The Long Game (Game Changers #6)(73)

“No,” Ilya said firmly. “Go home, Shane. We can talk...later.”

Shane’s brow furrowed, and he seemed unsure about whether Ilya was serious, so Ilya made it clearer. “I don’t want to look at you right now. I don’t want to talk to you. Go home.”

Because Shane couldn’t leave anything alone, he asked again, “Would you choose me?”

Suddenly, Ilya had Shane backed against a wall. Ilya hadn’t realized he’d moved until he was looming over Shane, one hand planted firmly on his chest. Ilya pulled his hand away quickly and moved it to the wall. He would never hurt Shane, he was sure of that, but his own fury was scaring him at the moment. He’d never been this close to flying apart.

If Shane was scared at all, his face didn’t show it. He kept his sharp black eyes fixed on Ilya’s, refusing to back down from this fight.

Ilya didn’t want to fight. He was exhausted, and miserable, and his boyfriend was breaking his fucking heart.

Quietly, in a voice that couldn’t disguise his pain, he said, “I already chose you, Hollander.”

He stepped back, and watched Shane’s eyes widen. After a moment, Shane’s lips parted as if he had something to say, but Ilya didn’t want to hear it.

“Go home,” Ilya said. “Please.” Then he turned and walked quickly upstairs.



Chapter Twenty-Three


Shane had no idea how he got back to Montreal. He couldn’t remember a minute of the drive, he’d been so consumed by a whirling storm of anger, shock, fear, and shame.

I already chose you, Hollander.

The words kept repeating in his head, continuing even as he made his way into his house, up the stairs, and finally collapsing on his bed.

He should have stayed. He should have stayed and fought for himself, or...

Fuck.

It would be ridiculous to say this was their first fight—their entire relationship seemed like one unending fight sometimes—but this was the first one that had left Shane feeling terrified. Obviously he had fucked something up. He hadn’t been paying attention to Ilya, or to what Ilya had given up for him, and he now realized that Ilya had given up a whole fucking lot for Shane. For them.

Of course he resented Shane. Ilya had left his home country, his family—even if only a brother he hated remained—his team, his friends in Boston, his entire fucking life, really. He’d changed everything.

Meanwhile Shane was comfortable in Montreal, playing with the same team he’d started with. Winning Stanley Cups. He had friends he could talk to about Ilya—a teammate even—and his parents lived nearby. He’d set his boyfriend up in his hometown, not far from Montreal, because that was convenient for him. Everyone he loved all in one tidy circle.

And in the summers they went to Shane’s cottage. God, their entire relationship was about Ilya fitting into Shane’s life as easily as possible.

But Shane really hadn’t had any reason to believe Ilya resented it. Ilya loved the cottage, loved Shane’s parents, loved Shane. He liked his teammates in Ottawa, and told Shane all the time that it was a great organization, better than Boston had been. He’d been the one to tell Shane, way before they’d talked about making any big life changes, that he wanted to become a Canadian citizen. Ottawa made sense.

But even knowing all of this, Shane had clearly missed something important.

He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to drive right back to Ottawa and apologize, but Ilya had made it clear that he wanted space, and Shane should respect that. Maybe they could talk tomorrow. Or tonight. Or...

Shit. Shane really wanted to call him right now. Or at least text him. The season resumed tomorrow and they wouldn’t be able to see each other for who knew how long. At least a week or two.

He typed out a message to Ilya. I’m sorry. Call me when you want to talk. Please.

God, was that pushy? Should Shane just leave him alone?

Fuck it. Shane hit send. Ilya could ignore it if he wanted, but Shane really hoped he wouldn’t.

He waited a few minutes, just in case Ilya decided to call him right away. But Ilya didn’t even text, and Shane’s heart sank.

Needing to talk to someone, he called his mom.

“I messed up,” Shane said as soon as her face filled his phone screen.

“What? With your coach? It’s a day off. How could you—”

“No. With Ilya.”

The concern left her face immediately. She even smiled. “There’s nothing you could do to ruin things with him. What happened?”

Shane sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I take him for granted. Everything he’s given up, and everything he’s changed.” He rubbed at his forehead in frustration. “He’s lonely, y’know? And I’m living my life, happy as can be, assuming that our rare times together are enough for him.”

“He told you this?”

“More or less. I mean, no. But he said enough to help me figure out the rest.” He exhaled. “I’m the worst boyfriend.”

“That’s not true. And Ilya would agree with me, so don’t start.”

Shane pressed his lips together, trying to fight the lump that had formed in his throat. “I don’t deserve him.”

Mom fixed him with an exasperated glare. “Shane.”

“He’s going to break up with me,” Shane said miserably. “This was never going to work. It’s too hard. I’m asking too much of him.”