Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(48)

December 2016—Detroit

Ilya woke alone in his hotel room in... Detroit? Yes. He was in Detroit.

He glanced over at his roommate’s abandoned bed, and then at the clock. Eight thirty.

He exhaled and scrubbed his eyes before he sat up. It was no surprise that Carmichael was already up and out of the room. That guy was such a morning person, it was gross.

Ilya threw on some sweats and made his way to the Starbucks in the hotel lobby for some coffee and a breakfast sandwich. Two of his teammates, Cliff Marlow and Victor St-Simon, were sitting at a table.

“Roz! You gotta see this. You’ll shit, man!” Cliff called out.

Ilya couldn’t imagine what the hell would be that interesting to him. He made his way over to the table and Victor held out his phone for him to see. There was a headline that read, Is Rose Landry dating NHL star Shane Hollander?

“No,” was Ilya’s immediate reaction. He hoped it sounded more dismissive to his teammates than shocked.

“Right?” Cliff laughed. “She’s, like, a super-giant movie star! How the fuck did he even meet her during the hockey season?”

“She’s been filming a movie in Montreal,” Victor read. “They met at a mutual friend’s party...according to unnamed sources.”

Ilya snorted.

“There are pictures,” Victor said. “Look.”

He held his phone out again, and Ilya grabbed it. He scrolled through four paparazzi photos of Shane having dinner with the gorgeous, dark-haired movie star. In one of them Shane was laughing.

Ilya scowled and handed the phone back to Victor.

“Probably nothing,” he said.

January 2017—Boston

It wasn’t nothing. As the weeks went on, more and more paparazzi photos of Shane and Rose Landry together were hitting the internet. Photos of the two of them walking together, smiling at each other, leaving restaurants together, kissing each other.

On the cheek. Just on the cheek. It could still be nothing.

Ilya turned up the resistance on his stationary bike. What did he care, anyway? Why shouldn’t Hollander be dating a beautiful woman? Rozanov had slept with a beautiful woman two nights ago. And another one the night before that.

The thing was... Hollander didn’t do that. Rozanov assumed Hollander must have sex with people who weren’t him, but there was no evidence of it. He didn’t want to think about it too much either way.

He had definitely never known Hollander to go on consecutive dates with a woman. To be seen with a woman often enough for the press to notice.

Hollander had a girlfriend.

Maybe Hollander was in love.

Ilya pushed himself on the bike until his thighs screamed in protest. He stopped, and took a long haul from his water bottle.

He knew this ridiculous thing between them wasn’t going to last forever. It was just...convenient. So maybe it was over now. So what?

Boston was playing in Montreal next week. The week after that was the All-Star Game. Would Hollander just...ignore him?

As Ilya was exiting the team gym, he stubbed his toe on one of the other bikes. He bellowed a string of Russian profanity and hurled his water bottle at the wall. He tried to control his breathing as he watched the water seep into the black and gold carpet.

“Jesus,” Cliff said as he stepped off his treadmill. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Ilya growled. “Stubbed my toe.” He left the room in a hurry, not bothering to pick up the water bottle.

Hayley, he thought to himself. He would text Hayley and see if she was doing anything tonight. He liked Hayley. She was fun, and she had dark hair.

And freckles.

One week later—Montreal

When Shane’s phone buzzed, an hour after the game against Boston ended, he had expected it to be Ilya.

It was Rose.

Come out with us tonight. We’ll be at Ultraviolet.
Shane felt a confusing mixture of anxiety and relief sweep over him. He hadn’t been sure what to say to Ilya, if he had texted him. If he had wanted to...see him.

Because Shane had a girlfriend now. Sort of.

And his girlfriend wanted him to come to a club with her and her friends. Shane hated nightclubs. He never allowed himself to have more than a couple of drinks, which was not nearly enough for him to be comfortable on a dance floor.

But his girlfriend—his gorgeous, movie star girlfriend—wanted him to go out dancing with her. And that was a thing that boyfriends did. Right?

And if he had to endure his teammates teasing him about dating her—last week Shane had found a giant bouquet of about sixty roses in his locker room stall, which was a very expensive and stupid prank—then he should at least try to enjoy himself.

OK, he texted back. What time?

Ilya was absolutely not going to text Hollander. Not a chance.

What he was going to do instead, apparently, was sulk around his hotel room and snap at his roommate for no reason at all.

“Hey!” Ryan Carmichael said, after the umpteenth undeserved bitchy comment from Ilya. “Fuck you! What’s your problem, anyway?”

Ilya sighed, and sat himself on the end of his bed. “Nothing. Fuck this. I need to get laid. Let’s go out.”

“Out where?”

Ilya swept his hand in the direction of the large window. “We’re in fucking Montreal! We find a club! Come on.”