Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(68)

“No way. You would cheat.”

“I would not! Cheat how?”

“I can’t see your hand. You could just stop.”

“I won’t.”

Ilya shrugged. “Fine. You always shoot off so fast anyway. Will be an easy win for me.”

Shane scowled at him, but then something caused his eyes to squeeze shut and he let out a quiet little gasp.

Ilya chuckled. “Fucking hopeless,” he said.

Then Shane opened his eyes and there was definitely something dangerous in them. “You know the night of the draft, in that hotel gym?”

Ilya groaned. Fuck.

“I wanted to pin you to the floor,” he confessed. “I could not stop staring at your mouth. I thought you would notice.”

“I didn’t. I was too busy trying to stop myself from straddling you. Kissing you.”

“Fuck, Shane.”

“I couldn’t believe how much I wanted to. It terrified me. I had never...”

“Never wanted a man?” Ilya huffed.

“No. At least, I didn’t think I did. But you...god, Ilya. I went right back to my room and jerked off thinking about you.”

Now Ilya squeezed his eyes shut. He stroked himself harder, faster. He suddenly couldn’t care less about winning this dumb contest. He gasped out, “Me too.”

Shane groaned, and they both worked themselves roughly as the room filled with the sounds of their breathing.

“I can’t wait to touch you again,” Shane murmured. Then he sucked in a breath and let out a high, manic sound, and Ilya knew if he just held on for another minute he would win because Shane was definitely about to come.

“Ah, fuck. Dammit. I’m so close,” Shane gasped.

Ilya couldn’t even respond. He forced his eyes open so he could lock his gaze with Shane’s.

“Oh fuck,” Shane said quietly. “I’m coming.”

And normally Ilya would want to see it, but in that moment he couldn’t imagine anything sexier than Shane Hollander’s face as he came. Ilya felt pleasure flood every part of him as he climaxed hard, covering his fist and his stomach with his release.

“Holy fuck,” Shane panted. “That was huge. I’m a mess over here.”

Ilya flopped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

“I’m fucked,” he murmured in Russian. “I am so fucking in love and it’s horrible.”

When he looked back at the screen, he could see Shane’s sex-drunk eyes gazing longingly at him from behind his glasses. “It’s sexy when you speak Russian. You know that?”

“Because I don’t sound ridiculous? Like with my accent?”

“Tell you a secret? Your accent doesn’t sound ridiculous. At all.”

“No? You like it?”

“I do. And I want to learn Russian. I wasn’t kidding about that.”

“I’ll teach you.”

Shane smiled so wide and bright, Ilya almost had to look away.

“I should let you sleep,” Shane said.

“Da. Yes. Okay.”

And then...

Shane kissed the tips of two fingers and reached out and touched them to the screen.

And Ilya’s heart fucking stopped.

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

Ilya felt an awful lump in his throat. He had buried his father yesterday, but he hadn’t cried. He hadn’t cried in over ten years. But he knew, in that moment, that he had to end this thing with Shane. It was never supposed to have gotten to this point. He was never supposed to have fallen in love with Shane Hollander. He should have ended it long before because now it was going to hurt so fucking much.

What on earth else could they do? If they kept this up it was only a matter of time before they got caught, and that would be a fucking disaster. Ilya didn’t think the NHL had an official rule about being romantically involved with a rival player, but only because the league couldn’t possibly imagine one being necessary. That’s how shocking a revelation this would be if Ilya and Shane were found out. Ilya’s deepest fear was that he would be kicked out of the NHL—or at least not be offered a spot on any team—and then he might have to go back to Russia, and he didn’t want to think about what would happen to him then.

Ilya’s stakes were higher, but he knew their relationship would only negatively impact Shane’s career too. And, despite what the hockey world believed, Ilya didn’t want that.

“Goodnight, Shane,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as possible. As soon as he closed the window, he covered his face in his hands and released all of his anguish and frustration and fear into the lonely apartment.



Chapter Twenty-One


April 2017—Montreal

Shane could see Ilya standing near the centerline as their two teams warmed up before their final match of the season. He was talking to one of his teammates, helmet off, his hair still soft and dry around his face.

Shane hadn’t seen him, hadn’t talked to him, since Ilya’s team had arrived in Montreal. They had texted a few times after Ilya had returned from Moscow, but he hadn’t seen him face-to-face after their memorable Skype call, if that counted.

He was on the ice now, standing on the edge of the centerline that served as a barrier between the teams during warm-ups. Shane watched the toe of Ilya’s skate swivel onto the wide, red line on the ice. It looked like a dare—or an invitation.