Heated Rivalry (Game Changers Book 2)

December 2009—Ottawa

Ilya watched the red glowing numbers on his hotel room’s alarm clock flick from 11:56 to 11:57.

The room was completely dark. His roommate was down the hall, along with half the team, watching the American New Year’s Eve celebrations on television.

Ilya had been in that room too. He had watched the Black Eyed Peas perform and had eaten chips and made jokes with his teammates.

And then he just wanted to be alone.

11:58.

There was no mistaking that Ottawa was Shane Hollander’s hometown. It was Shane Hollander fucking mania here. His face and his freckles were everywhere: newspapers, television, buses, banners, the sides of buildings.

Of course Hollander was from Canada’s capital city. Of course the city was as inoffensive and bland as he was.

Their teams hadn’t played each other yet, and they likely wouldn’t before the gold medal game. It would be a shocking upset if it didn’t end up being Canada and Russia in the finals.

11:59.

Ilya would be moving to Boston this summer. To America. He had never been out of Russia for more than a couple of weeks at a time. He would begin his NHL career. He would be rich and famous. He would be his own man, away from his family.

Midnight.

“Happy New Year,” he muttered to himself.

He sat up on the bed and grabbed the package of nicotine gum off his nightstand. He popped a piece in his mouth and frowned as he chewed it. He could hear fireworks outside, and his teammates cheering in the rooms around him.

He wanted a real cigarette. He wanted to fuck someone.

He wanted to go down to the hotel gym and find Shane Hollander on a treadmill.

But Shane Hollander wasn’t staying at this hotel. Shane Hollander was probably ringing in the New Year with friends and family in his perfect hometown that loved him so very, very much.

That night in the hotel gym in Los Angeles, six months ago now, Ilya had very nearly embarrassed himself. He probably could have covered it up with his usual cocky charm, but he had been damn close to flirting with Hollander. Or possibly just pressing him against a wall and taking his mouth.

The thing was, he wasn’t so sure that Hollander would have hated it.

Unless Ilya was very bad at reading people—and he definitely wasn’t—Hollander probably would have kissed him right back.

And, Jesus, that thought had consumed Ilya since draft day.

Ilya had probably fucked, in his rough estimate, dozens of women since then. He certainly had no reason to obsess over his fucking archrival. Or his archrival’s freckles. Or his dark eyes. Or the way his cheeks glowed red when he exerted himself.

Fuck. Anyway. Russia was undefeated in the tournament so far. Canada was also undefeated. Only one team would stay that way until the end. Ilya had more important things to think about than freckles and polite Canadian boys.

Shane couldn’t have been happier that his second, and last, World Junior Championship was being held in his hometown. He had spent Christmas with his family, and New Year’s with his teammates at the hotel. His parents had been at every game, as usual, and he had been able to visit with lots of friends.

He’d been in a great mood for the entire tournament, and he’d been playing outstanding hockey.

And now it was the night before the gold medal game, and Canada would be facing Russia for the second year in a row.

And Shane would be facing Ilya Rozanov.

He hadn’t seen Rozanov at all for this entire tournament. The Canadian and Russian teams had been practicing at different rinks and staying in separate hotels. This game would be their first match.

But Shane had watched every game Russia had played. And he’d been studying video footage of Rozanov. And this time he was going to beat his ass.

He had mostly forgotten the way it had felt when Rozanov had brushed his fingers against his hand when he’d handed him the water bottle in that hotel gym six months ago. He had barely thought at all about his flushed skin, or the way the damp curls of his hair had fallen into his hazel eyes.

It had been…adrenaline. The afterglow of the thrill of competition, when they had been sprawled out on the floor after pushing their bodies as hard as they could on the treadmills. It had been a glitch in his brain, which had been overstuffed with emotions from a roller coaster of a draft day. He had been tired and confused and his brain had just turned all of that into something ridiculous.

So Shane had gone back to life as usual after that night. Well, he’d broken up with his girlfriend, but that had been overdue anyway.

There was one other thing that had changed: Shane had found himself noticing men. Not his teammates or his friends or anyone like that. Just…like a guy at the airport Starbucks. Or the guy who’d been in the cereal aisle of the grocery store in Kingston a few weeks ago.

Or the guy who was on Friday Night Lights.

But it’s not like he wasn’t into girls. Girls were very into him, and they were throwing themselves at him now that he was about to become a millionaire superstar. So, yeah, he’d been hooking up with girls. Plenty of girls.

Like, at least two girls. Since breaking up with his girlfriend.

Not, like, all-the-way sex. But sex stuff.

He had definitely been blown by two different girls since July. And he had enjoyed it. With his head tilted back. And his eyes closed.

And he hadn’t thought about Ilya Rozanov’s dark, wet lips or his crooked smile at all.

“Are you getting tired of second place?” Rozanov smirked.

“I’m winning this game,” Shane growled.

“There is not an ‘I’ in team, right?”

“There’s an ‘I’ in ‘suck my dick.’”

Rozanov raised an eyebrow as they bent for the face-off.

“There is also an ‘I’ in ‘silver,’” he said.

Shane made sure he won the face-off. And he made sure he was exactly where he needed to be to score a goal forty seconds later.

And he made sure they won that game.

For all his cockiness and teasing, Ilya took hockey very seriously. And he hated to lose.

But this time he had lost. And he would be going back to Russia with a silver medal. He wasn’t proud of it.

He didn’t want to return to Russia at all. He wanted to stay in North America and start the next phase of his life. He didn’t want to hear his father—who likely hadn’t even watched any of the games—shame him for not bringing home a gold medal. He didn’t want to live with his father, or depend on anyone anymore. He wanted to be rich and famous and loved and have a huge garage full of sports cars. He wanted expensive clothes and gorgeous women and hot nightclubs. He wanted the weight of his family, and his country, lifted. He wanted to be himself.

On the ice, in the lineup to shake hands at the end of the game, Hollander had looked into Ilya’s eyes. It had only been for a second, but it had felt like everything around them had frozen and fallen silent. Hollander’s damp, sweaty hand had wrapped itself around Ilya’s damp, sweaty hand and, when their eyes had locked, he’d squeezed Ilya’s fingers, just a little.

That look, and that squeeze, had said so many things to Ilya.

I know.

We were supposed to stand alone at the top, but we will always be there together. We will keep climbing until no one else can reach us, but it will always be together.

There had been nothing apologetic in Hollander’s eyes, but there had been no gloating either. And by the time Ilya had shaken the last Canadian hand in the lineup, he was smirking to himself. Because soon the real battle between himself and Shane Hollander would begin.

And he couldn’t fucking wait.