Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(35)

“Hey,” Shane said.

Rozanov looked at him and shook his head. “Not here,” he said tightly.

“No, I’m not... I just wanted to see...how you’re doing.”

“Fine. Go. Sit down.”

Shane frowned. Rozanov looked exhausted. He had dark rings under his eyes, and his face was very pale. But the most noticeable—and alarming—change was in his eyes. The playful spark that always made Rozanov’s hazel eyes dance was just...gone. Extinguished.

“I—”

“We are not...anything. Not here, Hollander.” Rozanov’s eyes darted around them, as if searching for threats. It was the first time that Shane had ever seen Rozanov look uncomfortable.

“Are you okay?” Shane asked. He spoke as quietly as he could over the noise of the arena.

“Please go.”

“You didn’t answer my text and I thought...” Suddenly all the ways Shane might finish that sentence seemed stupid. I thought you were in danger. I thought you were in jail. I thought you were...sad.

“No, I didn’t answer your boring text. Now will you go?”

Rozanov was being an asshole, which was nothing new, but he didn’t seem to mean it. In fact, Shane would bet that Rozanov would actually really like him to stay. He looked like he could use a hug.

But obviously Shane wasn’t going to hug him here, so he just nodded and walked away. He didn’t really have time to think about Rozanov anyway; Canada was going to be playing in the gold medal game the following evening against either America or, if Finland lost this game, Sweden.

Rozanov, and his team, was done. And Shane knew that had to feel awful. Team Russia had just been...terrible. It wasn’t Rozanov’s fault, but Shane knew he would be beating himself up about it. Hell, Shane would be beating himself up, if it were his team.

By the time Shane returned to his seat, Rozanov was gone.



Chapter Eleven


June 2014—Las Vegas

At the end of the season, the league asked Rozanov and Hollander to present together at the NHL Awards. Because the league was cute, they asked them to present the award for Most Sportsmanlike.

Shane was waiting backstage in his tuxedo. Alone. No one knew where Rozanov was. They were supposed to walk out on stage together in three minutes.

“Where the hell is Rozanov?” a panicked director asked.

“I don’t know,” Shane said. “We, uh, don’t exactly talk much.”

The director stormed away, swearing.

Shane hadn’t been lying. He hadn’t spoken to Rozanov, off the ice, since the brief words they had shared at the Olympics. The humiliation of not even making it to the bronze medal game had seemingly been enough to cause Rozanov to not even want to look at Shane anymore, let alone talk to him. Touch him. Kiss him.

Shane had felt sorry for him, but then Rozanov turned the shame of losing so horribly in the Olympics into fuel that propelled him, and the Bears, all the way to the Stanley Cup.

Shane had watched that final game with Hayden and some of the other guys who had stuck around Montreal after their team had been eliminated in the third round. Shane had been sick with jealousy, but had also been undeniably proud when he’d watched Ilya Rozanov lift the cup over his head and roar. There had been tears streaming down Rozanov’s face as he’d hollered and hollered, and Shane had seen that this was more than the pride of being the best player on the best team in the NHL that year. Rozanov had proved something to somebody.

Shane had been shocked to find tears in his own eyes as he’d watched the raw emotion explode out of Rozanov. It was as if, with every heave of the cup over his head, Rozanov was saying “Fuck you, fuck you. I did it. Fuck you,” to someone.

Maybe to Shane. But he didn’t think so. He hoped not.

The last time they had really spoken had been almost six months ago, before the Olympics, and Shane hadn’t actually done all that much talking. What he had done was let Rozanov push him to his knees in the middle of his hotel room and fuck his mouth until Shane’s eyes watered.

Shane tugged at his shirt collar, now, and tried to will his blush away.

“Looking for me?” a familiar voice drawled behind him.

Shane whipped around and was faced with Ilya Rozanov looking so fucking good in his tux. He’d grown his hair out over the past season, and that night he’d been wearing it slicked back and tied in a little bun. He looked like a European fashion model.

“Fuck, Rozanov. What the fuck? We’re on in like five seconds!”

“Fifty seconds. We are fine.”

“Does it matter to you that everyone backstage has been having a heart attack looking for you?”

“Not really.”

Shane’s hands rolled into fists at his sides. “Where were you, anyway?”

“Busy.”

“Oh yeah? With who?”

Rozanov just smirked. “We’re on.”

He strode out onto the stage, leaving Shane to stupidly scramble to catch up with him. Fuck him. Not even a text for five months and now he’s going to be all sexy and annoying like nothing’s changed?

They went to the podium and recited their dumb banter about the importance of having respect for your fellow players. Shane did not have to pretend at all to hate Rozanov in that moment.

They got a lot of laughs. The fact that Shane was practically speaking through clenched teeth probably only enhanced the comedy.