Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(43)

Rozanov leaned in and pressed kisses to Shane’s hair and face and down to his throat. The kisses weren’t seductive or heated. They were light and sort of...adoring. Shane’s eyes fluttered closed, suddenly very sleepy, and he heard Rozanov murmur something to himself in Russian, and felt the words tickle the skin under his jaw.

“Hm?” Shane asked distantly.

“You could stay,” Rozanov said.

“Stay?”

“Stay here. Tonight.”

Shane’s eyes opened. Rozanov was looking at him seriously again.

“You want me to stay here?”

Rozanov seemed to realize what he had just asked, because his face changed and he shrugged, forcing a half grin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“Oh.” That was more familiar. “I can’t stay. You know that.”

“You could. The game is tomorrow afternoon. No morning practice.”

“I told Hayden—”

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Is Hayden your mother?”

“No. But he’s...expecting me. I told him I was meeting a friend.”

Rozanov snorted. “That was a lie.”

Shane laughed at that. “Yeah. Well.”

Rozanov lowered himself until his nose was inches from Shane’s face. “Stay.”

Shane couldn’t stay. There were probably a million reasons why he couldn’t stay.

“Okay,” he said.

Rozanov smiled and kissed him. They stayed in the bed for a long time just...making out. Not really escalating things. And that was new. Shane really did like kissing Rozanov, but this seemed indulgent. And dangerous.

“Are you hungry?” Rozanov asked.

“For?”

“Food.”

Shane looked at him, and Rozanov laughed. He hopped off the bed and onto his feet. “Let’s eat something.”

Rozanov put his sweatpants back on, and this time grabbed a T-shirt from his dresser to throw on with them. Shane retrieved his own jeans and T-shirt from the floor and followed him into the kitchen.

“I got, um, ginger ale. You like that shit, right?”

“Yeah. I do.” Shane looked at him oddly. Shane often abstained from alcohol because he didn’t want to do anything that might compromise his performance on the ice. Over the years he had developed an affinity for ginger ale as a substitute for beer. But it wasn’t like he’d ever talked about that to Rozanov.

Instead of asking Rozanov how the hell he knew that he liked ginger ale, or why he cared enough to buy some, he asked, “You want to order takeout, or—”

“Do you like tuna melts?”

“You want to make me a tuna melt?”

Rozanov shrugged. “I’m making one for me. I can make two. Ginger ale is in fridge.”

He seemed to really want Shane to drink the ginger ale. As Shane took one from the fridge, he wondered if it might be poisoned.

Rozanov was setting canned tuna, a baguette, and cheese slices on the counter, so Shane leaned back against the fridge and watched his fellow NHL superstar make him a sandwich.

“You head down to Florida after this game?” Rozanov asked, as if he didn’t know the answer.

“Yeah. Couple games down there. Then over to Dallas and up to St. Louis.”

Rozanov nodded. “We are in town here for this week. Then out west for a while. Ginger ale good? Cold enough?”

“Yeah, it’s great. Thanks.”

He looked pleased. Shane watched him carefully distribute the mixture of tuna and mayonnaise and lemon juice on some baguette slices. It was weird, this domestic scene. It wasn’t anything that they had done before.

The melts went into the oven and Rozanov grabbed himself a bottle of Coke out of the fridge. Shane realized that he knew that Coke was Rozanov’s beverage of choice. So maybe they had picked up things about each other over the years, without really trying.

“Ready in ten minutes,” Rozanov said. He left the kitchen and went to sit on the couch in the living room. He turned on the television, which was showing the Buffalo vs. Chicago game.

Shane sat at the opposite end of the couch. He’d first considered the leather recliner that was next to the couch. Whatever they were to each other, they weren’t boyfriends. He knew how to behave around him when they were naked and pressed against each other, and he knew how to play against him on the ice, but just hanging out with their clothes on was uncharted territory.

“Jesus,” Rozanov said as they watched a Buffalo player get hauled to the penalty box. “You know that guy? Ryan Price?”

“I mean, just from playing against him. And, you know, not wanting to fight him.” Price was huge, and tough as hell. “You played with him, right?”

“Yes. For one season only. He was...not what you would think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like...quiet. Doesn’t make friends, really. But not a bad guy. Just...weird. Sort of.”

“Well, he does seem to get traded every season. It would be hard to make friends that way.”

“He is probably hoping he gets traded again. Buffalo is terrible.”

“They definitely are.”

They watched in silence for another minute and then Shane asked, “What’s your favorite city to play in? On the road?”