The Long Game (Game Changers #6)(48)

“Harder,” Shane demanded. “Want to feel this for days.”

Ilya grunted, and began snapping his hips so vigorously that he was almost worried he was hurting Shane. Except Shane was smiling like he’d never felt anything so wonderful.

“Ilya,” he panted. “So perfect. Love this.”

“Make yourself come,” Ilya ordered, somewhat frantically. “Now.”

Shane stoked himself furiously, his gaze fixed on Ilya’s face. His eyes were huge and shiny and Ilya wanted to dive into them. He wanted to stay buried in Shane forever, making him come again and again and again.

“I’m coming. Holy fuck. Ilya, I’m—” Shane’s words dissolved into a groan as he spurted all over his own stomach.

“Yes,” Ilya said quietly. “So beautiful.”

It only took a few more thrusts before he was emptying himself into Shane, bracing himself with one hand on the back corner of the couch.

“Wow,” Shane rasped.

A weird giggle erupted out of Ilya. He covered his mouth quickly.

Shane grinned. “Oh my god. What was that?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.” Ilya distracted himself by carefully pulling out of Shane.

Shane slowly got to his feet, placing a hand on Ilya’s shoulder for balance. “Gotta say, that was totally worth the drive.”

“With a plug in your butt,” Ilya reminded him. His insides felt like they were vibrating, and he realized his hand was shaking.

“I just really needed to see you,” Shane said seriously.

Ilya nodded, then wrapped him in a tight hug. His eyes were burning with tears again, which was embarrassing and inappropriate after amazing sex.

“Thank you,” he said into Shane’s hair. It was so unlike Shane to be impulsive like this. To drive to Ottawa in the middle of the night for some quick sex.

But it was also unlike Ilya to cry after sex, so everyone was experiencing new things tonight.

“I like the decorations,” Shane said after a minute of Ilya breathing in the scent of him.

“Yes. They are good.”

“Very spooky.”

“Mm.”

“We should probably get cleaned up. There was come on my belly. Now it’s on your costume.”

Ilya sniffled, and hoped Shane didn’t notice. “We will take a shower. Then bed. Then morning sex.”

“I have to leave before seven.”

Ilya squeezed him tighter. “No. Skip practice.”

“I can’t.”

“I know.” Ilya sighed, and let Shane go. “Very early morning sex, then.”

Shane grinned. “‘What we do in life echoes in eternity.’”

“What?”

“It’s a quote from Gladiator!” Shane gestured at what was left of Ilya’s costume. “Come on!”

“Okay, nerd.”

“I only know it because Comeau has it tattooed on his arm.”

“Of course he does.”

Shane flicked Ilya’s left pec, over the breastplate. “You’re in no position to be making fun of other people’s tattoos.” He smiled up at Ilya, and Ilya smiled back, overwhelmed by how much he loved this man.

“Go,” Ilya said gently. “Upstairs.”

Shane kissed him quickly, then turned and headed for the stairs. Ilya watched him go, giving himself a moment to take some deep breaths and try to settle whatever was happening inside him.

The next morning, when the sun had just begun to rise, Ilya watched Shane drive away. He stood on his front step for several minutes after, staring in the direction the car had gone, and shivering in his gym shorts and T-shirt. Then, he went inside, closed the door, and burst into tears.

When he’d finished crying, some uncertain amount of time later, he felt more exhausted than he had after any hockey game. He was crumpled on the floor, slumped against his front door, and standing up seemed like an insurmountable feat.

He decided that, yes. He should probably get some professional help.



Chapter Fourteen


November

Ilya paced the waiting room outside Dr. Galina Molchalina’s office. He was alone, but he still had his plain black ball cap pulled low over his eyes, and kept his head down. He’d tried sitting, tried reading one of the magazines on the squat coffee table in front of the cheerful blue sofa with the yellow and white throw pillows. He’d examined the abstract art on the walls. He’d done whatever he could to distract himself from how badly he wanted to leave.

He wasn’t sure if Dr. Molchalina was even a good therapist. She just happened to be the only one in Ottawa who spoke Russian. And, during their brief phone conversation, she’d acknowledged that she knew who Ilya was without making a big deal about it. That had been a plus.

Finally, the door opened and Ilya stood with his back to whoever was exiting the room, wanting to avoid being recognized and to offer the other person the same privacy. He pretended to be fascinated by a tall plant in the corner.

He heard the outer door open and close, and then his new therapist said, in Russian, “The plant is fake, I’m afraid.”

Ilya turned to face her. “That makes sense, I guess,” he said, also in Russian. He gestured to the walls. “No windows.”

“Sometimes it’s better to not have the distraction of the outside world,” she said with a small smile. “And it’s better for privacy.”