Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(46)

“Ilya,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

Ilya didn’t answer. Instead, he crushed their mouths together and kissed Shane in a raw, uncontrolled way that felt like an apology.

Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh no.

When they broke apart, Ilya rested his forehead against Shane’s and they just breathed together. Shane held Ilya’s face in his hands, and Ilya was stroking his back.

Was Shane supposed to say something? Nothing had actually been admitted here. No grand declarations. No questions asked.

Shane untangled himself from Ilya and stood. “I should go.”

It was an understatement. Shane needed to get the fuck out of there. Immediately. He clumsily tucked himself back into his jeans as he staggered backward, away from Ilya. Shit, where did I leave my underwear?

“Go?”

“Yeah... I...uh, I shouldn’t stay. I can’t. We can’t. This is...”

Ilya shifted on the couch, stretching one arm across the back and resting his ankle on his knee, casual as anything. “This is nothing, Hollander.”

Hollander. You called me Shane. “I know. I just...team meeting in the morning. I forgot.”

That made Ilya laugh. It wasn’t warm. “You forgot about a team meeting? Sure.”

Shane was already at the door, shoving his feet into his sneakers. Fuck the underwear; he needed to leave. “Thanks for the tuna melt. Um...”

Ilya sighed loudly and raised himself off the couch. Shane was frozen in place, staring in terror as Ilya slowly walked toward him. When he reached him, he tugged down on the hem of Shane’s T-shirt, straightening it for him. “Goodnight, then.”

Shane met Ilya’s intense gaze. His eyes were daring him to stay, and, god, Shane wanted to take that dare.

“Goodnight,” Shane said, barely above a whisper.

Ilya’s eyes lost their heat, and his brow furrowed, as if he’d just realized that Shane was really leaving. Then, just as quickly, he schooled his face to its default expression of cool indifference.

Shane wanted to kiss him, but he opened the door instead, and darted into the hallway. He strode past the elevators, straight to the stairwell, not wanting to linger outside Ilya’s door. He jogged down the sixteen flights of stairs, trying to put as much distance between himself and temptation as possible. When he reached the bottom, he leaned back against the wall of the stairwell for a moment.

What is happening?

This was bad. This was really fucking bad. Shane’s heart was racing, and it wasn’t from taking the stairs. Every fiber of him wanted to run right back up those stairs and into Ilya’s arms. To wrap himself around him and go to bed with him and wake up with him.

And that was why Shane marched straight out of Ilya’s building, and didn’t stop walking until he was safely back in his hotel room.

In his panic, he wasn’t careful enough about not waking Hayden. He wasn’t in the room for ten seconds before the bedside lamp was turned on.

“How’d it go?” Hayden asked, grinning sleepily. “You in love?”

“No!” No! Jesus. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Why? To wash off the sex you weren’t having?”

“Go fuck yourself, Hayden.”

“Oh, I did. Couple of times. Thanks for the empty room.”

Gross.

Shane went into the bathroom to take a shower and freak the hell out in private.



Chapter Fourteen


November 2016—Montreal

“Hollander. What the fuck are you doing right now?”

Shane frowned into his phone. It was his teammate, J.J. Boiziau, calling. J.J. who always called and never texted.

“Nothing. Why?”

“Fuck that. Get your ass downtown. My buddy Francois, you know, the chef? He’s having a little after hours party at his restaurant, and get this, the cast of the fucking X-Squad movie they’re filming here is gonna be there!”

“All of them?”

“I don’t fucking know! Enough of them! There are some fucking hot chicks in that movie, man! Get the fuck in your car. You know the restaurant, right? Djon-Djon?”

“Uh. Sure. You took me there once, right?”

Shane’s first instinct was to thank J.J. for the invitation, but to tell him that he was going to stay in. But he knew from past experience that saying no to J.J. would result in hourly calls for the rest of the evening to let him know what he was missing.

Besides. It wasn’t like Shane had anything better to do. Nothing besides watching the end of a Boston hockey game on television and quietly panicking about the freshly unearthed feelings he was harboring for Ilya Rozanov. He could definitely use a distraction.

He put on some nicer clothes and drove himself to Mile End. It was late on a Tuesday night, and the streets were quiet. He found a parking spot near the restaurant and stepped out of his SUV into the cold.

Most things on the street were closed or closing, but he could see the lights on in the hip, Haitian-inspired restaurant on the corner. The sign on the door said the restaurant was closed, but the door opened for him before Shane even reached it.

Inside there was music and laughter and warmth. The small space was crowded, and something smelled delicious.

“Hollander! Yes, bitch! Get over here!”

J.J. towered over everyone in the room. He was six feet, seven inches and over two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. He had very dark skin and a thick French accent. The contrast between J.J. and Shane, physically, was almost comical. Shane stood a full ten inches shorter than him, and weighed about seventy pounds less.