Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(30)

A loud bark of laughter interrupted Shane’s thoughts. Hayden thrust his phone in his face. “Hey, look at what the fans are doing outside.”

It was a video, posted to Twitter, of a group of people outside the arena burning what appeared to be an effigy of Ilya Rozanov.

“Well, that’s a bit much,” Shane said.

J.J. grabbed the phone. “Ha! This is happening now?”

“A few minutes ago,” Hayden said.

“Beautiful. Love it.”

Hayden took his phone back and studied the screen. “They didn’t make the dummy ugly enough.”

Sure, Hayden. “They’ve probably burned effigies of me in Boston,” Shane said.

“Oh yeah! They totally have. Here, let me go to YouTube...”

“Yeah, no. I actually am trying to focus on winning a hockey game right now. No YouTube, please.”

The team’s PR manager, Marcel, came into the dressing room, and Shane sighed.

“Shane,” Marcel said. “NBC wants to talk to you. You good?”

“Sure. I’ll be out in a sec.”

The broadcasters always wanted to talk to Shane before the games, especially before games against Boston. He tried to think of a new and exciting way of answering the question, “What does Montreal have to do to win tonight?” as he made his way to the hallway outside the dressing room.

“Last question, Shane: What does Montreal have to do to win tonight?”

Shane put on his best “thinking” face, to give the impression that he certainly hadn’t expected this question. “Get the puck to the net, take shots, stay out of the penalty box...” Score more goals than the other team before the game ends. “We’re in good shape tonight, everyone is healthy, so I think we’re definitely going to make it tough for Boston.”

“Thank you, Shane, and good luck tonight.”

“Thanks, Chris.”

Shane tried not to begrudge these interviews. Whenever he had to do one, which was often, he would think of the kids who were watching. He used to love seeing his favorite stars interviewed on television before and after the games.

Back in the dressing room, he picked up his phone to send a quick text to his parents. He messaged them before every game.

He saw that he had a message waiting for him, and it wasn’t from his parents.

Lily: How many times can you come in one hour?
What. The. Fuck.

This was dirty fucking pool, even for Rozanov. They didn’t text each other before the games. Especially not about shit like that.

He definitely wasn’t going to write back. And he definitely wasn’t getting hard in his jock strap.

Fuck. He was hard. And now he was writing back.

Ilya nearly choked when he saw Hollander’s reply.

Jane: I dunno. Twice, maybe?
So fucking pure! So honest and sweet.

Ilya: You are very bad at sexting.
Jane: Who taught you that word?
Ilya: Your mom.
Okay, that was pretty stupid. But Hollander loved his mom and that probably would bother him.

Jane: Stop. I’ll text you after the game.
A few seconds went by.

Jane: If you’re lucky.
Ilya snorted. Hollander was probably so proud of himself for that dig.

Ilya: Are you hard right now?
No answer. Ah well. Ilya knew he was crossing a line with these texts, but it was just so damn fun to tease Hollander. He could just picture him now, in the Montreal dressing room, blushing as he shoved his phone into a bag or something so no one would see it.

He hoped Hollander was still mad about it later, when they met in a hotel room.

Ilya frowned at the abandoned-looking three-story building the cabdriver had delivered him to. He checked the address again, and confirmed that it was the same as what Hollander had texted him. The fuck?

Hollander’s only instruction had been for Ilya to go around the back of the building, text him, and wait at the door. So Ilya did that, trying not to think about being murdered in a dark empty lot behind a creepy building. If he believed Hollander had a diabolical bone in his body, Ilya would suspect he was about to be pranked.

The back door opened a minute after Ilya sent the text, and all it revealed was Hollander, who glanced nervously around as if he was expecting a S.W.A.T. team to descend on them.

“Get in here,” he said. Ilya stepped past him, into a dimly lit stairwell, and Hollander locked the door behind them.

“What is this place?” Ilya asked.

Instead of answering, Hollander pushed him hard with both hands. “Fuck you for texting me before the game, you asshole!”

Ilya grinned. “You were hard, weren’t you? For how long? The whole game?”

Hollander glared at him, then said, “Follow me.”

He led them up way too many stairs, to the top floor, and then used a key to unlock another door. It opened to reveal a large loft apartment, only partially finished, from the looks of it. The walls looked like they had been freshly plastered, and hadn’t been painted yet. There was a ladder leaning against one wall, and an open box of tools beside it. The kitchen area had a brand-new countertop and cupboards, but no appliances.

“Is this your place?” Ilya had never been to Hollander’s home. It had always been hotel rooms before. The idea excited him.

“No. I mean, I don’t live here. But, yes, I own it.”