Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(15)

“All right.”

Rozanov nodded. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” Shane said awkwardly. “I’ll see you on the ice, I guess.”

“Yes.”

Shane wanted to kiss him one more time, because he was sure he would never get the chance again. But Rozanov was already opening the door.

“Goodbye, Hollander.”

“Bye,” Shane said to the closed door.



Chapter Five


September 2010—Montreal

Shane was a man of routine.

He woke every morning at six o’clock, and immediately went for a ten-kilometer run. He would then return to his (new) apartment to do sets of pull-ups, push-ups, and crunches. Then he would stretch before he would make himself a smoothie and a bagel, which he would eat while watching SportsCenter. Then he would shower.

The rest of his day would be dictated by whatever was scheduled for him. He very rarely had a day with nothing planned.

He had completed his first NHL training camp, and he had secured himself a spot on the Montreal Voyageurs’ roster for the 2010–2011 season. That was no surprise, but he was still damn proud of himself. He was starting the preseason games the next day. The city of Montreal had already warmly embraced him. He was excited.

On the television, the SportsCenter anchors were talking about Ilya Rozanov.

Shane hadn’t seen, or spoken to, Rozanov since their...encounter...in the Toronto hotel room over two months ago. He would like to be able to say that he hadn’t thought of him either, but that would be far from the truth.

Suddenly, Rozanov’s face filled the screen. Shane felt his own face flush a bit, which was ridiculous because he was alone and not actually in the presence of those sparkling hazel eyes or that playful, lopsided smile.

He was watching the television, entranced, but not listening to a word of the interview. He didn’t snap out of it until he heard Rozanov say, without a trace of irony, “The Bears will be happy with me this season. I will score fifty goals.”

“Fifty goals?” the stunned interviewer asked.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Shane asked at home.

“Yes. By end of February,” Rozanov said.

Shane snorted. He was stunned by the audacity of this guy. He was announcing before the season had even started, before he had any idea how much ice time he’d even be getting with the Bears, that he would be scoring fifty goals this season? As a nineteen-year-old rookie?

Shane had every intention of scoring at least as many goals himself, but he certainly wasn’t going to announce it. Jesus Christ, what would his new teammates think of him? They’d think he was a cocky little asshole, that’s what. And if Shane didn’t perform, he’d look like a fucking idiot.

But there was Rozanov, bold as brass, calmly announcing his intention to do what maybe four or five rookies had been able to do? Ever? In history?

Ridiculous. Infuriating.

“Do you feel pressure to outperform Shane Hollander this first season?” the interviewer asked.

“Who?”

Fuck. You. Rozanov.

Rozanov looked directly at the camera, and Shane froze. He can’t see you, dummy.

He watched Rozanov wink at the camera and Shane’s eyes narrowed. He was going to shut this fucker up when their teams finally met.

The opportunity came a month later.

The hype leading up to the first meeting between Hollander and Rozanov seemed, to Shane, to be a bit much. They were both only nineteen, and their NHL careers were only weeks old. He wasn’t sure what anyone was expecting to happen.

Montreal was hosting Boston. Shane met his parents for lunch the day of the game. They came to every home game, but this day they came up from Ottawa a little early because they knew how nervous he was.

“The league is always looking for a marketing angle, Shane,” his father said. “It’s just a game like any other.”

“I know.” He poked at his pasta. He couldn’t imagine what his parents would say if they knew the real reason he was nervous about facing Rozanov. Pressure he could handle. He lived for hockey, and he was extremely good at it. Normally he’d be looking forward to the chance to prove himself against a rival.

You had to go and make it weird, didn’t you, Hollander?

“Is Drapeau going to be starting tonight?” Shane’s mother asked. “He was weak on his left side last game. Is he hurt?”

“He’s fine,” Shane said with a small smile. In a nation of rabid, knowledgeable hockey fans, Yuna Hollander ranked near the top. Her parents had emigrated from Japan, but Yuna had been born and raised in Montreal. She couldn’t have been happier that her son had been drafted by her beloved Voyageurs.

Shane was the only child of Yuna and David Hollander, and they had given him all the support in the world. Shane loved them, and he knew how lucky he was. He definitely wouldn’t be where he was without them.

Shane knew most guys in the league didn’t have their parents coming to almost every home game, but he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was grateful his folks lived so close. He’d played his junior hockey in Kingston, which was close enough to Ottawa that he’d seen his parents at most games there too. He’d never really felt that need to distance himself from them. Maybe it was because he was an only child, or maybe it was because he knew how much his parents had given of their time and money and energy to get him to where he was now.