The Long Game (Game Changers #6)(122)

He stood to meet Shane, who was studying his face with obvious concern.

“What?” Ilya asked.

Shane opened his arms. “Come here.”

Ilya’s face crumpled before he was in his embrace. He sobbed against Shane’s shoulder, not even knowing why. Shane held him and stroked his hair and shushed his apologies.

When he’d finished crying, Ilya felt empty and so fucking tired. Shane took him up to bed. Anya followed.

“No,” Shane said firmly when Anya jumped on the bed. He pointed to her dog bed in the corner. “She kept trying to sleep with me. I think she hates me because I won’t let her.”

“Is good, probably,” Ilya sighed. “I am too soft with her.”

Shane rested a hand on Ilya’s cheek. “You’re soft with everyone you love.”

Ilya’s lips curved up. “Don’t tell anyone.”

They both got undressed, freshened up, and got into bed. Shane gently kissed Ilya’s cheeks and forehead, and finally the corner of his mouth. “I missed you so much,” he whispered.

“Yes. Me too.”

They gazed at each other, a few inches apart on the bed.

“I like seeing the playoff beard again,” Shane said, stroking his fingers over the thick hair that now covered the lower half of Ilya’s face. “Been a while.”

“Should I leave it?”

“Maybe for a bit. It’s sexy.”

Ilya closed his eyes and enjoyed the soothing brushes of Shane’s fingertips. “Shane,” he said quietly after a couple of minutes. “If we are getting married—”

“If? Of course we are.”

Ilya swallowed. “You need to know, then.”

“Know what?”

Ilya opened his eyes. “I am not okay.”

“With what?”

“I am...maybe like my mother. Depressed. Sometimes. And it is not fixed. It might not be something to fix.”

Shane looked surprised, but he covered it quickly. “Okay.”

“You cannot blame yourself, if it...gets bad.”

Shane propped himself up on an elbow. “Ilya. Are you saying you think about, like—”

“No. Not really. I don’t know. I feel like I could think about it. Okay?”

Shane blinked a few times. “Okay,” he whispered.

“The therapy helps, and we have talked about maybe trying some medication. And how that might be hard at first, with side effects. Is hard to find the right pills, the right amount. I need a doctor for the pills, though. I think I will talk to Terry—he is the team doctor.”

“You think he’d be okay with prescribing antidepressants?” Shane asked.

“Yes. Of course.”

“I think our team doctor would be weird about it.”

“Then your team doctor is bad.”

“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “Maybe.”

He stroked Ilya’s hair, and Ilya’s eyelids began to droop.

“I hate that you feel like that sometimes, Ilya,” Shane said softly. “I hate that you have to fight yourself. But you’re never going to scare me off, okay? And I’m never giving up on you, or on us. So whatever you need, I’m right here.”

“What if there is nothing you can do?” Ilya asked in a small, scared voice. “What if you can’t help?”

Shane’s features shifted into his Hockey Captain face—determined and fearless. “Then I’ll be standing by until I can.” He kissed Ilya’s forehead. “I’m marrying you, Ilya. I want to have kids with you. I want to be your date when we’re inducted into the Hall of Fame. I love you so much.”

They kissed, and Shane said, “What do you need right now?”

“Sleep,” Ilya answered honestly. “In the morning, probably coffee.” He grinned impishly. “And maybe five or six blowjobs.”

Shane smiled so wide his eyes crinkled. “Blowjobs aren’t a cure for depression, Ilya.”

“Are you a doctor now?”

Shane laughed and kissed him again. “Go to sleep, idiot.”



Chapter Thirty-Eight


May

Shane turned thirty in May, with very little fanfare. He celebrated at the cottage, with his parents, Ilya, and Anya. His dad barbecued hamburgers, and Shane ate two of them, washed them down with beer, and finished it all off with a big slice of chocolate cake. He’d decided he was done with fighting the future, and with trying to be perfect. He’d been an outstanding hockey player his whole life while also eating the occasional cheeseburger, and he could keep on doing that.

He was also, he’d decided, done with being a Montreal Voyageur. J.J. had apologized for even suggesting that Shane had tripped on purpose, but none of his other teammates—or his coaches—had. The media in Montreal had been vicious to Shane, and he didn’t think he could ever feel good about representing that team again.

Now, a week after Shane’s birthday, he and Ilya were just waiting until July, when the free-agent season started, to see what would happen. Shane had told Farah that Ottawa was his first choice. She hadn’t been surprised at all. Whether he ended up in Ottawa or somewhere else, whoever signed him would have to accept that they were signing Ilya Rozanov’s husband.