Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(11)

Shane gasped. Loud enough that the running water couldn’t mask it.

“What were you thinking about?” Rozanov asked, his voice low.

Shane swallowed. His throat was bone dry.

“You,” he said quietly.

Rozanov heard him, and smirked. He gave himself another stroke. “You want to touch me, Hollander?”

Shane actually just wanted to watch Rozanov jerk himself off. But...

“Not here,” Shane stammered. “Someone could come in.”

Rozanov nodded and released himself. He turned and shut off the water. Shane waited, heart racing, until Rozanov had left the showers before he turned off his own water. What the hell was happening? Rozanov couldn’t possibly be suggesting that he and Shane...that they...

Holy shit. Shane had to get out of here. He wondered if he could possibly smash through the tile wall of the shower room and escape that way. Anything would be preferable to facing Rozanov again.

He took a few deep breaths to settle himself. He could do this. He could talk reasonably to Rozanov and end this thing. Determined, he wrapped his towel tightly around his waist before returning to the dressing room.

Rozanov was already half dressed and sitting, shirtless, on one of the benches.

“Look,” Shane said to the floor, “that was...we can just pretend that never happened, okay?”

“Is that what you want?”

Shane’s answer should have been a lot faster. “Yeah. I mean...yeah. Of course.”

Rozanov stood and crossed the floor until he stood right in front of Shane. “You are a bad liar.”

Shane scowled at him.

“What is your room number?” Rozanov asked.

“Fourteen ten,” Shane said, far too quickly.

Rozanov’s mouth twitched up. “If I knock on door of room 1410 tonight...maybe around nine?”

Shane fought to keep his voice even. “I might open the door.”

Rozanov smiled. “I might knock.”

Shane spent the evening freaking the fuck out in his hotel room.

He considered his options. He could leave. Just go out for a few hours so he wouldn’t be there when Rozanov knocked. That would be the sensible thing to do.

He could stay and just ignore Rozanov’s knock. There could be something satisfying in that. Give him a little bit of power over him.

He could open the door when he knocked, invite him in, and they could talk about this whole ridiculous...misunderstanding. Then they could go their separate ways forever.

Or...he could open the door and he could spend the evening exploring Rozanov’s body with his mouth.

Shane blushed just thinking about it. He couldn’t really want that, could he?

He had more or less decided on the second option: he would talk to Rozanov. They would put this behind them as quickly as possible so things wouldn’t be weird when the season started. He tidied up the room, even though it was already perfectly tidy. He changed his shirt to a nicer one for no reason at all. He brushed his teeth, flossed, and rinsed with mouthwash. Because if he was going to be talking to Rozanov, it would be rude to have bad breath.

He fixed his hair a bit. He switched his phone to silent mode.

He decided to turn on the television, just so it wouldn’t look like he’d just been sitting there staring at the door.

He flipped to a baseball game and turned the sound down low. He shut off the overhead light and turned on all of the lamps. He checked himself in the mirror. Again.

The knock came at seven minutes after nine o’clock. Shane checked the peephole just to make sure Rozanov wasn’t pranking him or anything.

It was just Rozanov. Alone.

Shane turned off the television, because having it on suddenly seemed dumb. He opened the door and let Rozanov in.

Rozanov looked like he may have put a little effort into his appearance too. He was wearing a black button-up shirt, his gold chain winking at Shane from the wide-open collar. His hair, which was usually a mess of curls, had been tamed a bit, though one lock had already escaped and was tumbling adorably onto Rozanov’s forehead.

“Thought you might have chickened out,” Rozanov said in his infuriatingly blunt manner.

“No,” Shane said. “I mean, I just want to talk. About...you know.”

“I do know. Yes.”

“Uh, do you want to...sit? Maybe?”

Rozanov took a step toward him. “Not really.”

He was so close that Shane could feel the heat of his body. Or maybe he was imagining it.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Shane said weakly.

“What?” Rozanov said, tucking a knuckle under Shane’s chin and tilting it up. “This?”

He brought his mouth down on Shane’s, and Shane flooded with panic. He was stiff against Rozanov, lips pressed together, eyes open. But Rozanov persisted. Shane felt the tip of Rozanov’s tongue trace the outline of his lips, seeking entry. Long fingers threaded into his hair, and Shane surrendered. He parted his lips and closed his eyes, and Rozanov deepened the kiss, pushing between his lips and pressing his tongue to Shane’s.

Shane had never kissed a man, and somewhere in the back of his splintering brain he wondered if Rozanov ever had either. He certainly seemed to know what he was doing.

Shane felt like he was made of alarm bells. Like his panic was going to somehow wake up the entire hotel. If it was just that he was kissing a man, he might be able to get a grip. But kissing this man in particular was so absurd and wrong wrong wrong...