Chapter Four
July 2010—Toronto Shane had signed a lucrative endorsement deal with CCM, one of the biggest hockey equipment companies. He hadn’t played a single game in the NHL yet, so he was pretty stoked about it.
Then he found out that CCM had also signed Rozanov.
And then he found out that they wanted to launch an ad campaign with both of them. Together.
So Shane found himself in a dark, mostly empty rink in the suburbs of Toronto on a Wednesday in July. He would be reporting to training camp in just over a month. He hadn’t seen Rozanov since the World Juniors back at the beginning of January.
Spotlights had been set up around the ice, creating some very dramatic lighting. There were going to be two parts to the day: first, they would do a photo shoot, both separately and together, and then they would skate around and do some fancy stickhandling for the television ads.
Shane was getting used to photo shoots, and to having cameras on him in general. This seemed like a bigger production than he was used to. This
felt like he was starring in a movie.
Costarring.
He took a couple of laps around the ice while he waited for the crew to finish setting up. He was wearing head-to-toe CCM gear, of course, including a custom black jersey with a big CCM logo on the chest where a team logo would normally go. His name and number, 24, were on the back.
Shane was wearing makeup, and it felt weird. He wasn’t supposed to sweat at all before they did the photo shoot. He decided he’d better stop skating and sit on the bench while he was waiting. He watched the crew fiddle with the lighting.
After a few minutes, he felt the unmistakable presence of Rozanov at the end of the bench. He turned and saw him standing there, huge and handsome, and also wearing makeup.
“Very pretty,” Rozanov teased him. “Like a doll.”
“You’re painted up too.”
Rozanov leaned on the top of the boards and grinned. “Yes, but I’m not pretty.”
Shane rolled his eyes. He had been called “pretty boy” a few times before, usually during games, and he hated it. He wished he hated it this time.
In his makeup, with his carefully styled hair, and in this dramatic lighting, Rozanov did not look pretty. He looked stunning. Once again, Shane was astounded and irritated by how manly Rozanov was. The sharp edge of his jaw framed cheeks that didn’t have any of the baby fat that lingered on Shane’s own. And his eyes were like sparkling…somethings.
Shane couldn’t think of a gem that had that many shades of gold and green.
The photo shoot took a lot longer than Shane had been expecting. It was mostly just standing on the ice, holding CCM hockey sticks in various positions. They did a few photos standing together, but most of them were separate. They finished with a posed photo of the two of them hunched over in the face-off position. They held the pose for what felt like an eternity, with their faces inches apart, staring into each other’s eyes.
“Try not to laugh, fellas,” the director said. “I know it’ll be challenging.”
Laughing was not what Shane was worried about. He needed to relax his eyes so Rozanov’s features blurred, just to keep himself from staring at the man’s lips.
“A little more intensity in your eyes, if you could, Shane.”
Shane blinked and tried his best to stare Rozanov down, like it was a real game. But a real game would only require him to hold this position for a few seconds. This was awkward.
He saw Rozanov’s lip twitch, and then the big Russian snorted and started laughing. Shane cracked too, and started giggling.
“Just a few more seconds, guys. Please.”
“Sorry,” Shane said, trying to school his features back into a fierce glare. It was no use. As soon as he looked at Rozanov, both men started laughing again.
“All right, we’ve probably got enough anyway. Let’s take a break and then we’ll do the film footage.”
“That was your fault,” Shane said as they skated over to the bench.
Rozanov shook his head. “Your face’s fault. Made me laugh.”
Shane bumped him with his shoulder.
The filming was much easier. They both donned CCM helmets and visors and skated around showing off for an hour or so—probably a bit more competitively than necessary. Shane was looking forward to seeing the final commercial. With some music and some voiceover, it would probably look pretty badass.
The director thanked them both, and the two hockey players were left to get showered and changed in the dingy dressing room.
Shane undressed quickly and went into the shower, which was, like most rinks, communal style with a row of showerheads facing each other on both sides of a corridor. If he hurried, maybe he could be out of the shower
before Rozanov came in.
No such luck.
Shane had just gotten his hair wet when Rozanov entered the showers and stood under one almost directly across from him. Shane’s eyes landed on the large bear tattoo on Rozanov’s left pec. It was absolutely ridiculous.
He also noticed the gold crucifix that he guessed the guy never took off.
