Page 23 of Heated Rivalry 1
“Life,” his brother said vaguely. “You know what it’s like here.”
He knew what hisbrotherwas like. He was either making a bad investment, or had already made a bad investment. Or was gambling. Or something else that a police officer really shouldn’t be doing.
“I gave you ten thousand like two months ago. Where the fuck is that?”
“Life, Ilya. Like I said.”
“Life. Right.”
“It’s not like you can’t afford it. I know what your signing bonus was.”
“I’m sure you do.” It was probably the only part of Ilya’s career that Andrei had bothered to follow.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Ilya.”
Ilya rolled his eyes at the phone. He could say no. Heshouldsay no. He didn’t owe his asshole brother a goddamned thing.
But if he said no, then his father would call next to give him the speech about family and being a good son. And as much as Ilya hated Andrei, he was still his brother. But this was the last fucking time.
“I’ll send you the money. But don’t ask again.”
“Could you send it now? What time is it there?”
“What? No! Fuck you, I’ll send it tomorrow. I’m going to bed.”
“Fine. Good night, then.”
“You’re welcome.”
Andrei ended the call. Ilya threw his phone down on the bed.
He turned on the television, and there was Shane fucking Hollander’s face, filling the screen. All sweaty and flushed and happy. Answering questions in perfect goddamned French. Ilya couldn’t even say a basic English sentence without sounding like a cartoon villain. He hated his stupid accent. He hated his asshole family.
Shane Hollander was speaking French and he was breathless and smiling and drenched in sweat with his hair sticking up in all directions. His cheeks were pink and his lips were dark and wet. He looked so fucking proud of himself.
Ilya told himself the twisted feeling in his stomach was just jealousy, but he was terrified that it was something much, much worse.
Chapter Six
January 2011—Nashville
Ilya swiped his key card for the third time and his hotel room door finally unlocked. Once inside, he fell back on the king-size bed with his arms outstretched, pleasantly buzzed from the drinks he’d consumed at his All-Star team’s dinner.
He had expected to be on a team with Hollander, since they played in the same conference, but the league had decided to change it up this year and have North American players form one team, and European players form the other. No secret as to why. The league couldn’t get enough of the Rozanov/Hollander rivalry.
Ilya was close to making good on his promise to score fifty goals by the end of February. He had already scored thirty-eight.
Hollander had scored forty-one.
Fucking Hollander.
Ilya’d spotted him in the lobby earlier that evening, but that was it. No words had been exchanged. He hadn’t even gotten a nod of acknowledgment from him.
Ilya wondered what Hollander was doing right now.
He wondered if there were any cute girls at the hotel bar.
Was Hollander in his own room, lying on his bed?
