Page 26 of Heated Rivalry 1
“Nice job, Hollander,” Rozanov drawled.
“Thanks.”
“Have fun last night?”
“Last night?”
“With your teammates. Dinner somewhere? Get drunk?”
Shane looked down at the ice. “Oh. Yeah. It was fun. Um...how about you guys?”
“Lots of fun. No fucking Canadians or Americans. Was perfect.”
“Ah.”
He turned his gaze to Rozanov’s face. No one wore helmets for the skills competition, since there was no actual body contact, and Shane could admire the profile of his chiseled jaw, and the soft curls of his hair.
“Going to bed early tonight. I think,” Rozanov said suddenly.
Shane’s mouth went a little dry. “Oh?”
“Yes.”
They stood in silence, watching the action on the ice. Loud music blared and the crowd cheered as another record was broken.
Rozanov leaned down. His breath ghosted over Shane’s ear when he said, in a low voice, “Twelve twenty-one.”
A shiver ran through Shane’s body, and before it had even left him, Rozanov was gone. Shane watched him skate down the ice to talk to a fellow Russian player.
Shane hoped he wasn’t blushing.
“The fuck did Rozanov want?” asked Liam Casey, a defenseman for Pittsburgh.
“Nothing,” Shane said quickly. “Just shit-talking, you know?”
“Guy’s a fucking asshole.”
“Yeah,” he said.
Ilya wasn’t surprised at all when the knock came.
It was late. After midnight. He had been back in his room for almost two hours.
Hollander pushed into the room as soon as Ilya opened the door. He turned and flipped the bar latch as if someone was going to burst in any moment.
He looked terrified.
“Is there a ghost out there?” Ilya asked, amused.
“No. Fuck you. This is fucking dangerous and you know it.”
“Is it? We are not doing anything.”
Hollander looked at him hard. His dark eyes were a mixture of anger and lust. Ilya decided to drop the act.
“You came anyway,” he said.
“Yeah,” Hollander said, his voice tight and full of forced courage. “I guess I did.”
