The Long Game (Game Changers #6)(35)

Ilya rolled his eyes as he skated to his bench. If the ref only knew how much Ilya actually wanted to kiss Shane.

He enjoyed a brief fantasy as he sat on the bench of pressing Shane against the glass after scoring a goal and kissing him breathless. That would shut this fucking crowd up.

“Man,” Bood said as they skated to the bench, “this town hates you.”

“Nah. They wish I played for them.”

Bood laughed. “Hollander would hate that.”

“My good friend Shane Hollander, you mean?”

“There’s no way he likes you that much.”

“He loves me,” Ilya said plainly. Honestly.

Bood, of course, thought he was kidding. “Now you’re really dreaming.”

Ilya chomped on his mouth guard to avoid smiling.

A few seconds later, Luca Haas took a long pass and was on a breakaway. Most of the Ottawa bench stood up, Ilya included.

“Get it, Haasy!” Bood yelled.

They all watched as the puck sailed past the Montreal goalie’s arm and into the net. His second NHL goal. He jumped up after scoring, arms raised and an enormous grin stretching his boyish face. Then he was engulfed by his linemates.

“The damn kid’s got skills,” Bood said.

“Good. We need them.” Ilya held his hand out for a high five as Haas reached the bench. Haas slapped Ilya’s glove, then was pulled into an awkward embrace by Bood that nearly hauled him over the boards and onto the bench.

“Fucking beauty, kid!” Bood yelled in his ear. “Legendary.”

Less than two minutes later, Shane scored, making the Ottawa celebrations short-lived.

“That was rude,” Ilya said when they bent for the face-off after.

“What? Trying to win?”

“Couldn’t even let poor Haas enjoy that for a couple of minutes?”

“Maybe I’ll explain to you how hockey works later,” Shane said dryly.

“If that’s what you want to do,” Ilya said, “later.”

Ilya won the face-off.

Twenty seconds later, Shane had the puck because Ilya’s linemate, Tanner Dillon, had fucked up a pass. Ilya really needed a better right wing player on his line.

Shane charged into the Ottawa zone but couldn’t get a clean shot, so he went behind the net with the puck. Ilya chased after him, but couldn’t catch him before Shane passed the puck to J.J. at the blue line. Ilya moved to the front of the net, and found himself directly in the line of fire when J.J. unleashed his rocket of a slap shot at the net. The puck caught Ilya on the side of the knee, and he went down, swearing loudly.

Wyatt must have covered the puck because play stopped a second later. The same ref who’d gotten in Ilya’s face earlier skated over to check on him.

“You need the doctor?” he asked gruffly.

Ilya glared up at him. “No. Give me a second.”

He slowly pulled himself up until he was on one knee, the good one planted on the ice. The other one was bent in front of him and felt like a fiery ball of pain.

“That’s my job, y’know,” Wyatt said. “I’ve got these big pads on my legs.” He tapped one with his stick. “So the puck doesn’t directly hit my fucking kneecap.”

“Was not my kneecap,” Ilya said through gritted teeth. “Just the side. Is fine.”

“Ah. Like, where you have no padding at all?”

Ilya stood up with some effort. The crowd clapped for him, but he knew it was half-hearted. The Montreal fans would probably prefer to see a puck go clean through his torso.

Shane approached him as Ilya made his way to the bench. “You okay?”

“Great.” He flexed his knee a few times, testing it, and winced.

“Wyatt probably woulda stopped that without your help.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Shane frowned at him with obvious concern in his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

Ilya gave him a quick smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Maybe no kneeling for a few days.”

Shane bumped right up against him. “I’ll have to make new plans, then.”

He skated away quickly, leaving Ilya grinning and shaking his head as he finished his slow journey to the bench.

Shane: Where the fuck are you?

Ilya huffed at his phone in the back seat of a taxi that was taking him—slowly—to Shane’s house.

Ilya: In traffic.

Shane: Fuck. Where?

Ilya: Montreal? I don’t fucking know.

Shane: Hurry up.

Ilya: Ok. I will ask the driver to make the car fly.

For a full minute, Shane didn’t reply. Then he wrote, Are you over the bridge yet at least?

Ilya chuckled and wrote, You seem a bit horny.

Shane: I’m fucking dying.

The blunt admission made Ilya’s cock twitch. He wrote, Get yourself ready for me then.

Shane: What do you think I’ve been doing for the past twenty minutes?

Oh. Fuck.

Ilya: You better not come without me.

Shane: Then you’d better hurry up.

Ilya was getting way too aroused in this unmoving taxi. He should put his phone in his pocket, take some cooling breaths, and think about something else. But instead he asked, Where are you?

Shane: Bed.