The Long Game (Game Changers #6)(22)

It would be, altogether, their eleventh NHL season of hiding. Seven seasons of secret hookups, and three seasons of being in a mostly secret committed relationship. It had been a lot of hiding.

“Sure,” Ilya said.

“I hate it.”

“I know. Me too.”

“I can’t believe no one has figured it out yet.”

“Well,” Ilya said, brushing a thumb over Shane’s cheek. “I am way out of your league.”

“Right.”

“Who would believe you if you told them?”

Shane punched his arm, then captured Ilya’s lips in a sweet kiss. He tasted like coffee and home, and Ilya really wished he didn’t need to leave.

“You should quit hockey,” Ilya murmured. “Send them a text. Say you quit. Stay here with me.”

“I’m not ending my career via text.”

“Email, then.”

“I have to go.”

Another long kiss, this one a little less sweet. A little more urgent. By the time they broke apart, Shane was pressed against a wall, and Ilya’s T-shirt was rucked up to his chest. Both men were breathing heavily, with flushed skin and semi-hard dicks.

“I have to—” Shane said again.

“Go. Yes.”

“Three weeks and you’ll be in Montreal, right?”

“Three weeks.”

“Not so bad.” Shane smiled sadly at him. Three weeks wasn’t such a long time, but Ilya was so goddamned tired of having their relationship sliced up into single nights with weeks between them. Two nights in a row if they were lucky.

Except the summers, when they were together almost every day, and Ilya’s soul lightened as he soaked up Shane’s proximity the same way his golden-brown hair lightened in the sun. Ilya loved hockey, but he lived for the summers now.

Summer was over. The NHL regular season officially started in two days. His soul would have to live on sun-drenched memories and the anticipation of stolen nights of explosive sex and tender kisses.

“I love you,” Ilya said between the deep breaths he was taking in an attempt to cool his blood.

Shane slipped out from between Ilya and the wall and squeezed his arm. “Love you too.” Shane exhaled, and Ilya politely ignored the tremor in it. “Okay. Three weeks.”

“Three weeks. Text me when you get home.”

“Of course.” Shane kissed him one more time, and then he was gone.



Chapter Seven


Dynasty.

That was the word going through Shane’s head—the word that had been repeated again and again in Montreal lately—as he watched the Stanley Cup Champions banner rise to the rafters.

It was his third banner ceremony. His third Stanley Cup win. After so many years of barely making the playoffs, Montreal had a dynasty hockey team again. And there was no reason to be modest—it had started with him.

“Doesn’t get boring, does it?” J.J. said.

They were standing together on the ice, the whole team gathered around the trophies they’d won last season, including the Stanley Cup. The crowd—a packed house, as always—was roaring with pride as the banner ascended.

“Nope,” Shane said.

He loved being a Montreal Voyageur. He loved what he and his teammates had accomplished here, and he wanted to keep doing it for the rest of his career. He was an unrestricted free agent at the end of this season, but he fully expected to sign with Montreal again. He didn’t even want to look at options. This was his team. These were his fans.

And those were his three fucking Stanley Cup banners.

Someday his number would hang from the rafters too. He had no doubt that it would be retired here. He’d earned that. Even if he quit right now, he’d done enough to earn that.

“You know what’s even better than three Stanley Cups?” J.J. asked.

Shane smiled. “Four Stanley Cups.”

“Fucking right. Let’s get it.”

“Let’s get it,” Shane agreed.

Home openers in Ottawa always felt a bit ridiculous.

Like all NHL teams, there was a lot of fanfare: videos projected on the ice, a whole light show, lots of dry ice and loud exciting music. Each player was announced individually as they stepped off a red carpet and onto the ice.

When Ilya had played for Boston, the energy in the building had crackled with pride and possibility. The team had been making a promise to the fans to do everything they could to win for them. The fans in Boston had expectations; they wanted champions.

Ottawa’s home openers were more like a pre-emptive apology. There were no promises being made here tonight, just a lot of fancy lights to distract from the fact that the team was truly terrible and would almost certainly lose this game. And the next one.

Ilya hated it. The worst part was that it didn’t even make sense to him. Ottawa had the elements of a great team, himself included. Their new coach, Brandon Wiebe, was untested and very young, but Ilya liked him already. Wyatt was a great goalie, and was regularly stopping forty shots or more to keep them from losing too badly. Ilya was still scoring plenty of goals, but it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t be a whole team.

As the captain, Ilya’s name was called last. He stepped onto the ice, and the fans went wild. They truly did love him here in Ottawa. It was nice.