long as you want, and we all move on. And, obviously, you don’t get fucking married this summer.”

Ilya’s jaw was clenched so hard his teeth hurt. He was close to quitting the NHL on the spot. Instead he breathed through his nose and tried to figure out his next words.

Shane came up with some first. “Fuck this. Here’s a plan: we do whatever we want this summer and then we come back and have all-star seasons again next year. We’re not a couple of naïve rookies you can intimidate. You think we don’t know what we’re worth to this league?”

“What you were worth,” Crowell said. “You’re destroying your own brands with this shit.”

“No,” Ilya said. “We are making them stronger.”

Crowell leaned over the table, fury flashing dangerously in his eyes. “I am offering the only option that will save both of your careers and the reputation of this league. If you post your own statement and start flaunting your…relationship…then you will obliterate your legacies. You’ll be jokes. Choose carefully.”

For a long, tense moment, there was only the sound of three men breathing angrily.

Then Shane stood and said, “I choose him. Come on, Ilya.”

They both grabbed their coats from the backs of their chairs and left. Crowell was yelling something after them as they left the room, but Ilya didn’t care. He put on his coat, took Shane’s hand, and walked purposely toward the elevators. He was so full of love and adrenaline that he felt like he might explode. Once the elevator doors closed behind them, Shane said, “Sorry if I steamrolled that—”

Ilya didn’t let him finish his sentence. He crowded Shane against the mirrored wall and kissed him ferociously. He sank his fingers into Shane’s stupid hair and just devoured him, putting everything he felt into it. Because there was choosing Ilya over hockey, and then there was looking Crowell dead in the eye and basically telling him to go fuck himself. He never would have asked that of Shane, but Shane had done it anyway. Hadn’t even hesitated.

The elevator dinged, ending their kiss. Ilya stepped back and admired how wrecked Shane looked, with his hair and coat disheveled and his lips swollen and pink. Those lips curved into a smile as the elevator doors opened.

“So,” Shane said as they walked across the lobby to the exit, “you’re not mad, then?”

“Not at you. I’m fucking furious at Crowell.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Well. I recorded the meeting. So.”

Ilya’s mouth dropped open. “Holy shit, Hollander. Good job.”

“It was Mom’s idea. Just in case we need it. But I think we’re both going to be playing soon.” They walked out into the chilly late-morning sunshine. It was late March, and Montreal was finally starting to thaw, but it would be a while before winter could be declared over.

They walked one block toward where they’d parked, then Shane stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.

“What?” Ilya asked.

“You know what? There’s a place nearby that makes the best chicken parmesan. I’ve always wanted to take you.”

Ilya’s heart bounced happily at how fearless Shane was being. How sure he was about him. About them. He smiled and said, “If Hayden does not mind watching Anya for a bit longer.”

Shane smiled back. “I’ll check to make sure, but he was pretty excited about doing us a favor, so we should probably take advantage of that while we can.”

They both started walking toward the restaurant. “Hayden is a good guy,” Ilya said.

Shane nudged him. “Are you gonna tell him that?”

“Maybe. Someday.” He reached for Shane’s hand and they walked, fingers tangled together, down a busy street in downtown Montreal with their heads held high.

“What about this one?” Ilya asked, and showed his phone screen to Shane.

Shane wrinkled his nose at it. “I look weird in that one.”

“Yes. But I look very good.”

Shane lightly punched his chest, which was easy to do because his head was resting on it. They were both naked, tangled up in bed together, and trying to find the perfect set of photos to pair with the statement for their mutual Instagram post. Shane was being, Ilya thought, overly fussy about it.

“This one,” Shane suggested, and showed Ilya his phone. It showed a photo Yuna had taken of them together in their coach tracksuits on the first day of their first charity camp.

“Good. Okay,” Ilya agreed. “Very respectable.”

“Maybe that’s enough,” Shane mused. “We have four.”

“One more,” Ilya said, and stretched his hand holding the phone out above them.

“No way,” Shane said, squirming away.

Ilya pulled him closer with an arm around Shane’s shoulders. “In case people still don’t believe we are together.”

“No!” Shane squawked.

“For me, then,” Ilya said, and kissed the top of Shane’s head.

Shane relaxed against him. “Fine.”

Ilya snapped a few quick photos, then lowered his phone to look at them.

“Oh,” Shane said quietly. “Look at us.”

They both looked so fucking in love it was disgusting. “I am keeping these ones,” Ilya said firmly.

“I guess we don’t have to delete those kinds of photos anymore,” Shane said. “Within reason, I mean. I don’t want anything graphic getting out there.”

“Good thing I didn’t take a photo ten minutes ago, then.”

Shane’s cheeks turned as pink as Ilya had hoped they would. “I think your hands were busy.”

Ilya rolled on top of Shane, pinning him on his back. “They could be busy again.”

Shane grinned up at him, all flushed skin and freckles and bright eyes. Ilya wanted to, like, crawl inside him somehow.

“We need to finish the post. And then you have a dog to pick up and a hockey team to get back to.”

Ilya did miss Anya, so he flopped back on the mattress and got to work assembling the Instagram post.

