Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(17)

“Life, Ilya. Like I said.”

“Life. Right.”

“It’s not like you can’t afford it. I know what your signing bonus was.”

“I’m sure you do.” It was probably the only part of Ilya’s career that Andrei had bothered to follow.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Ilya.”

Ilya rolled his eyes at the phone. He could say no. He should say no. He didn’t owe his asshole brother a goddamned thing.

But if he said no, then his father would call next to give him the speech about family and being a good son. And as much as Ilya hated Andrei, he was still his brother. But this was the last fucking time.

“I’ll send you the money. But don’t ask again.”

“Could you send it now? What time is it there?”

“What? No! Fuck you, I’ll send it tomorrow. I’m going to bed.”

“Fine. Good night then.”

“You’re welcome.”

Andrei ended the call. Ilya threw his phone down on the bed.

He turned on the television, and there was Shane fucking Hollander’s face, filling the screen. All sweaty and flushed and happy. Answering questions in perfect goddamned French. Ilya couldn’t even say a basic English sentence without sounding like a cartoon villain. He hated his stupid accent. He hated his asshole family.

Shane Hollander was speaking French and he was breathless and smiling and drenched in sweat with his hair sticking up in all directions. His cheeks were pink and his lips were dark and wet. He looked so fucking proud of himself.

Ilya told himself the twisted feeling in his stomach was just jealousy, but he was terrified that it was something much, much worse.



Chapter Six


January 2011—Nashville

Ilya swiped his key card for the third time and his hotel room door finally unlocked. Once inside, he fell back on the king-size bed with his arms outstretched, pleasantly buzzed from the drinks he’d consumed at his All-Star team’s dinner.

He had expected to be on a team with Hollander, since they played in the same conference, but the league had decided to change it up this year and have North American players form one team, and European players form the other. No secret as to why. The league couldn’t get enough of the Rozanov/Hollander rivalry.

Ilya was close to making good on his promise to score fifty goals by the end of February. He had already scored thirty-eight.

Hollander had scored forty-one.

Fucking Hollander.

Ilya’d spotted him in the lobby earlier that evening, but that was it. No words had been exchanged. He hadn’t even gotten a nod of acknowledgment from him.

Ilya wondered what Hollander was doing right now.

He wondered if there were any cute girls at the hotel bar.

Was Hollander in his own room, lying on his bed?

Was he wondering what Ilya was doing?

Why was Shane Hollander so fucking hard to shake? They’d hooked up once. Months ago. It had been a mistake, obviously. A giant, ridiculous mistake. Or, at the very least, something that should be forgotten about. Not a big deal.

On the ice it was easy enough to focus on the game. Ilya actually loved playing against Hollander. He would never actually tell him, but Hollander was really fucking good. He challenged Ilya in ways that Ilya wasn’t used to. He loved taking the puck from Hollander. He loved slamming him into the boards. He loved skating around him. He loved shit-talking him because his eyes would get all squashed up in anger and his pink lips would curl into an adorable little attempt at a snarl. Like an angry kitten.

Okay. It wasn’t entirely easy to focus on the game.

And after the games...and all the days between their games...when Ilya had to watch Hollander being interviewed with his lovely fucking manners and his adorable, boyish smile. When Ilya watched him play against other teams, and watched how he moved with flawless, calculated grace. When Ilya heard him switch effortlessly between perfect English and perfect French at press conferences. When Ilya thought about how eager his mouth had been back in that hotel room in Toronto...

He didn’t even have Hollander’s phone number.

He’d see him tomorrow night.

Shane should have been expecting the press conference.

Saturday morning, the day of the All-Star Skills Competition, he had received a phone call from someone from the NHL’s PR office telling him there was a short press conference scheduled for that afternoon. Two o’clock. It would just be him...and Ilya Rozanov.

“Why?” Shane had asked.

“It’s your first All-Star Game! You’re both having legendary rookie seasons! And besides, the press love the idea of getting you two together.”

Shane had flushed a little.

So now he found himself sitting behind a raised table, staring at a room full of reporters and cameras. That part was very familiar, and didn’t cause Shane any stress. The large Russian man next to him—who was sitting so close their forearms were almost touching where they rested on top of the table—was the one responsible for Shane’s dry mouth and (probably) noticeable stammering.

“Ilya,” one reporter said, “you announced at the beginning of the season that you would score fifty goals by the end of February. You’ve scored thirty-eight so far. Do you think you’ll keep your promise?”

Rozanov took a moment to reply. Shane wondered if he was working through all the English words.