Page 112 of Heated Rivalry 1
Not that either of them had said anything specific about ending things. They hadn’t said much of anything to each other since the day Ilya had left Shane’s hospital room. Shane just had a sense that maybe this whole thing had become too much. It had become more difficult to contain, or to pretend it didn’t mean anything. The only safe option was to walk away.
Shane was expecting Ilya to tell him as much as soon as the playoffs were over. And it was looking, as the final minutes of the game ticked away, like the playoffs would be over for Ilya tonight.
The stupid part of Shane wanted to fight for Ilya. Forthem. The sensible part—the part that was in control of most things in Shane’s life—knew there couldn’t possibly be a future with Ilya. There couldn’t be apresentwith Ilya. They needed to end things quickly, and cleanly, and never look back. The other path led to nothing but heartache and scandal and misery and...soft Russian words being breathed against Shane’s skin. It led to falling asleep with strong arms wrapped around him, and waking up to a lazy, crooked smile and playful kisses. It led to homemade tuna melts and the precious times when Ilya would offer Shane the tiny pieces of himself that he usually kept so carefully guarded.
The game ended. Ilya’s season was over. It was only a matter of time before everything would be over. And Shane didn’t know what he could do to prevent it.
But he knew he wanted to.
June 2017—Boston
Jane: I can’t believe New York is finally going to win the cup.
Ilya couldn’t believe it either. Scott fucking Hunter was going to be a Stanley Cup champion in about forty seconds.
Ilya: I hate Hunter.
Jane: No you don’t.
Ilya: I do.
Jane: Stop. I’ll get jealous if you keep talking like that.
Ilya laughed. Alone, in his penthouse in Boston, he laughed.
The final seconds of the final game of the final series of the playoffs ticked down, and then the game was over. The ice filled with excited men in blue jerseys, and Ilya turned his full attention to his phone so he wouldn’t feel the sting of envy too sharply.
He wasbored.The playoffs had ended for him weeks ago. At a loss for what to do or where to go, he’d holed up in Boston. It was his only home now, though he had no real friends in the city. There were teammates who stayed for the summers, but none he was close to.
But his car collection was here, and that wasn’t nothing.
Though the last time he had visited his garage, three days ago, it had kind of felt like nothing.
He wasn’t inviting Svetlana over anymore because...just because.
So he was watching hockey, alone, and texting the man he desperately wished he could be sharing his summer with.
Ilya: Do you think Hunter is going to drink tea out of the cup?
Jane: Caffeine? No way. Hunter isn’t that hard-core.
Ilya laughed again.
Ilya: Milk then.
Jane: Warm milk. And then straight to bed!
Ilya glanced up at the television and saw the Stanley Cup being handed to a beaming Scott Hunter.
Jane: I’m happy for him.
Ilya: Of course you are.
He’d had every intention of ending things with Shane. He hadn’t been able to do that. Not yet. For now they could text each other and tease each other and pretend they were just friends or whatever.
Shane’s invitation for Ilya to come to his cottage still existed. Shane wasn’t pushing it, and Ilya wasn’t acknowledging it, but it was there. If it weren’t the worst idea in the world, Ilya would be on his way to Wherever-the-Fuck, Ontario, already.
Players on the television were kissing their wives and holding their children. It would be nice, Ilya thought, to have someone to kiss after winning the Cup.
