Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(28)

“I go back to Russia. In three days.”

“Oh.”

They were both silent for a long time. Shane wasn’t sure if Rozanov had more to tell him or not. He decided not to push. It wasn’t like they were friends.

“I should get back,” Shane said, after several minutes of gazing down at the city. “My parents might still be at the party.”

“Your parents,” Rozanov said. “Right.”

“I guess... I guess I’ll see you next season.”

Shane stuck out his hand. Rozanov looked at it. Then he turned his head left and right, looking all around them.

A split second later, Shane found himself pushed back from the railing, against a wall. Rozanov’s mouth was pressed hard against his, and his hands gripped his arms roughly, fingers digging into his biceps.

Shane felt panicked. This was super fucking dangerous. And stupid. And confusing. And...

Shane kissed him back, just as angrily. Because fuck this guy for doing shit like this. Hiding away all night on a fucking rooftop, smoking a goddamned cigarette in the dark like the worst cliché of a brooding heartthrob. Making Shane feel bad for winning an award that he completely fucking deserved. And then, on a whim, pressing Shane against a wall and kissing him like he would die without Shane’s mouth on his. Kissing him until Shane’s senses were full of hard muscle pressed against him and the taste of cigarette and the slick heat of Rozanov’s tongue in his mouth.

What the fuck.

Shane grabbed Rozanov’s lapels and shoved him back. They couldn’t do this here. At all.

Shane looked frantically around them. There was no one. But, Jesus, there could have been.

Rozanov leaned in to kiss Shane again, and Shane dodged him.

“No,” he said. “No way. Not here. What’s wrong with you?”

Rozanov gave him that crooked grin that did absurd things to Shane’s stomach.

“We can’t,” Shane said. He meant it, but it hurt to say. “I have to go. You should go to bed, Rozanov.”

The smile disappeared.

“See you next season,” Rozanov said. Then he turned and walked toward the elevators.

Shane waited a few minutes so they wouldn’t have to ride down together.

Next season. Next season would be different. He was going to end this stupid thing between them and focus on his game.



Part Two




Chapter Nine


December 2013—36,000 feet over Pennsylvania

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Ilya could hear Ryan Price’s foot drumming against the floor, even with an empty seat between them. Even though Ilya was wearing headphones, and watching a very loud Fast and Furious movie.

Ilya glanced over. Price’s knee was bouncing, jostling the paperback novel he was balancing, open and upside down, on his thigh. Price was gripping both armrests and his eyes were closed. He looked bad.

And he was definitely going to drop that book on the floor. And then he would lose his place.

Ilya sighed, hit pause on the movie, and removed his headphones. He didn’t know Price very well. No one did; he had only joined the team at the start of this season. He was a gigantic defenseman, but his real position on the ice was enforcer. His job was to make sure no one interfered with the more talented players. Ilya could take care of himself, but playing with guys like Price meant he didn’t have to.

Ilya talked shit on the ice, got under other guys’ skin, and then Ryan Price had to take their punches. Pretty sweet deal for Ilya.

“Price,” he said. “Your book.”

No response.

“Price,” Ilya said again. Still nothing, so Ilya reached out and poked his arm. “You okay?”

Price’s eyes flew open and he jumped a little, causing his book to tumble to the floor. Ilya watched it fall in dismay. He had failed.

“Sorry,” Price said. “Was I tapping my foot?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry,” Price said again. “Just, um, nervous flier. Sometimes.”

“Ah.” Ilya bent and retrieved the book. He glanced at the cover before handing it back. Anne of Green Gables. Wasn’t that a children’s book for girls or something? “You lost your place.”

Price gave a thin smile. “It’s okay. I’ve read it before. It’s kind of just... I bring it on planes as kind of a comfort thing.”

Ilya could not figure this guy out. He was even taller than Ilya, and much bulkier, with shoulder-length red hair and a beard that made him look like a biker gang member. He could knock a guy out with one punch. Some of the toughest opponents in the league were scared to face Price in a fight.

“Is it the red hair?” Ilya asked. He didn’t understand Price, but he could at least try to help him calm down. “Anne of Green Gables?”

Price stared at him like he had no idea what he was talking about, and then he laughed. It was quiet and uneasy, but it was still a laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”

This was, Ilya was pretty sure, Price’s fourth NHL season, but he had played for three different teams already. He was quiet in the dressing room, scary on the ice, and clearly a nervous wreck on planes, so Ilya imagined he didn’t make friends easily.

“Are you like this every flight?” Ilya asked. He couldn’t imagine what that would be like. Price was definitely in the wrong line of work if he hated flying.