Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(55)

Ilya hoisted himself out of the pool. Shane’s breath caught a little as he watched him make his way over to his chair. His wet swimsuit clung to his thighs and his crotch, and water ran in little rivulets down his chest. When he reached Shane’s chair, he shook his head violently so water flew all over Shane’s dry clothing.

“Ah! Fu—” Shane stopped himself. “Knock it off!”

Instead, Ilya swooped down and wrapped his arms around him. Shane’s eyes went wide.

“Get off! What the—” He was shocked that Ilya would do something this...public. Shocked and a little thrilled.

But to everyone watching, this was just typical Rozanov being a playful asshole. Everyone was laughing as Shane squirmed in a halfhearted attempt to free himself.

When he finally let go, Shane shoved him and tried to look annoyed, but he knew his face was flushed and he couldn’t help grinning. Ilya straightened up to full height, looming over Shane with the sun behind him. Every inch of him was glistening gold.

It took every ounce of Shane’s willpower to stop himself from reaching out for him. He looked magnificent.

He was looking right back at Shane with his wet hair falling into his eyes, and Shane followed his gaze down to his own chest. His shirt was wet and clinging to him. It was a white and blue gingham checked shirt, and parts of it were transparent now.

“You wrecked my shirt,” Shane said.

“Sorry,” Ilya said. He didn’t sound sorry.

Shane licked his bottom lip.

Ilya quickly turned away from him. “Hey! Brophy! I need ten bucks! Hollander’s a cheapskate.”

Ilya moved from center to right wing for the All-Star Game so he could play on a line with Hollander. He was happy to do it; he’d been waiting a long time for an opportunity to play with Shane.

And playing with him was everything he had imagined it would be.

He actually felt bad for their left wing linemate, Carson, because as far as Ilya was concerned there was no one else on the ice. Hollander could actually keep up with Ilya, and it was like they were reading each other’s minds when they passed the puck. They had barely had any time to practice together; they just clicked in a way Ilya never had with any other player. It was exhilarating.

Ilya took a pass from one of the defensemen and he took off. When he glanced to his left, he saw that Shane was right there with him. He crossed the blue line, fired the puck over to Shane, Shane knocked it back to him, and Ilya returned it at the last second. Shane shot it cleanly into the top corner of the net for his fourth goal of the game.

Shane raised his arms in celebration and he just looked so happy. He was beaming and his eyes were crinkled and his cheeks were flushed. Ilya embraced him, and Shane wrapped both of his arms tight around him. Ilya felt a puff of Shane’s hot breath on his neck, and he could see the glisten of sweat on his skin and Ilya kissed him, hard, on the cheek. He was sure, to the crowd, that it looked like Ilya’s usual obnoxious shenanigans, that the kiss was just another way of annoying Hollander. But the truth was he simply couldn’t help himself. He had seen an opportunity, and he had taken it.

“What the fuck?” Shane laughed.

Ilya felt his own cheeks flush, which was a rare and uncomfortable feeling.

“Nice goal,” he said.

“Nice assist,” Shane said, shooting him a weird look.

Ilya grinned and shrugged. He thumped Shane on the back in an overly macho way and skated toward the bench.

On Sunday night, after the game, a bunch of the guys went to a Mexican restaurant that one of the Tampa Bay players claimed had the best food in town. A few others just drank at the hotel bar. There were several room parties happening too.

Shane was sitting on the beach, alone. It was dark, but there were still quite a few people out walking in the moonlight. He supposed that was exactly what you came to Florida for.

He just needed an hour or so to himself. The weekend had been challenging for a lot of reasons. He had tried to keep some distance between himself and Ilya, both because he couldn’t trust himself not to touch him in some telling way, and also because the media was so obsessed with the two of them playing together despite “hating” each other that he didn’t want to give them any fuel. And, he supposed, he didn’t want to change the narrative either. The rivalry was good for the league, good for their careers, and, most importantly, it was a very good cover for the truth.

He dug his toes into the cool sand. He listened to the waves that he could just barely see in the darkness. This was nice. So much of his life was spent indoors. Arenas and gyms and hotel rooms and airports and planes.

Someone sat beside him, a few inches away. He didn’t even need to look.

“Found you,” said Ilya.

“You were looking for me?”

“Of course not.”

They sat in silence for a while. Ilya planted his hands behind him, next to Shane’s in the sand, and stretched his long legs out. His feet were bare, like Shane’s. “I looked up the word,” Ilya said. “Compatible.”

“What?”

“I thought I knew what it meant. But I wanted to check.”

Shane thought for a moment, then realized what Ilya was referring to. “Oh.”

“You and Rose Landry...”

“Yeah. Not compatible. Not in that way, anyway.”

Ilya was quiet. Shane looked around to see if anyone was close enough to hear them. They seemed to be alone.