Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(59)

He could just see it. Shane with his determined little face, pretending not to be terrified. Where would he be? On his bed? On his actual bed? The one that Ilya had never shared because he had never been to Shane’s real home?

Ilya closed his eyes and sank into the pillows on his own bed.

What was Shane’s room like? Boring, probably. White walls. Probably a framed photo of his parents on his nightstand. Ilya quickly changed it to a framed photo of himself. An autographed one.

Shane probably had houseplants. His bedroom probably had a lot of natural light. There was probably a small bookshelf with some dull motivational books and some sports biographies. His bedsheets were probably blue.

He probably wore, like, full pajamas to bed. The kind with buttons.

But maybe he didn’t always button them up. Maybe he just lounged in bed with his pajama shirt open and the pants riding a little low. His bedside lamp would be on so he could read his boring book.

And then, when he got tired of reading, he would put the book down neatly on his nightstand, then yawn and stretch himself out. The shirt would fall open a little more.

And maybe Shane’s eyes would close, and he would let his hand travel lazily down his chest and over his abs. He’d brush it over his thighs and sigh as the bulge in his pajama pants grew.

Ilya was not doing a good job of resting.

Stupid elbow injury. Why did it have to be his right one?

This Skype thing needed to happen. He would coax some dirty talk out of that pretty little mouth of Shane’s. He would force Shane out of his comfort zone. He could make it a challenge. Shane couldn’t resist a challenge.

He gripped himself awkwardly with his left hand and gave himself a slow stroke.

He wanted a whole day with Shane. A weekend. A week. He wanted to be somewhere that no one could possibly interrupt them. Maybe that would be all he would need. Just the opportunity to get Shane Hollander out of his system. He needed to drink his fill and walk away.

Because he would have to walk away. This thing was already getting too complicated.

March 2017—Boston

It was full speed ahead now.

Boston and Montreal were neck and neck for the top spot in their division, and the playoffs were only a month away.

Shane wanted a third championship ring as much as Ilya wanted a second one. Winning the Stanley Cup the past two seasons hadn’t lessened his drive at all. There was always a bigger goal to reach for.

The record for most Stanley Cup wins by a single player was eleven. Shane knew that number might be a little lofty, since that record came from a time when there were far fewer teams in the league. But winning six would put him with some of the repeat champions of the ’90s, so that was his secret goal.

No. His actual secret goal was seven.

Shane was focused. He had been playing very well all season and was leading the league in scoring by a narrow margin over Rozanov. He knew that must be bothering the shit out of Ilya.

Shane had been trying not to think about Rozanov too much. Usually that was their unspoken agreement this late into a season. They would fool around whenever they were in the same city up until March or so, then they both focused on hating each other until next season.

Which was why Shane had been surprised to get a text from Ilya that morning.

Lily: What time do you fly out tomorrow?
Shane stared at his phone, dumbfounded. He certainly hadn’t expected to be seeing Ilya before or after the game tonight.

Shane: Early. Why?
No reply. Shane felt kind of bad about the “why.” That was needlessly bitchy. He knew why.

A few minutes later, Ilya wrote back. What are you doing now?

Now? Now was one o’clock in the afternoon on a game day. Against Boston.

Shane: Nothing. I’m in my hotel room.
He stopped himself from writing “why” again.

Lily: Come over?
Shane’s heart stopped. Come over? Come over? Now?

Shane: I can’t! Don’t be stupid.
Lily: Come over. Not for long. An hour?
Shane actually let out a surprised laugh.

Shane: No. Come on. We both know that’s a bad idea.
Lily: Everything we do is a bad idea. Come over.
When Shane didn’t reply, Ilya added, It will be worth it. I promise. ;)

Shane shook his head. There was no way he was going to go over there. He could list a million reasons why he couldn’t go over there, and he ran them through his head as he grabbed his jacket and left the hotel room.

“I thought you were not coming,” Ilya said with an annoying little smirk.

“Yeah, well...”

Ilya’s smirk grew into a genuine, warm smile. Shane’s heart lurched. And then they were kissing and pulling at clothing and stumbling toward the bedroom, not breaking contact.

They had to be quick. Shane not only needed to leave soon, he shouldn’t even have been there in the first place. Ilya pushed him down on the bed and went to work on him with his mouth.

Shane watched him as he licked and sucked his cock, and allowed himself a moment to wonder at Ilya’s desperate need for this before a game. Why was he so hungry for Shane that he had broken their sacred rule?

God, he was good with his mouth.

Something is wrong with Ilya. The thought hit Shane suddenly.

He should ask him about it.

After.

For now, Shane reached a hand down and caressed Ilya’s face. He let his fingers drift into his soft hair. He played with it, gently, and Ilya looked up at him. His eyes were dark, but there was more than lust there. Shane nodded at him, and Ilya turned his gaze down and focused on getting Shane off.