The chain caressed the base of Rozanov’s long neck, the cross resting comfortably on his muscular chest.
Shane quickly turned his eyes to the floor. He had showered with hundreds of guys in his life, in rooms just like this one. It was just part of the game. He had never looked at any of his fellow players before. It was just…unthinkable.
He glanced up again, and saw that Rozanov had turned his back to him.
Shane was left to stare helplessly at the display of naked, rippling muscle.
His eyes trailed over Rozanov’s broad shoulders and down the muscles of his back down to his tapered waist and his…
Shane blushed hard. He couldn’t…why would he want to check out another guy’s ass? That was just weird.
But it was a really impressive ass. Not that he was comparing it to others. It was just…perfect. And as Rozanov scrubbed water over his face, the muscles in his ass flexed and Shane was transfixed.
And aroused. Visibly aroused. In a shower. With Rozanov.
He only had time to look down at his thickening cock with horror before he noticed that Rozanov had turned back around.
Rozanov glanced down at Shane’s crotch and raised an eyebrow.
“Fuck off,” Shane grumbled. “It’s nothing.”
“Like what you see, Hollander?”
“No. It’s not… I was thinking about something else.” Shane wanted to die. He knew he didn’t sound at all convincing.
“Something else?”
Shane should have just left the showers then. He was clean enough. This was torture.
But Rozanov was grinning at him in a way that was not helping Shane’s…situation. And Shane didn’t seem to have the ability to move.
Rozanov was teasing him, but he wasn’t punching him in the face.
And he wasn’t leaving either.
Shane wished he could at least make himself look away from Rozanov, but he was spellbound. Rozanov just seemed to be considering him curiously, and maybe enjoying the effect he knew he was having on him.
Just another goddamn thing for you to hold over me, Shane thought.
He was so busy being mortified that he didn’t immediately notice that Rozanov’s own dick was starting to swell.
The grin had faded from Rozanov’s face. His eyes were full of an intensity that was much more heated than what Shane had been facing during their photo shoot.
Shane needed to get out of here. This was too bizarre. He absolutely could not do…whatever this was.
But Rozanov let a hand trail down his stomach and wrapped it around his own dick to give it a slow, firm stroke.
Shane gasped. Loud enough that the running water couldn’t mask it.
“What were you thinking about?” Rozanov asked, his voice low.
Shane swallowed. His throat was bone dry.
“You,” he said quietly.
Rozanov heard him, and smirked. He gave himself another stroke. “You want to touch me, Hollander?”
Shane actually just wanted to watch Rozanov jerk himself off. But…
“Not here,” Shane stammered. “Someone could come in.”
Rozanov nodded and released himself. He turned and shut off the water.
Shane waited, heart racing, until Rozanov had left the showers before he turned off his own water. What the hell was happening? Rozanov couldn’t possibly be suggesting that he and Shane…that they…
Holy shit. Shane had to get out of here. He wondered if he could possibly smash through the tile wall of the shower room and escape that
way. Anything would be preferable to facing Rozanov again.
He took a few deep breaths to settle himself. He could do this. He could talk reasonably to Rozanov and end this thing. Determined, he wrapped his towel tightly around his waist before returning to the dressing room.
Rozanov was already half dressed and sitting, shirtless, on one of the benches.
“Look,” Shane said to the floor, “that was…we can just pretend that
never happened, okay?”
“Is that what you want?”
Shane’s answer should have been a lot faster. “Yeah. I mean…yeah. Of course.”
Rozanov stood and crossed the floor until he stood right in front of
Shane. “You are a bad liar.”
Shane scowled at him.
“What is your room number?” Rozanov asked.
“Fourteen ten,” Shane said, far too quickly.
Rozanov’s mouth twitched up. “If I knock on door of room 1410 tonight…maybe around nine?”
Shane fought to keep his voice even. “I might open the door.”
Rozanov smiled. “I might knock.”
Shane spent the evening freaking the fuck out in his hotel room.
He considered his options. He could leave. Just go out for a few hours so he wouldn’t be there when Rozanov knocked. That would be the sensible thing to do.
He could stay and just ignore Rozanov’s knock. There could be something satisfying in that. Give him a little bit of power over him.
He could open the door when he knocked, invite him in, and they could talk about this whole ridiculous…misunderstanding. Then they could go their separate ways forever.
Or…he could open the door and he could spend the evening exploring Rozanov’s body with his mouth.
