The Long Game (Game Changers #6)(25)

“Good. I am at your parents’ house.”

“Oh yeah? What are you doing there?”

“Destroying them at Yahtzee.”

Shane laughed. “Mom won’t like that.”

“She loves me.” Ilya strolled over to the mantel, which was covered in framed photos of Shane at various ages, mostly in hockey gear. He’d been a truly adorable kid. “Ready for the game?”

“Sure. It’s just Boston.”

Ilya huffed. His own team hadn’t won against Boston in ages. “Cocky.”

“Usually. But you like it.”

Ilya’s lips curved up. “Yes.”

“You’re gonna watch, right?”

“Maybe.” Ilya traced a finger over a photo of Shane in his junior hockey uniform. He looked about seventeen—the age he’d been when Ilya had first met him. “Maybe we will watch a movie instead.”

“Dick,” Shane said affectionately.

“But you like it.”

“I do. But I also like the rest of you.” His voice dipped into a more seductive tone. “I’ve been fucking dying to have you inside me, though.”

Ilya grinned. “You are on speaker phone by the way.”

“What?”

“I am kidding.”

“Jesus.” Shane exhaled. “Not funny.”

“If you say so.”

“I should probably go. We’re leaving for the arena soon.”

“Okay.”

There was a long pause—the same long pause that made an appearance at the end of most of their phone conversations. Both men needing to end the call, neither one wanting to.

“Good luck tonight,” Ilya said finally. “Try not to embarrass yourself too much.”

Shane snorted. “Sure.”

“Call me later, yes?”

“Of course.”

Ilya smiled at the photo of teenage Shane. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”

“Ya vsegda budu tebya lubit,” Shane replied.

“Show-off.”

They ended the call, and Ilya returned to the kitchen, shaking his head at how gross he and Shane had become.

“He looks good tonight,” Yuna said.

Ilya murmured his agreement from his end of the couch. Shane looked good every night. He was a great player on a great team. Ilya was a great player on a terrible team, and he felt less great with each passing week.

“Is it weird to watch Boston play?” David asked.

It had been once, but not anymore. Their roster had changed quite a bit in the two seasons since Ilya had played for Boston. “I have a better team now,” Ilya said. “Well, better for me. The team is bad.”

“You don’t regret it?” Yuna asked. “Leaving?”

“Never.” It was mostly the truth. He might have led Boston to another Stanley Cup if he’d played for them last season. They’d gotten close, even without him.

But being in Canada, near Montreal, made it easier to be with Shane. Ilya could build a life here, in Shane’s hometown of Ottawa. Eventually he could become a Canadian citizen, and retire, and start a new adventure with Shane.

“Do you need another Coke?” David asked during a commercial break.

“No, no, I am good. Full from the delicious dinner,” Ilya said with a small smile. David had made chicken parmesan, one of Ilya’s favorites. Ilya had eaten more than he’d needed to. Especially after eating two hand pies.

“There’s ice cream,” Yuna said. “If you want some.”

“No, thank you,” Ilya said. Then, “What kind?”

Yuna smiled. “Cookies and cream.”

Ilya put his hand over his heart. “Impossible to resist.”

A few minutes later, Ilya was tucked under a blanket on the couch, eating ice cream out of a little bowl. He felt like a child, and he kind of loved it.

They were showing Shane on the television, a close-up as he got ready for the face-off. His cheeks were flushed, his skin glistening with sweat. His dark hair stuck out from under his helmet the way it never had for most of his career.

“His hair is too long,” Yuna complained.

“No,” Ilya said quietly. “It is perfect.”

In the second period, Shane took a long pass from J.J. that resulted in a breakaway. Shane raced through the Boston zone, using his incredible speed to make sure no one caught him. When he reached the net, he switched to his backhand, and in the split second before he took the shot, Ilya realized what he was doing. Shane had left the puck where it was, faking the backhand shot and forcing the goalie to move. Then, lightning-fast, Shane fired a forehand wrist shot over the goalie’s shoulder.

And then, Shane winked at the camera. Winked. And Ilya knew it was meant for him.

“That’s my move!” Ilya said. The blanket he’d been wrapped in fell to the floor as he stood, one hand waving at the television, the other cradling his ice cream bowl protectively to his chest. “He did my move!”

David and Yuna were laughing. Ilya wasn’t.

“When did he learn that?” Ilya demanded. “I did not teach him.”

“You know Shane,” Yuna said. “He studied it, learned it, and, I would say, perfected it.”

“That move is called the Rozanov!” Ilya exclaimed. “He cannot do it.”