Page 25 of Heated Rivalry 1
“Ilya? Same question?”
“If Hollander does not mind me being starting center. Yes.”
Shane made a show of rolling his eyes as the room laughed. He clasped his hands together and rested them on the table in front of him, leaning over his microphone as he awaited the next question. Rozanov’s elbows were resting on the table too. His left elbow was almost brushing Shane’s right. Shane could swear there was an electric current in the narrow space between them. He felt like the hair on his arm was standing up.
“Both Montreal and Boston have been out of the playoffs for three seasons now. Do you guys feel the pressure to restore your team’s legacies, even this early in your careers?”
Shane rubbed his arm and furrowed his brow. He turned his head and saw that Ilya was looking at him, and his face showed that he was hoping Shane would field this one. Rozanov probably only understood about half the words. Shane thought it was a pretty stupid question, honestly.
“Um,” he said. “I can’t speak for Rozanov, or what it’s like in Boston, but I know the fans in Montreal love their team and definitely are expecting us to turn things around and get back in the playoffs and win some cups. And, you know, I feel the exact same way. So... I guess my answer is that I don’t really feel any pressure that I’m not already putting on myself.”
He hoped that satisfied him. Unfortunately, the reporter didn’t pick up on the fact that Rozanov was clearly struggling with understanding the question, and said, “Ilya?”
“Ah,” Rozanov said. “What Hollander said. Yes.”
He gave the room one of his playful smiles, and everyone laughed again. Shane looked at him, and Rozanov caught his eye and winked. Shane pursed his lips to stifle a grin.
Under the table, he felt Rozanov’s foot tap against his own. It was the chastest contact in the world, but it still made Shane’s heart stop.
The press conference ended. Both men stood as the room erupted into the chaos of dozens of people packing up recording equipment. Shane offered Rozanov his hand, and Rozanov shook it. When Shane released their handshake, Rozanov slowly slid his fingers along Shane’s palm.
“I’ll see you later, Hollander,” he said in a tone that was far more suggestive than it should have been.
Shane swallowed. “Yeah. Later.”
Shane allowed himself a moment, on the ice, to take everything in. The NHL’s All-Star Skills Competition was held the night before the All-Star Game, and was a chance for the stars to show off and try to prove themselves the fastest skater, or the hardest shooter. It was just a laid-back, fun night, and no one took itvery seriously, but he washere, dammit. He was a rookie and he was an NHL All-Star. He could be a little proud of himself.
All of the players from both teams were on the ice now, clustered in front of their respective benches. Some of the players kneeled as they waited for their events to be called. Others stood and chatted with their just-for-this-weekend teammates. The league had been less than subtle about their desire to see Shane and Rozanov go head-to-head in one of the competition events. That event ended up being the shot accuracy competition.
Rozanov went first. The net had four foam bull’s-eye targets—one in each corner—fastened to the goalposts. When the timer started, the object was to break all four targets with shots from the blue line as fast as possible. The league record was about seven seconds.
When the whistle blew, Rozanov wasted no time. He broke the top two targets with the first two shots, then missed the next one, then cleanly broke the bottom two targets with his fourth and fifth shots.
Eight seconds.
Shane shook his head and watched Rozanov play to the crowd. Rozanov skated around the ice holding his stick like a rifle, celebrating his skills by pretending to shoot at the rafters.
Shane skated up to replace Rozanov on the blue line, and Rozanov came to a stop right in front of him. “Sorry about that, Hollander.”
“You think I can’t beat that?”
Rozanov just winked and nudged Shane a little as he passed him. Shane heard the crowd’s delighted reaction.
Fuck it. Fuckhim.Shane could do this. He could do this with his fucking eyes closed.
The whistle blew and Shane just locked on to those targets. He watched each one burst apart with four perfect shots.
Six. Point. Seven. Seconds.
The crowd went wild. Shane threw his arms over his head and celebrated more than was probably necessary or sportsmanlike, but fuck, it feltgood.
He smirked at Rozanov as he skated back to his teammates. Rozanov wasn’t smiling now, but the look in his eyes was...
Shane flushed and turned his attention to his teammates.
His contribution to the competition completed, Shane could now just relax and enjoy himself as he watched the others battle each other. He would like to say his gradual movement down the line in front of the bench to where the two teams met was not deliberate, but that would be a lie. And it seemed he wasn’t the only one making that journey.
Shane leaned casually against the boards at the end of the bench, pretending to focus on the players competing for hardest shot, instead of on the man who was standing a couple of feet from him.
