Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(22)

Shane was both terrified and undeniably aroused by the idea. Undeniably extremely aroused by the idea.

But that didn’t change the fact that it was a really, really bad idea.

Shane had accepted the fact that he was more than okay with having sexual encounters with a man. Fine. He had suspected that about himself for a while now, and maybe Rozanov was just the first man to see that in him, to offer him the chance to experiment a little. So maybe what Shane actually needed to do was find another man to fool around with.

But who the fuck was that going to be?

This was Montreal. He was Shane Hollander. If his career went the way he was planning, that situation was only going to get more impossible. He definitely didn’t want any rumors of his sexuality—whatever it was—getting out there. The NHL liked to pretend it was inclusive now, but Shane knew what it was like on the ice, and in the dressing room. There had never been an openly queer NHL player, and homophobic slurs were thrown around enough that Shane couldn’t imagine that happening. Whoever came out first was going to have to be brave as hell. It sure as shit wasn’t going to be Shane.

One thing he was certain of about Rozanov: he wasn’t going to tell anyone. He had as much to lose as Shane did.

As far as Shane could figure, he had three choices: Forget about fucking men entirely and just stick to women; Risk finding men, or even just a man, who could be discreet and...patient; Let whatever the fuck was happening with Rozanov keep happening and try not to think too much about it.

Obviously the first option was the most sensible. Certainly the safest.

Also the most unappealing.

Fuck.

Shane slowed the treadmill to a cool-down speed and grabbed his water bottle.

Yeah. No. Okay. He definitely had to end this nonsense with Rozanov. He’d made it to the NHL and was at the very beginning of what he hoped would be a very impressive career. A giant fucking scandal probably wasn’t the best way to kick things off. And Shane couldn’t see a way that they could possibly keep this thing quiet if it continued.

Why was he even thinking about that? A long-term secret relationship with Ilya Rozanov? Was that what some part of his dumb brain was hoping for?

No. Definitely putting a stop to this. This was just Shane being...nineteen. He was nineteen and horny and oddly lonely, for a star athlete. Just because Rozanov was making himself available didn’t mean Shane had to accept.

Pleased with his decision, he stepped off the treadmill and headed to the chin-up bar. There would be nothing to it. Rozanov would text him to ask for his address, and Shane would write back no.

The next week—Montreal

Lily: I need your address.
Shane: No.
Shane smirked at his phone, very pleased with his prompt and clear reply to Rozanov’s text.

Lily: Fuck off. What is it?
Shane: None of your business.
Lily: Fine. Your loss.
Shane stopped smirking. He sat down hard on his couch and turned on his brand-new lamp. The Bears would roll into town the day after tomorrow. They would play later that evening, and then...

Shane chewed his lip, thinking. It’s not that he didn’t want to...see Rozanov. If he was being honest, he’d been obsessively thinking about it since the All-Star weekend. He just didn’t want his archrival coming to his home. That seemed like too big of a line to cross.

He wrote back. Could we meet somewhere else?

He felt a flush of embarrassment as he hit send. God, why couldn’t he just have left it where it was? He’d successfully rejected Rozanov. Why give the power right back to him?

Lily: Like where?
Shane: I don’t know!
Lily: Figure it out. Let me know.
Shane hated how relaxed Rozanov was about all of this. It wasn’t fucking fair. He almost wrote back Forget it, but instead just stood and slipped his phone into his pocket.

He would figure it out.

Shane: 1822.

Lily: ?
Shane: Room number.
Lily: OK...where is the room?
Shane: Same hotel you’re in.
Lily: See you soon.
Shane sat on the end of his king-size hotel bed. Then he stood up. Then he sat back down again.

This was so fucking dumb. Why was he doing this? Booking a room in the same hotel as the entire Boston team (several floors above theirs, but still) so he could hook up with a man he didn’t even like? If they were caught it could be devastating to both of their careers.

At the very least, it would be very embarrassing.

Shane stood and went to the mirror. He checked his teeth and nudged a stray lock of hair back into place.

There was a sharp rap on his door. He spun around, startled by how loud it sounded, and quickly crossed the room to open it. “Jesus. You trying to get everyone’s attention?”

Rozanov slid into the room. His ball cap was pulled low over his eyes. Shane closed and latched the door quickly behind him.

“You are nervous,” Rozanov said. It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Shane lied.

“Is just sex, Hollander,” Rozanov said.

“I know.”

Rozanov pulled the ball cap off and brown curls tumbled out, falling messily around his grinning face. He was wearing a charcoal-gray T-shirt with a small Nike logo on the chest and black track pants. Shane was wearing dark blue pants and a striped cashmere sweater and felt ridiculous.

“You look nice,” Rozanov said. His tone was flat like he was just stating a fact rather than offering a compliment. You look nice. It’s cold outside. This hotel is big.