Page 2 of Heated Rivalry 1
“Something nice, I assume.”
“He said he wished you’d been playing tonight.”
The crowd of reporters was silent. Waiting.
Shane snorted and shook his head. “Well, we play in Boston in three weeks. You can let him know that I willdefinitelybe at that game.”
The reporters laughed, delighted that they had gotten their Hollander vs. Rozanov sound bite for the night.
An hour later—showered, changed and finally alone—Shane drove himself home. Not to his Westmount penthouse, but to the one nobody knew about.
Shane only spent a few nights a year at the small condominium in the Plateau. It was where he went when he wanted to be sure of total privacy.
He parked in the tiny lot behind the three-story building, let himself in the back door, and quickly climbed the stairs to the top floor. He knew the other two floors were unoccupied because he owned those too. The bottom floor was rented to a high-end kitchenware boutique, which had closed for the night hours ago.
The condo on the third floor looked like what it was: a demo condo that had been decorated by a professional house stager. Technically, this was the condo that would be used to sell this one and the one below it. If Shane was ever interested in selling. Which, he told himself, he definitely would be doing. Soon.
He had been telling himself this for over three years.
He went to the stainless-steel fridge and took out one of the five bottles of beer—the only things in the pristine refrigerator. He twisted the cap off and sat himself on the black leather sofa in the living area.
He sat in silence and tried to ignore the way his stomach churned on nights like this one. He drank his beer quickly, hoping the alcohol would help at least numb the disappointment he felt in himself. The disgust at his own weakness. He needed to dull it because he knew he surewouldn’t be doing anything to fix this mess. He’d been trying for over six years.
The knock at the door came almost forty minutes later. It had been enough time that Shane had almost convinced himself to leave. To put an end to this foolishness. But, of course, he hadn’t. And if the knock had come hours later, even, Shane would still have been on that sofa, waiting for it.
He opened the door. “What the fuck took you so long?” he asked, annoyed.
“We were celebrating. Big win tonight, you know?”
Shane stepped back to let the tall, smirking Russian man into the apartment.
“I got away as soon as I could,” Rozanov said, his tone less teasing. “Didn’t want to draw attention, right?”
“Sure.”
And that was the last word Shane got out before Rozanov’s mouth crashed into his.
Shane gripped his leather jacket with both hands and pulled him closer as he kissed Rozanov breathless. “How long do you have?” Shane asked quickly, when they had broken apart for air.
“Two hours, maybe?”
“Fuck.” He kissed Rozanov again, rough and needy. God, he needed this. This horrible, fucked-up thing.
“You taste like beer,” Rozanov said.
“You taste like that horrible gum you chew.”
“Is so I don’t smoke!”
“Shut up.”
They grappled and maneuvered each other until they reached the bedroom, where Shane shoved Rozanov roughly against a wall and continued kissing him. He felt the familiar slide of his rival’s tongue in his mouth, and slid his own tongue over teeth that had been fixed and replaced god knew how many times.
He wanted a lot tonight, but they didn’t have time for a lot. Rozanov grabbed him and pushed him down on the bed; Shane watched the other man drop his jacket on the floor and pull his T-shirt off over his head. A gold chain hung crookedly around Rozanov’s neck, the shiny crucifix resting on his left clavicle just above the famous (ridiculous) tattoo of a snarling grizzly bear (“For Russia! I had it before playing for Bears!”) on his chest. Shane would make fun of it later. Right now all he could do was watch Rozanov strip his clothes off, and belatedly realize that he should be doing the same.
They both took off everything, and Rozanov fell on top of Shane, kissing him and moving a hand down to grasp his already embarrassingly rigid cock. Shane arched up into his touch, making stupid, desperate noises.
“Don’t worry, Hollander,” Rozanov said, his lips brushing Shane’s ear, “I am going to fuck you like you want, yes?”
