Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(18)

“Yes,” Rozanov finally answered. There was scattered laughter when it became clear that he wasn’t going to elaborate.

“Shane, you’ve scored forty-one goals this year already. Do you think you’ll beat Rozanov to fifty?”

“I don’t really think about stuff like that,” Shane said carefully. “This is a team sport, and I’m happy when my team is doing well. I just try to contribute.”

Rozanov was wearing a ball cap and had his head down so the reporters couldn’t see his reaction, but Shane could feel him rolling his eyes beside him.

“Ilya, how’s it feel to play with a team of Europeans for this All-Star Game?”

“Good. Perfect. Locker room makes more sense than usual.”

More laughter.

Shane watched the way Rozanov was slowly rubbing the knuckle of his forefinger with his thumb. He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. Rozanov had nice hands...

The questions kept coming, and they were all exactly what Shane had been expecting. He did his best to answer them, and even chanced a glance over at Rozanov’s profile next to him. His curls poked out from under his All-Star Game ball cap, and his jawline was covered in stubble. He was wearing a V-neck T-shirt, and Shane could see the glint of his gold chain where it disappeared beneath the fabric.

Shane turned his head abruptly back to the reporters.

He took a sip of his water and sat back in his chair. Except now he had an even better view of Rozanov, and the way he was hunched forward over the table. Shane could see the muscles in his back and shoulders straining against the thin material of the T-shirt.

“Shane?”

“Sorry?” Shane snapped his eyes forward.

“Just a quick one from the Toronto Star: Would you like to play on an All-Star team with Ilya in the future?”

“Oh. Sure. Yeah. I mean...” He took a breath. “Ilya’s a great player.”

“Ilya? Same question?”

“If Hollander does not mind me being starting center. Yes.”

Shane made a show of rolling his eyes as the room laughed. He clasped his hands together and rested them on the table in front of him, leaning over his microphone as he awaited the next question. Rozanov’s elbows were resting on the table too. His left elbow was almost brushing Shane’s right. Shane could swear there was an electric current in the narrow space between them. He felt like the hair on his arm was standing up.

“Both Montreal and Boston have been out of the playoffs for three seasons now. Do you guys feel the pressure to restore your team’s legacies, even this early in your careers?”

Shane rubbed his arm and furrowed his brow. He turned his head and saw that Ilya was looking at him, and his face showed that he was hoping Shane would field this one. Rozanov probably only understood about half the words. Shane thought it was a pretty stupid question, honestly.

“Um,” he said. “I can’t speak for Rozanov, or what it’s like in Boston, but I know the fans in Montreal love their team and definitely are expecting us to turn things around and get back in the playoffs and win some cups. And, you know, I feel the exact same way. So... I guess my answer is that I don’t really feel any pressure that I’m not already putting on myself.”

He hoped that satisfied him. Unfortunately, the reporter didn’t pick up on the fact that Rozanov was clearly struggling with understanding the question, and said, “Ilya?”

“Ah,” Rozanov said. “What Hollander said. Yes.”

He gave the room one of his playful smiles, and everyone laughed again. Shane looked at him, and Rozanov caught his eye and winked. Shane pursed his lips to stifle a grin.

Under the table, he felt Rozanov’s foot tap against his own. It was the chastest contact in the world, but it still made Shane’s heart stop.

The press conference ended. Both men stood as the room erupted into the chaos of dozens of people packing up recording equipment. Shane offered Rozanov his hand, and Rozanov shook it. When Shane released their handshake, Rozanov slowly slid his fingers along Shane’s palm.

“I’ll see you later, Hollander,” he said in a tone that was far more suggestive than it should have been.

Shane swallowed. “Yeah. Later.”

Shane allowed himself a moment, on the ice, to take everything in. The NHL’s All-Star Skills Competition was held the night before the All-Star Game, and was a chance for the stars to show off and try to prove themselves the fastest skater, or the hardest shooter. It was just a laid-back, fun night, and no one took it very seriously, but he was here, dammit. He was a rookie and he was an NHL All-Star. He could be a little proud of himself.

All of the players from both teams were on the ice now, clustered in front of their respective benches. Some of the players kneeled as they waited for their events to be called. Others stood and chatted with their just-for-this-weekend teammates. The league had been less than subtle about their desire to see Shane and Rozanov go head-to-head in one of the competition events. That event ended up being the shot accuracy competition.

Rozanov went first. The net had four foam bull’s-eye targets—one in each corner—fastened to the goalposts. When the timer started, the object was to break all four targets with shots from the blue line as fast as possible. The league record was about seven seconds.

When the whistle blew, Rozanov wasted no time. He broke the top two targets with the first two shots, then missed the next one, then cleanly broke the bottom two targets with his fourth and fifth shots.