Shane blushed just thinking about it. He couldn’t really want that, could he?
He had more or less decided on the second option: he would talk to Rozanov. They would put this behind them as quickly as possible so things wouldn’t be weird when the season started. He tidied up the room, even though it was already perfectly tidy. He changed his shirt to a nicer one for no reason at all. He brushed his teeth, flossed, and rinsed with mouthwash.
Because if he was going to be talking to Rozanov, it would be rude to have bad breath.
He fixed his hair a bit. He switched his phone to silent mode.
He decided to turn on the television, just so it wouldn’t look like he’d just been sitting there staring at the door.
He flipped to a baseball game and turned the sound down low. He shut off the overhead light and turned on all of the lamps. He checked himself in the mirror. Again.
The knock came at seven minutes after nine o’clock. Shane checked the peephole just to make sure Rozanov wasn’t pranking him or anything.
It was just Rozanov. Alone.
Shane turned off the television, because having it on suddenly seemed dumb. He opened the door and let Rozanov in.
Rozanov looked like he may have put a little effort into his appearance too. He was wearing a black button-up shirt, his gold chain winking at Shane from the wide-open collar. His hair, which was usually a mess of curls, had been tamed a bit, though one lock had already escaped and was tumbling adorably onto Rozanov’s forehead.
“Thought you might have chickened out,” Rozanov said in his infuriatingly blunt manner.
“No,” Shane said. “I mean, I just want to talk. About…you know.”
“I do know. Yes.”
“Uh, do you want to…sit? Maybe?”
Rozanov took a step toward him. “Not really.”
He was so close that Shane could feel the heat of his body. Or maybe he was imagining it.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Shane said weakly.
“What?” Rozanov said, tucking a knuckle under Shane’s chin and tilting it up. “This?”
He brought his mouth down on Shane’s, and Shane flooded with panic.
He was stiff against Rozanov, lips pressed together, eyes open. But Rozanov persisted. Shane felt the tip of Rozanov’s tongue trace the outline
of his lips, seeking entry. Long fingers threaded into his hair, and Shane surrendered. He parted his lips and closed his eyes, and Rozanov deepened the kiss, pushing between his lips and pressing his tongue to Shane’s.
Shane had never kissed a man, and somewhere in the back of his splintering brain he wondered if Rozanov ever had either. He certainly seemed to know what he was doing.
Shane felt like he was made of alarm bells. Like his panic was going to somehow wake up the entire hotel. If it was just that he was kissing a man, he might be able to get a grip. But kissing this man in particular was so absurd and wrong wrong wrong…
But his dick didn’t seem to think so, especially not when Rozanov wedged a knee between his legs and rubbed a thigh against Shane’s arousal. Shane whimpered and Rozanov tipped his head back farther, using his height and coming down hard on Shane’s open mouth.
Shane wasn’t sure what to do. He hesitantly slid his palms up Rozanov’s chest. He heard Rozanov give a soft moan when Shane’s fingers moved over his nipples, and that one little sound made Shane lose any remaining self-control.
He kissed Rozanov back, hard and frantic and wanting more but not knowing exactly what to ask for. Rozanov crowded him back against a wall and started unbuttoning Shane’s shirt. When he got the last button open, he grabbed Shane’s hand and pressed it against his crotch. And, oh, Shane had his hand on Ilya Rozanov’s dick. Shane could feel the solid length straining against Rozanov’s jeans, and he felt his own cock grow harder even as he struggled against freaking out.
He gripped Rozanov through the denim, and one clear idea of what he wanted popped into his head. He wanted the denim barrier to be gone. He wanted to see Rozanov’s cock and hold it and feel it pressed against him, which was weird. He shouldn’t want that. He shouldn’t want any of this.
And yet…
With a goal in mind, Shane unfastened Rozanov’s fly and worked his hand inside. When Shane had his hand wrapped around the thick, smooth length, Rozanov inhaled sharply and stopped kissing him. Both men looked down to watch Shane’s hand move under the cotton of Rozanov’s briefs. Shane could see the tip of Rozanov’s cock poking out of the waistband, and he had the sudden, wild urge to kiss it. To press his tongue
to the slit and taste him.
Fuck. This was really gay.
