Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(19)

Eight seconds.

Shane shook his head and watched Rozanov play to the crowd. Rozanov skated around the ice holding his stick like a rifle, celebrating his skills by pretending to shoot at the rafters.

Shane skated up to replace Rozanov on the blue line, and Rozanov came to a stop right in front of him. “Sorry about that, Hollander.”

“You think I can’t beat that?”

Rozanov just winked and nudged Shane a little as he passed him. Shane heard the crowd’s delighted reaction.

Fuck it. Fuck him. Shane could do this. He could do this with his fucking eyes closed.

The whistle blew and Shane just locked on to those targets. He watched each one burst apart with four perfect shots.

Six. Point. Seven. Seconds.

The crowd went wild. Shane threw his arms over his head and celebrated more than was probably necessary or sportsmanlike, but fuck, it felt good.

He smirked at Rozanov as he skated back to his teammates. Rozanov wasn’t smiling now, but the look in his eyes was...

Shane flushed and turned his attention to his teammates.

His contribution to the competition completed, Shane could now just relax and enjoy himself as he watched the others battle each other. He would like to say his gradual movement down the line in front of the bench to where the two teams met was not deliberate, but that would be a lie. And it seemed he wasn’t the only one making that journey.

Shane leaned casually against the boards at the end of the bench, pretending to focus on the players competing for hardest shot, instead of on the man who was standing a couple of feet from him.

“Nice job, Hollander,” Rozanov drawled.

“Thanks.”

“Have fun last night?”

“Last night?”

“With your teammates. Dinner somewhere? Get drunk?”

Shane looked down at the ice. “Oh. Yeah. It was fun. Um...how about you guys?”

“Lots of fun. No fucking Canadians or Americans. Was perfect.”

“Ah.”

He turned his gaze to Rozanov’s face. No one wore helmets for the skills competition, since there was no actual body contact, and Shane could admire the profile of his chiseled jaw, and the soft curls of his hair.

“Going to bed early tonight. I think,” Rozanov said suddenly.

Shane’s mouth went a little dry. “Oh?”

“Yes.”

They stood in silence, watching the action on the ice. Loud music blared and the crowd cheered as another record was broken.

Rozanov leaned down. His breath ghosted over Shane’s ear when he said, in a low voice, “Twelve twenty-one.”

A shiver ran through Shane’s body, and before it had even left him, Rozanov was gone. Shane watched him skate down the ice to talk to a fellow Russian player.

Shane hoped he wasn’t blushing.

“The fuck did Rozanov want?” asked Liam Casey, a defenseman for Pittsburgh.

“Nothing,” Shane said quickly. “Just shit-talking, you know?”

“Guy’s a fucking asshole.”

“Yeah,” he said.

Ilya wasn’t surprised at all when the knock came.

It was late. After midnight. He had been back in his room for almost two hours.

Hollander pushed into the room as soon as Ilya opened the door. He turned and flipped the bar latch as if someone was going to burst in any moment.

He looked terrified.

“Is there a ghost out there?” Ilya asked, amused.

“No. Fuck you. This is fucking dangerous and you know it.”

“Is it? We are not doing anything.”

Hollander looked at him hard. His dark eyes were a mixture of anger and lust. Ilya decided to drop the act.

“You came anyway,” he said.

“Yeah,” Hollander said, his voice tight and full of forced courage. “I guess I did.”

Ilya nodded, and then Hollander swore under his breath and lunged forward to kiss him. He grabbed Ilya’s T-shirt in a tight fist and pulled him closer.

Ilya moaned at the hot slide of Hollander’s tongue against his. He tugged roughly on the hair at the back of Hollander’s head, tipping his head back so he could deepen the kiss.

They broke apart and Hollander looked at him, eyes wild and dark hair a mess, silently begging for instruction.

“On your knees,” Ilya said softly, just to see what he would do.

Expecting Hollander to tell him to fuck off, Ilya’s breath caught in his throat as he watched him sink fluidly to the floor. He gazed up at Ilya. Those onyx eyes, always so sharp, were hazy with desire. Hollander leaned forward to nuzzle and mouth at the bulge in Ilya’s sweatpants.

“Christ, Hollander,” Ilya breathed, gently pulling at Hollander’s hair as he pressed hot, openmouthed kisses to the fabric that pulled tight over Ilya’s erection. He felt dizzy and less in control than he wanted to be as Hollander tucked fingers into Ilya’s waistband and pulled down until Ilya’s cock was freed.

Hollander didn’t hesitate. He dragged his tongue up the length before wrapping his lips around the head and sinking down. Ilya couldn’t even make a smart remark. He just gasped and let his head fall back, completely overwhelmed by Hollander’s need for this. He certainly didn’t have the ability to conjure English words right now.

Hollander reached a hand up and slid it, fingers splayed, under the hem of Ilya’s T-shirt. He pushed the shirt up until Ilya took the hint and pulled it off over his head. He carefully stepped out of his sweatpants, Hollander’s mouth never leaving him, and planted a hand on the back of Hollander’s head. He was careful not to hold him too firmly in place. This wasn’t control—Ilya just wanted to touch him. To let the silky strands of his hair slip through his fingers as Hollander gave in to what he had clearly been craving.