Page 67 of Heated Rivalry 1
“How’d it go?” Hayden asked, grinning sleepily. “You in love?”
“No!”No! Jesus.“I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Why? To wash off the sex you weren’t having?”
“Go fuck yourself, Hayden.”
“Oh, I did. Couple of times. Thanks for the empty room.”
Gross.
Shane went into the bathroom to take a shower and freak the hell out in private.
Chapter Fourteen
November 2016—Montreal
“Hollander. What the fuck are you doing right now?”
Shane frowned into his phone. It was his teammate, J.J. Boiziau, calling. J.J. whoalwayscalled andnevertexted.
“Nothing. Why?”
“Fuck that. Get your ass downtown. My buddy Francois, you know, the chef? He’s having a little after hours party at his restaurant, and get this, the cast of the fuckingX-Squadmovie they’re filming here is gonna be there!”
“All of them?”
“I don’t fucking know! Enough of them! There are some fuckinghotchicks in that movie, man! Get the fuck in your car. You know the restaurant, right? Djon-Djon?”
“Uh. Sure. You took me there once, right?”
Shane’s first instinct was to thank J.J. for the invitation, but to tell him that he was going to stay in. But he knew from past experience that saying no to J.J. would result in hourly calls for the rest of the evening to let him know what he was missing.
Besides. It wasn’t like Shane had anything better to do. Nothing besides watching the end of a Boston hockey game on television and quietly panicking about the freshly unearthed feelings he was harboring for Ilya Rozanov. He could definitely use a distraction.
He put on some nicer clothes and drove himself to Mile End. It was late on a Tuesday night, and the streets were quiet. He found a parking spot near the restaurant and stepped out of his SUV into the cold.
Most things on the street were closed or closing, but he could see the lights on in the hip, Haitian-inspired restaurant on the corner. The sign on the door said the restaurant was closed, but the door opened for him before Shane even reached it.
Inside there was music and laughter and warmth. The small space was crowded, and something smelled delicious.
“Hollander! Yes, bitch! Get over here!”
J.J. towered over everyone in the room. He was six feet, seven inches and over two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. He had very dark skin and a thick French accent. The contrast between J.J. and Shane, physically, was almost comical. Shane stood a full ten inches shorter than him, and weighed about seventy pounds less.
J.J. was alsoloud. And he loved to talk. He held court no matter what room he was in. He was French and fashionable and loved food and wine—the perfect Montreal celebrity. Everyone loved him.
Aside from a couple of his teammates, Shane didn’tknowanyone at the party, but he certainly recognized a few movie stars in the crowd. Shane was pretty famous—extremely so, on the hockey scale—but even he was a little star struck in this company.
He made his way to the bar, where the bartender seemed to have no problem serving people well after closing. The slim, attractive, dark-skinned man was making elaborate cocktails for the all-star guests.
“Can I get a beer?” Shane asked him, in French. “Whatever you have on tap is fine.”
“Shane Hollander can have whatever he wants here,” the man said with a sexy little smile. He poured Shane a beer and rested it on a coaster in front of him.
“Thanks,” Shane said. He slid a ten-dollar bill across the bar.
The bartender held up his hands and said, “On the house.”
