Page 60 of Heated Rivalry 1
The television was turned to ESPN, but he wasn’t paying much attention to it. At least, not until he heard the nameShane Hollander.
It was just one of these dumb fluff pieces that the twenty-four-hour sports networks relied on to fill air time, a little glimpse at Hollander’s life away from the rink for the fans.
On the television, Hollander was standing on some sort of dock surrounded by the calm blue waters of an enormous lake. Thick green forest lined the banks.
“When the demands of the season are over, this is where Shane Hollander comes to relax and recuperate: his five-thousand-square-foot lakefront cottage.”
Ilya sat up. He had never seen any place that Hollander called home.
“This is my favorite place on earth,” the Hollander on the television said. “I just finished building this one a couple of years ago. My family’s cottage, the one I spent summers at growing up, is just over there.” He pointed off-camera to his right. “I was still spending my summers there until this one was finished.”
“Awww, so fucking sweet, Hollander,” Ilya said, rolling his eyes.
There was some footage of Hollander kayaking alone on the lake, looking serene and stupid as he gazed around at nature. His voice played over the footage, talking about the place healing his soul or some dumb shit.
There were sweeping shots of some of the rooms of the cottage. A spacious, high-ceilinged living area with a leather sectional sofa and some very Canadian-looking plaid throw pillows and blankets; a modern, high-end kitchen with a large island in the middle; a pool table and a bar; a gym that had a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the lake.
Then, without warning, they cut to a shot of Hollander doing fucking yoga on the dock.
“I got into yoga last year and I think it’s really helped me focus, and it’s definitely increased my flexibility.” Hollander’s voice played over a lingering shot of him holding some ridiculous pose.
“Jesus Christ, you are so fucking boring,” Ilya muttered.
Hollanderdidlook flexible, though.
The segment went on a little longer. Hollander talked about how important it was for him to have a place close to his parents. How he had offered to build them a new cottage too, but they’d refused. He laughed when he said that. When he laughed his nose crinkled, and Ilya’s stomach flipped.
Ilya wondered if Hollander had ever fucked anyone in that cottage. Probably. Probably some nice, wholesome girl that he had met while...canoeing. Or whatever.
Ilya had filmed one of these dumb things too. He had taken the camera crew to the garage where he stored his collection of European sports cars. The segment had had a decidedly different vibe from this Hollander one.
But that’s the way it had been for over six seasons: Shane Hollander was the wholesome, heroic sweetheart, and Ilya Rozanov was the obnoxious rock star. They were polar opposites, according to any NHL analyst, and therefore destined to clash forever—neatly dividing hockey fans in the process.
It’s the way itshouldhave been. Shane and Ilyawereopposites in almost every way imaginable, but it was getting harder for Ilya to deny that there was something in hiscorethat was drawn to Hollander. Instead of getting him out of his system with their hookups, each one just made him wantmore.
It was dangerous fucking stuff.
Chapter Thirteen
November 2016—Boston
“Heading out?” Hayden asked from where he was watching television on the hotel bed.
“Yeah. Just for a bit. Meeting a friend.”
“If you say so.” Hayden grinned. Shane swallowed and tried not to let anything show on his face. His insides roiled with shame and fear and anticipation.
“Just a friend,” Shane said.
“I won’t wait up.”
“It’s not—” Shane closed his eyes and calmed himself down. “It’s not that type of friend. I’ll be back soon.”
Hayden studied him a moment. “Well, that’s too bad. You need to get laid.”
“I’m fine.” Shane tugged his jacket on and checked himself quickly in the mirror before leaving the room.
He shouldn’t be doing this.