“You have all four photos? The ones I texted you?” Shane asked.

“Yes, yes.”

“And you’re not including the one you just took?”

Ilya only huffed in response. He copied and pasted Farah’s statement, made sure all four photos were lined up, and hovered his thumb over the post button.

“Ready?” he asked.

Shane blew out a breath. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

They posted it.

Shane got a call from his coach shortly after Ilya left, gruffly letting him know that he was to be at practice tomorrow morning. It was a relief, and Shane was definitely looking forward to getting back on the ice, but he was nervous about facing his teammates again.

He still hadn’t heard from J.J.

He tried to push it out of his mind by filling the rest of his day with exercise, meditation, and rest. He wasn’t particularly successful at any of those things, especially rest. His body hummed with energy. He felt excited and terrified and a million other things.

He waited two hours after the post went up to check the replies. There were already over fifty thousand likes, and way more comments than he could read. A quick scroll showed that they weren’t all positive, but a lot of them were. Most of them were.

Maybe things really would be okay.

His doorbell rang just before ten o’clock at night, while Shane was sitting on his bed texting Ilya and Rose separately, and checking the Instagram replies for the fifth time that day. The security camera app on his phone showed J.J. standing on his doorstep.

Shane bolted down the stairs and yanked the door open.

“Hi,” he said.

J.J. was scowling, clearly still angry. But he was there.

Shane stepped back and J.J. silently entered the house. They stood in Shane’s front hallway, staring at each other, for several tense moments. Then J.J. said, in French, “You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? You let me keep trying to find you dates, you—”

“To be fair,” Shane interrupted, “I kept telling you to stop doing that.”

“You fucking lied to me. After the Centaurs plane thing I said all that shit about you having one-sided feelings for Rozanov and you lied to me.”

“I—”

“You could have told me. You told Hayden!”

“He…guessed.”

“I felt sorry for you! I thought you were carrying a broken heart around but the whole time you’ve been fucking Ilya Rozanov!”

Anger shot through Shane. He stepped toward J.J., which meant he had to tip his head back to see his face. “Ilya is my boyfriend. I love him, and I have for years. Don’t make it sound like…less.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” J.J. said sarcastically. “Obviously I should have known about your epic love affair with Ilya fucking Rozanov because you’ve told me so much about it! You’re one of my best friends, Shane. What the fuck?”

“Maybe,” Shane said tersely, “I thought you wouldn’t exactly be supportive.”

“Of what? Sneaking around with your fucking rival?”

Shane tipped a hand toward J.J. “See?”

J.J. turned his back to him, the rage obvious in the rise and fall of his shoulders. Shane folded his arms, and waited.

“Look,” J.J. finally said, in English. “I don’t think this is okay. It’s fucked up that you’re dating the captain of the team we’re probably going to be facing in the playoffs.”

Shane immediately got angry. He couldn’t help it; he’d had enough of people being grossed out by his relationship for one day. “Thanks for your fucking input. You think maybe that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you?”

“How did Hayden react at first? Thrilled for you, was he?”

Shane’s mouth dropped open. He tried to think of a defense, but in the end he just closed his mouth again.

J.J. huffed. “That’s what I thought.”

“Look. The less people who knew, the better. It’s nothing personal.”

“It fucking feels personal.”

“God, would you stop? I’ve been hiding this thing for eleven fucking years. It sucked, okay? I’m sorry if your feelings are hurt, but come on, man.”

Somewhere in the middle of Shane’s outburst, J.J. had gone very still. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Eleven years?” he said quietly.

“Um,” Shane said, “give or take.”

J.J. walked to the staircase that led to the second floor and sat down hard on the third step. “Eleven fucking years. The entire time I’ve known you.”

A lump formed in Shane’s throat. “We haven’t been, like, a couple that whole time.”

J.J.’s shoulders slumped. “Fucking hell, Hollander. Who are you?”

Shane took a chance, and sat next to him on the step. It was…cozy. “I’m your friend. And your teammate. And I fell in love with the most complicated person I could possibly fall in love with.”

“Ilya fucking Rozanov.” J.J. shook his head. “Jesus, Shane. Why?”

“Because…” Shane didn’t even know where to start. Finally he just said, “He makes me happy. I know it doesn’t make sense, but he’s it for me. We’re getting married.”

J.J.’s head whipped around to face him, eyes wide. “Married?”

“Uh, yeah,” Shane said nervously. “So, y’know. Watch for an invitation.”

“Fuck, Hollander. This is a lot.”

Shane nudged him. “I’m the same friend you’ve always had. And I’ll still be the same when I’m Ilya’s husband. I swear I’m normal.”

A long, tense silence fell between them. Then J.J. sighed and said, “No one who’s never heard of Cardi B is normal.”

Shane barked out a surprised laugh. “Fuck off. I’d heard the name, I just didn’t know any of his songs.”

“Her, you fucking dipshit.”

They leaned against each other and laughed, and it felt like things might be okay between them.

“I don’t want to be mad at you, Hollander.”

“I know. But you can be.” Shane smiled. “Until tomorrow. Then we’ve gotta play hockey.”

J.J. smiled back. “Deal.”