Page 87 of Heated Rivalry 1
Ilya had been texting Shane one-handed.
He hadn’t told Shane that he had fucked up his elbow during the game last night. It had just got caught a weird way against the boards, and now it hurt to straighten it.
He had been ordered to rest, and he was bored. He told himself boredom was theonlyreason he had texted Shane.
Because of his injury, and the fact that it was, like, nine in the morning, he had been mostly kidding when he had suggested phone sex. But he wondered if Shane would actually do it someday. He couldn’t imagine...
Or, maybe hecouldimagine. Because suddenly he was. Quite vividly.
He could just see it. Shane with his determined little face, pretending not to be terrified. Where would he be? On his bed? On hisactualbed? The one that Ilya had never shared because he had never been to Shane’s real home?
Ilya closed his eyes and sank into the pillows on his own bed.
What was Shane’s room like? Boring, probably. White walls. Probably a framed photo of his parents on his nightstand. Ilya quickly changed it to a framed photo of himself. An autographed one.
Shane probably had houseplants. His bedroom probably had a lot of natural light. There was probably a small bookshelf with some dull motivational books and some sports biographies. His bedsheets were probably blue.
He probably wore, like, full pajamas to bed. The kind with buttons.
But maybe he didn’t always button them up. Maybe he just lounged in bed with his pajama shirt open and the pants riding a little low. His bedside lamp would be on so he could read his boring book.
And then, when he got tired of reading, he would put the book down neatly on his nightstand, then yawn and stretch himself out. The shirt would fall open a little more.
And maybe Shane’s eyes would close, and he would let his hand travel lazily down his chest and over his abs. He’d brush it over his thighs and sigh as the bulge in his pajama pants grew.
Ilya was not doing a good job of resting.
Stupid elbow injury. Why did it have to be his right one?
This Skype thingneededto happen. He would coax some dirty talk out of that pretty little mouth of Shane’s. He would force Shane out of his comfort zone. He could make it a challenge. Shane couldn’t resist a challenge.
He gripped himself awkwardly with his left hand and gave himself a slow stroke.
He wanted a whole day with Shane. A weekend. A week. He wanted to be somewhere that no one could possibly interrupt them. Maybe that would be all he would need. Just the opportunity to get Shane Hollander out of his system. He needed to drink his fill and walk away.
Because hewouldhave to walk away. This thing was already getting too complicated.
March 2017—Boston
It was full speed ahead now.
Boston and Montreal were neck and neck for the top spot in their division, and the playoffs were only a month away.
Shane wanted a third championship ring as much as Ilya wanted a second one. Winning the Stanley Cup the past twoseasons hadn’t lessened his drive at all. There was always a bigger goal to reach for.
The record for most Stanley Cup wins by a single player was eleven. Shane knew that number might be a little lofty, since that record came from a time when there were far fewer teams in the league. But winning six would put him with some of the repeat champions of the ‘90s, so that was his secret goal.
No. His actual secret goal was seven.
Shane was focused. He had been playing very well all season and was leading the league in scoring by a narrow margin over Rozanov. He knew that must be bothering the shit out of Ilya.
Shane had been trying not to think about Rozanov too much. Usually that was their unspoken agreement this late into a season. They would fool around whenever they were in the same city up until March or so, then they both focused on hating each other until next season.
Which was why Shane had been surprised to get a text from Ilya that morning.
Lily: What time do you fly out tomorrow?
Shane stared at his phone, dumbfounded. He certainly hadn’t expected to be seeing Ilya before or after the game tonight.