Rozanov didn’t seem troubled, though. Instead, he was pulling his own shirt off and reaching to cradle Shane’s face with his hand. Shane turned his eyes up and Rozanov was looking down at him with dark eyes, his mouth slack and lips swollen. His face was pure desire.
Shane stood, frozen, as Rozanov dragged his thumb over Shane’s lips and then gently pushed it inside. Shane closed his eyes and sucked it into his mouth, letting his tongue wrap around it. He was shocked at how naturally he did this; by how much he loved the sensation. He felt Rozanov shudder, and Shane felt light-headed. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay standing. He wondered if Rozanov would let him…if he wanted him to…
Shane released Rozanov’s thumb and slowly sank to his knees.
“Fuck,” he heard Rozanov breathe. Shane knew there would be no going back from this, but they’d probably already crossed that line anyway; may as well take what he wanted. With shaking hands, he pulled Rozanov’s jeans and briefs down and lined up his mouth with his thick, rigid cock. He took a breath and, very carefully, pressed his tongue to the head.
“Yes, Hollander…” Rozanov hissed.
It tasted like…skin. Shane slowly moved his tongue around the head, completely unsure of what to do. He liked to be excellent at everything.
His only experience with this sort of thing had been at the receiving end, so he tried to mimic what some of those girls had done. He took Rozanov deeper into his mouth, and it felt so weird. He just sort of stayed like that for a moment, his tongue flattened by the weight of Rozanov’s cock. He knew he must look ridiculous.
Rozanov’s expression didn’t suggest that he was watching something ridiculous. He held Shane’s face with one big hand and gazed down at him with hooded eyes. He murmured something in Russian and then said, “Look at you.”
Shane’s face flushed. An image flashed through his mind of their roles being reversed. What would Rozanov look like on his knees, taking Shane in his mouth? Would Shane ever find out?
Shane moaned involuntarily, which made Rozanov shudder. His thumb brushed Shane’s cheekbone, and Shane closed his eyes and began to move his mouth. He sucked and licked, letting himself get used to the sensation of having a dick in his mouth. His mind was racing, worrying about
technique and about what exactly this all meant. But then Rozanov’s fingers were tangled in Shane’s hair, and Shane was reminded that this was fucking hot. That he’d fantasized about exactly this, alone in his bedroom, even if he had been embarrassed afterward.
He sighed around Rozanov’s cock and bobbed his head slightly, losing himself in the slide of rigid flesh against his tongue. He was sure he was doing a terrible job, and his fears were confirmed when Rozanov suddenly yelped, “Stop! Stop. Stop.”
Shane pulled off quickly and stared up at Rozanov, who was grimacing with his eyes squeezed shut.
“Sorry,” Shane said. “I’m not… I’ve never…”
Rozanov laughed. “Is okay. Was…” He waved a hand around, as if trying to physically grab the English word he was looking for. “It was…too much.”
“Oh.” Really? Shane felt that he had barely done anything.
“Just…ah…very, um…”
Overwhelming? Intense? Wrong? Shane could think of a few words, but he didn’t want to guess at what Rozanov was feeling.
“A lot,” Rozanov finished. Then he made a frustrated sound. “No. I cannot think of word.”
Shane rose off his knees because he felt foolish staying on them if he wasn’t going to be doing anything down there. When he was standing, he looked curiously at Rozanov. “Have you been…thinking about this?”
Rozanov gave a crooked grin and shrugged. “I like trouble.”
Shane laughed. “Well, I think we’ve found it.”
“You have not done this,” Rozanov said plainly. “With a man.”
“No. Have you?”
Rozanov looked at him, and Shane knew he was deciding whether or not he could trust him, and then must have realized it was too late anyway if he didn’t. He nodded. “In Russia. My coach’s son.”
Shane sputtered. “Holy fuck. You do like trouble! Was he on the team?”
“No. Not a hockey player.”
“Did anyone…find out?”
Rozanov shook his head. “He would never tell. I would never tell. It was safe.”
“Safe,” Shane repeated. It didn’t sound at all safe.
“Just fooling around. Not serious. Was…what is it?”
“Curious?”
Rozanov smiled. “Yes. Curious. And you make me curious.”
“Oh.”
He leaned in and breathed against Shane’s ear in his heavily accented English, “Do I make you curious?”
Rozanov made Shane a lot of things: confused, infuriated, terrified, aroused, and, yes, curious.
“Obviously,” Shane said, a little irritably.
