Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(63)

He felt his mortification melt away when Ilya said, in a low voice, “Me too.”

Moscow

Something occurred to Ilya after he ended the call with Shane: maybe Shane had recorded that call and was going to run it through some sort of translating app later.

But Shane wouldn’t do that, would he?

Ilya stopped into a coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino. While he waited for it, he tried not to imagine scenarios where Shane would somehow translate every word that Ilya had just said.

Mostly he had just been ranting about his family, but he had included an admission that he wished things could have been different with his father. That he had stupidly always hoped that his father might tell him that he was proud of him.

That admission would have been embarrassing enough, but Ilya had also slipped in an “and on top of everything, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.”

It was saying those words out loud, even more than venting his frustrations about his family, that had truly made Ilya feel lighter. It was a secret he had been carrying for far too long, locked away so deep inside that he had even been keeping it from himself. But as soon as he let himself acknowledge it, and now say it, he felt relieved. Not because he could do anything about these feelings, but at least he had allowed himself to accept them. And he had, in the most cowardly way possible, said them aloud to Shane.

Shane wouldn’t translate anything. That wasn’t why he had asked Ilya to unload on him in Russian. He was being a friend.

A friend?

Sure, Ilya could admit that he and Shane were friends now. He had certainly been the only person Ilya could think of when he’d decided he needed to talk to someone today.

He walked out of the shop with his cappuccino and reluctantly headed in the direction of his father’s house. The funeral was the next morning. After that, he could leave what was left of his goddamn family behind.

The next day—Montreal

Shane had barely gotten in the door of his apartment before he texted Ilya. He had been thinking about him all day.

Shane: How are you doing?
He wasn’t sure if Ilya would reply or not. He might be busy. His father’s funeral had been that morning. It was late in Moscow now, after ten o’clock at night.

Lily: Fantastic.
Shane waited.

Lily: A little bit drunk, actually.
Shane: Can I call you?
Lily: Yes.
When Shane heard Ilya’s voice, he sounded more exhausted than drunk. “Hollander.”

“How are you holding up, Ilya?”

“Great. Wonderful.” Shane heard him sigh. “Is quiet here.”

“Are you alone? Where are you?”

“My condo. I have one here. In Moscow. For the summers, you know.”

“Right.” Shane didn’t like the idea of Ilya being alone right now.

“If you are wondering if I will be back in time for our game in Montreal—”

“I don’t give a shit about that, Ilya. You know that’s not why I’m calling.”

Another sigh.

“Should you really be alone right now?” Shane asked.

“I am not alone,” Ilya said. “You are here now, yes?”

Shane’s hand flew to his chest to make sure his heart was still beating; he could have sworn it had just melted into a gooey puddle. He wished he could warp to Moscow. Just instantly appear in Ilya’s apartment and hold him and tell him it was all right to be conflicted about his father’s death. That he didn’t owe his family anything. That he should leave them all behind because they made him miserable and he doesn’t need them anyway.

Instead he said, “Yeah. I’m here.”

“And where else are you?” Ilya asked.

“I’m home now. Montreal.”

Shane heard mattress springs squeak as Ilya presumably settled himself on his bed. “Tell me about your home, Hollander,” he said in a tired voice. “What does it look like? I try to imagine it...”

“You do?”

“You will not let me see it.”

“That’s not...” Shane grimaced. “It’s not because I don’t want you here. You know that.”

“I know nothing. What does it look like?”

“It’s, I don’t know...it has big windows.”

“What can you see out of them?”

“Buildings, mostly. A bit of the water.”

“Fancy kitchen?”

Shane laughed. “Yeah. Too fancy, probably. I barely use it. I could probably get by with a toaster and a blender.”

“What is your favorite thing about your home?”

“I dunno. It’s close to the practice rink?”

Ilya snorted. “Figures.”

“It’s private. Good security. Hey, I made a donation to the Alzheimer’s Society of Canada. For your father.”

Ilya was quiet a moment. “That is nice of you. Might be good for me. Can be...what is the word...passed on?”

“Hereditary?”

“Yes. Hereditary.”

Neither man said anything for a moment.

“Listen, Ilya—”

“What about your bedroom? What is it like?”

Shane didn’t want to talk about his stupid bedroom, but he understood what Ilya was doing. He left his living room and headed for the bedroom.