Page 8 of Heated Rivalry 1
Shane felt Ilya Rozanov’s arm brush against his as he stepped closer to him for the photographer.
“That’s perfect. All right, smile, boys.”
Shane’s eyes were bombarded with camera flashes. He stood pressed against Rozanov, who seemed to have grown another couple of inches since January. To Rozanov’s right was a giant American defenseman named Sullivan, who had been drafted third overall by Phoenix.
Rozanov had been drafted first.
Shane had spent the past six months since the World Juniors being a little bit...obsessed...with Ilya Rozanov. They had quite a bit in common, career-wise. They were both the captains of their respective teams, and had both led their teams to the championship this season. Both men had been named league and playoff MVPs, and both had been the scoring leaders of their respective leagues. The only difference between them was that Shane had a silver medal at home, and Rozanov had gold.
And now Shane had come in second place again. After a life of always coming first in hockey.
This fucking guy.
It wasn’t all bad. Shane had been drafted by the Montreal Voyageurs, who, besides being the most legendary franchise in the league, were also only a two hour drive from his hometown of Ottawa. It was a good fit for Shane, who was fluent in both French and English, and who had always had a lot of respect forthe Voyageurs, despite having grown up an Ottawa fan. But still. Being picked second stung.
Adding to the drama of the day was the fact that Rozanov had been drafted by Montreal’s archrivals, the Boston Bears. Shane knew his career was now going to be inescapably linked to Rozanov’s. If one of them had been drafted by a team in the Western Conference, maybe the rivalry would never have gotten off the ground. But this was going to be intense.
Which didn’t mean that Shane couldn’t be polite to Rozanov now.
“Congratulations,” he said, turning to shake Rozanov’s hand when the photographers were done.
There was a definite smugness in Rozanov’s smile when he said, “Thank you.”
Rozanov didn’t congratulate Shane. Instead, he patted Shane’s fucking shoulder, like he was consoling a child who had struck out at Little League. Shane jerked away from his touch, and was about to say something that was decidedly less polite than “congratulations,” but they were both immediately pulled away in opposite directions for interviews.
Shane didn’t see Rozanov again until he was back at the hotel. The lobby was packed with athletic young men in suits, but even in that crowd Rozanov stood out. He was one of the taller men there, and cleaned up—with his dark navy suit hugging his body—he looked like aGQmodel.
Shane felt short. He had turned eighteen last month, but he felt like a kid.
Rozanov had turned eighteen too. Just last week. Which Shane knew because he was obsessed with him.
That night, in his private hotel room (his proud parents were across the hall), Shane couldn’t sleep.
It had been an exhausting day, and, yes, he had been drafted by the NHL. He had achieved the thing he had worked his wholelife toward. And being chosen second overall was nothing to sulk about.
He wasn’t sulking. Not really. He was just...bothered. By something.
He sighed and rolled out of bed. He threw on some sweats and his sneakers and headed down to the hotel gym. Maybe he could shut his mind off with some exercise.
The gym was mercifully empty. Shane stepped onto one of the two treadmills and started running at a gentle pace. He didn’t wear headphones; he just lost himself in the noise of the machine.
He didn’t notice when someone else entered the gym. He only realized he wasn’t alone when the other man stepped onto the treadmill next to him.
Ilya Rozanov gave him a quick nod and turned to face the white wall at the front of the room as he started running alongside Shane.
Shane tried to ignore Rozanov’s presence. There was nothing weird about it; he must have been having trouble sleeping too. Or maybe he always hit the gym after midnight. Or maybe the time zone was messing with him. Or maybe...
Rozanov increased the speed on his machine. He didn’t glance at Shane at all. Because Shane was petty and competitive, he increased the speed on his own machine...just a little faster than Rozanov’s.
Within a minute, Rozanov did the same thing, raising the bar and silently waiting for Shane to match him. Shane glanced over and saw a slight smirk on Rozanov’s lips. Shane shook his head and fought his own smile. He cranked up the speed.
They kept on this way, caught in a silent battle, until they were both testing the limits of their machines. They were running at a sprint pace for far longer than was comfortable, and Shane’s entire body was burning in protest. But he didn’twant to stop, or even slow down, until Rozanov did. Rozanovsmoked, for fuck’s sake. Shane could beat him.
But Rozanov showed no signs of quitting.
They kept up that pace for another minute or two, and Shane finally slammed his hand on the emergency stop button and stumbled off. He leaned against the back wall, gasping for breath, before sliding down to sit on the floor. Rozanov stopped his own machine, and was holding on to the console for support.
“Fuck,” Shane wheezed. Rozanov laughed and joined him on the floor, wedging himself into the corner and sitting perpendicular to Shane. Rozanov’s gray, sleeveless shirt was soaked through with sweat. They both sat with their legs sprawled out in front of them; Rozanov’s sneakers were almost touching Shane’s ankle.