“Did you like sucking my dick?”
“Oh, those English words you know?”
Rozanov licked under Shane’s ear, and Shane gasped.
“Did you like it?” Rozanov asked again.
Shane swallowed his saliva and his pride. “Yes.”
“Would you like me to lie on the bed and let you do it some more?”
“Let me?”
Rozanov chuckled against Shane’s neck. “I’m a nice guy.”
Shane shoved him and Rozanov stumbled back, pants around his knees.
He laughed as he tumbled backward onto the bed.
Now that there was some distance between them, Shane could take in the full splendor of Rozanov’s mostly naked body. Rozanov seemed to enjoy the attention, and stretched his muscular arms up over his head, grinning and arching his long torso. He had dark brown hair on his chest and trailing down from his belly button to his bobbing erection, which was still slick with Shane’s spit.
Rozanov sat up and pulled his pants all the way off, along with his shoes and socks. Shane’s eyes fell on the way his stomach muscles flexed as he curled forward, and on his thick, muscular thighs.
Once again, Shane felt very young. Very boyish. He realized that he was still mostly dressed, and he wasn’t sure if he should change that or not.
Rozanov made the decision for him. “This is a bit…not fair.” He moved a hand through the air, back and forth between them.
“You want me to…”
“Da. Yes. Let me see you.”
“You’ve already seen me. In the shower.”
“I want a better look.”
Shane removed his clothes quickly. Being naked in the presence of other guys was not foreign to him, but there was nothing familiar about this
scenario. He stood in his underwear for a moment, then tried not to blush
as he removed them.
Shane stood with his arms out. Well?
Rozanov grinned and waved a hand over his own chest. “So smooth.”
“Look…”
“Like a swimmer.”
“I don’t…it’s natural, all right?”
“Yes. Come here.” Rozanov patted the bed next to him.
Shane blew out a breath and moved onto the bed. He lay flat on his back next to Rozanov, unsure of what to do next.
“What do you want?” Rozanov asked.
“I don’t know.”
“No?” Rozanov asked, and he leaned over him and kissed him.
“Nothing?”
“I…”
“What about…” Rozanov pressed a palm against Shane’s erection and curled gentle fingers around it. “Okay?”
Shane nodded. It was shockingly okay for Ilya Rozanov—a guy, a hockey player, his rival—to have his hand wrapped around Shane’s dick.
“Relax,” Rozanov said, and kissed him again. His hand stroked Shane carefully, without lube, and Shane was spellbound. Rozanov’s soft, accented words and his gentle hands and his confident kisses were all working together to ensnare him.
Dizzy with sensation and lust, Shane lightly pushed on Rozanov’s shoulder until he was flat on his back. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, Shane slid down his body and took his cock into his mouth again.
He wasn’t any surer of his abilities, but he knew what he wanted. He wanted to get Rozanov off. He wanted to take him apart.
He let his jaw slacken and took Rozanov as deep as he could. He was nervous about biting him by accident, so he kept his mouth open wider than was probably necessary and used a lot of tongue. It was sloppy and very wet, but he could hear the encouraging sounds Rozanov was making.
When Shane turned his eyes up, he could see Rozanov had propped himself up on his elbows and was watching him give his first blow job with great interest.
Shane wrapped a hand around the base of Rozanov’s cock and stroked up to meet his mouth. When Rozanov arched and moaned, Shane repeated
it, stroking him hard and fast.
“Hollander…fuck.” Rozanov switched to Russian, and Shane didn’t know what he was saying, but he figured he should probably get out of the way because he wasn’t sure he was ready to take a load in his mouth.
He pulled off just in time. Rozanov put his own hand on his dick to replace Shane’s mouth and stroked himself roughly until his release fell all over his own stomach.
Shane stared, dumbfounded. It was the hottest thing he had ever seen.
Rozanov flopped back on the bed, breathing hard. “Not bad, Hollander,” he said.
Shane was still staring at the mess on Rozanov’s stomach. His own cock was like iron. He thought about stroking himself until he came on Rozanov. He thought about Rozanov putting his mouth on him…
“Okay. Well. Goodnight,” Rozanov said, and moved to get up.
Shane’s mouth dropped open, and he was about to be furious when he
noticed the playful, crooked grin.
“Fuck you,” Shane said.
“Did you need something?” Rozanov asked innocently.
Shane glared at him. Rozanov chuckled and grabbed some tissues from the nightstand so he could wipe his stomach off a bit.
“Lie down,” Rozanov instructed.
Shane did. Rozanov crawled on top of him and kissed him.
“You think I’m an asshole,” Rozanov said.
“You are an asshole.”
“I would not leave you like that.”
“No?”
He kissed him again. “No.”
As they kissed, Rozanov reached a hand down and gripped Shane’s cock.
Shane gasped into his mouth.
“Let me show you,” Rozanov murmured, “how to do this.”
He kissed his way down Shane’s body, which felt so good that Shane forgot to be insulted. When he reached Shane’s cock, Rozanov greeted it with a long, slow lick with the entire surface of his tongue, like it was a
fucking ice-cream cone or something.
“Jesus.” Shane shuddered.
Rozanov licked and sucked the head, tonguing the slit and pushing Shane dangerously close to the edge already. He gripped the hotel bed
comforter and tried to hold on. Rozanov was shockingly good at this. How many fucking times had he met up with his coach’s son? Shane felt like he should be paying attention—maybe taking notes—but his brain had left the room.
Shane reached down to run his fingers through the golden-brown curls of Rozanov’s hair. He dragged his fingers down over the stubble on his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw. Shane had enjoyed watching some truly hot girls sucking him off in the past, but this was beyond anything he had ever experienced before. Watching this big, beautiful man, who knew exactly what to do with his tongue and lips and—god, his teeth—work him like there would be a medal awarded for performance…
“Ah, god. Rozanov! I’m gonna…”
He expected Rozanov to get the hell out of the way, but instead he sucked him harder and Shane emptied himself into his mouth.
A stream of nonsense fell out of Shane’s mouth. “Holy shit. I’m sorry.
Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Fuck. Wow. God.”
Rozanov pulled off, not at all hurried, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He laughed at Shane’s babbling. “Sorry? Why sorry?”
Shane choked out a hysterical laugh. “I don’t know! I just… I wasn’t expecting you to…”
Rozanov shrugged as if Shane was thanking him for bringing in the mail. “I don’t mind it.”
Shane felt stupid that he hadn’t even tried to…properly finish the job on Rozanov. This guy was determined to one-up him at every turn.
Rozanov sat on the edge of the bed with his back to Shane. He rolled his neck and idly rubbed his jaw. Shane sat up and swung his legs over the opposite side of the bed. He gripped the mattress with both hands and looked at the floor. He felt panic surge up in him again.
He heard Rozanov blow out a breath, which made Shane laugh for some reason. The absurdity of the situation was hitting him.
“You’re laughing.”
“Yeah, well…this whole thing is a little nuts.”
“I want a cigarette,” Rozanov said.
“You’re not allowed to smoke in the hotel.”
“I know. Stupid country.” Rozanov sighed. “Doesn’t matter. Bears told me to quit. I am trying not to smoke.”
“Oh. That’s good. Smoking is bad for you.”
“Is it?” Shane could hear Rozanov’s eyes rolling.
“So, um…” Shane said, still keeping his back to Rozanov. “This won’t
leave this room, okay?”
“You think I will tell people?”
Shane sincerely doubted it. “No.”
“No.”
He felt the bed shift as Rozanov stood up.
Shane had the stupid urge to ask him to stay. He imagined falling asleep in his arms and what the fuck? This thing they’d just done was, above all things, a huge mistake. As far as hookups went, Shane really could not have chosen a less appropriate person. And even forgetting that, there was no reason to pretend this was anything more than a quick, no-strings fuck.
And why would Shane even want to pretend that?
He didn’t. He wanted Rozanov out of his hotel room. He wanted to forget that this ever happened. He did not want to reach for him. To pull him back on the bed. To do everything they just did two or three more times.
When Rozanov was fully dressed, he gave Shane one of his playful, crooked smiles. Shane had managed to put his underwear back on, but other than that, was still naked.
“My flight is early tomorrow,” Rozanov said. There was maybe a note of apology in it. Or maybe Shane was imagining things.
“All right.”
Rozanov nodded. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” Shane said awkwardly. “I’ll see you on the ice, I guess.”
“Yes.”
Shane wanted to kiss him one more time, because he was sure he would never get the chance again. But Rozanov was already opening the door.
“Goodbye, Hollander.”
“Bye,” Shane said to the closed door.
