Chapter Eight
June 2011—Las Vegas It couldn’t have been a closer race.
It was the night of the NHL Awards in Las Vegas, and all anyone had been talking about leading into it was who would win the Rookie of the Year award. Both Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had scored over fifty goals. In fact, they had each scored exactly sixty-seven goals. Both men had helped their teams reach the playoffs for the first time in years, though both had been eliminated in the first round. The two men had been the most talked-about players in the league all season, sparking fierce debate among fans and the press about which of them was the better player.
Shane knew that it was impossible to definitively answer that question, but being named Rookie of the Year would certainly feel good.
Rozanov brought something out in him. Shane wasn’t the type of guy who needed to be the best player on the team—he just always was. And maybe that was it. Maybe Shane had been a little bit bored before Ilya Rozanov came along.
Rozanov was a lot of things, but he wasn’t boring. He frustrated Shane on the ice, and flustered him off the ice. Shane wanted to crosscheck him in the mouth, and then kiss it better. He wanted to forget about him, and he wanted to play every game against him. He wanted…
He wanted to win this fucking Rookie of the Year award.
He wanted to rub it in Rozanov’s face.
He wanted to rub himself on Rozanov’s face.
The Canadian rock band on stage finally finished their song and a B-list celebrity walked out on stage, holding an envelope.
This was it.
Shane’s mother put her hand on his arm. She was as nervous as he was.
Maybe more.
Shane gave her a weak smile, and waited.
The reception afterward was as raucous as anyone would expect a Vegas hotel banquet hall packed with professional hockey players to be. Most of the guys were pretty drunk, but Shane couldn’t have gotten drunk even if he had been legally old enough to order a drink in Nevada because he was faced with an unending parade of people slapping him on the back and congratulating him. Some even tousled his hair.
The only person Shane hadn’t seen that night was Ilya Rozanov.
Secretly, Shane had been searching for him all night. Half the times he’d been talking to someone, he’d been looking over their shoulder. He never caught even a glimpse of golden-brown curls, which should have been easy to spot, given Rozanov’s height.
He wondered if Rozanov had just gone back to his room.
The thought made Shane angry. What a fucking baby. If Rozanov had won, Shane would be here, in this room, ready to congratulate him. If Rozanov wanted to spend his first NHL Awards sulking in his hotel room, that wasn’t Shane’s problem.
Or maybe he just wanted to stealthily get drunk in his hotel room, and then come to the party. Rozanov wasn’t old enough to order a drink here either.
“You seen Roz anywhere?” someone asked him suddenly.
Shane flinched. He felt like his mind had been read.
“No!” he said, way too quickly. And with more blushing than was necessary. He took a breath. “Why would I know where Rozanov is?”
The guy—a forward for Toronto—shrugged. “Thought you guys might be at the kiddie table together or something.”
“No,” Shane said. “I haven’t seen him. At all.”
“Okay, well. Congratulations, kid.” He squeezed Shane’s shoulder and walked past him.
It was hot in the room. Too many people. Quite a few of the guys had removed their jackets and ties. It was getting harder to tolerate the atmosphere of the place without the help of alcohol.
Shane scanned the room for his parents. He spotted his father slumped in a chair, drinking what Shane was sure was a Sprite. Shane’s mother seemed to be talking a star goaltender’s ear off.
“I’m just gonna step out for some air,” Shane told his father. “Just for a minute. I’ll be back.”
“Sure,” Dad said. He looked exhausted. “I’m going to try to convince your mother it’s bedtime in a minute anyway.”
“Good luck.” Shane smiled.
As soon as he left the room, Shane felt the relief of the air-conditioning that flowed, unencumbered, through the mostly empty hallway. He leaned against the wall for a minute and exhaled.
He wondered what room Rozanov was in.
No, he thought. He’s a fucking baby and he doesn’t deserve…anything.
Was Rozanov really that upset, though? He was normally so cool and collected. If anything, Shane would have expected him to show up at the party just to show everyone how unbothered he was about losing.
He knew where Rozanov couldn’t be right now: the casinos. The bars.
He could be in his room. Or…someone else’s room. Or in his own room with someone else.
Shane frowned. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his tuxedo jacket so he could check the time. Almost two in the morning. Not that time meant anything in Las Vegas.
Shane had never been to Las Vegas before. He had just flown in the night before, and hadn’t really done any sightseeing yet. He probably wouldn’t get a chance, because he was flying out tomorrow afternoon. He had been told, when he had checked in, that the hotel offered a spectacular rooftop view of the city. Feeling restless, and not wanting to rejoin the party, he decided he may as well check it out.
He took the elevator to the top. There was a trio of loud, drunk girls in the elevator with him. He pressed himself into the back corner and fixed his eyes on the glowing floor numbers as the elevator ascended.
“Oh my god! Is it your wedding day?” one of the girls asked him
suddenly.
“Pardon?”
“The tuxedo,” she said. “Did you get married today?”
“Oh. No.”
“He doesn’t have a ring,” one of her friends hissed.
They all erupted into giggles.
Shane turned his eyes back to the numbers above the doors. They weren’t moving fast enough.
“Are you going to Strat-speeeer?” the first girl asked.
“To where?”
“Strat-o-sphere,” she said again, more slowly.
“Um.”
“Stratosphere,” one of her friends explained. “The bar on the roof.”
“There’s a bar on the roof?”
They all laughed again. “You are so cute,” the friend said. They nodded and giggled some more. “Come to the bar with us!”
“I can’t. Sorry.” Jesus, this was a long elevator ride.
By the time they finally reached the top, the girls had forgotten about him. They stumbled out of the elevator and turned right, presumably in the direction of the rooftop bar. Shane turned left.
There was a lot of noise coming from the bar. Pulsing music and loud, drunken voices. On the other side of the roof, there was a quiet corner that looked out over the city. It was a place that Shane guessed was normally
used for weddings. It was empty now.
Almost empty.
Shane didn’t see him, at first. All black in his tuxedo, with his head bent down over the railing, Rozanov blended right into the darkness. Then he raised his head and let out a white cloud of smoke.
“It’s not worth jumping over,” Shane said, moving to stand just behind him.
Rozanov turned. He didn’t even seem surprised to see Shane. He took another long drag of his cigarette then said in a tight voice, “Is the party
over, then?”
“No. I just needed some air.”
Rozanov exhaled. The smoke swirled around his face and then floated up into the desert sky. “Such an exciting night for you.”
“I guess.”
Rozanov rolled his eyes. “I guess.”
“It could have gone to either one of us.”
“It went to you.”
“Yeah, well, you know. Who knows how they decide these things?”
Shane wasn’t sure why he was even saying this stuff. He didn’t need to apologize for anything. He’d earned that fucking trophy. “So you’re just sulking up here all night, then? It bothers you that much that I won?”
Rozanov took another drag and turned back to the view. He said something that Shane couldn’t hear.
“What was that?” Shane asked, moving to stand beside him against the rail.
“Not everything is about you, Hollander.” He didn’t look at Shane at all when he said it. His voice hadn’t been angry. He just sounded…tired. And sad.
Shane studied his profile. His own anger left him, and he found himself caring about Ilya Rozanov, which was an odd sensation. “So what is it then?”
Rozanov dropped the butt of his cigarette on the ground and stamped it out. He laughed a little, without any humor at all. “What do you want, Hollander?”
“Nothing. I just wanted some air. To see the view.”
“Well,” Rozanov said, sweeping a hand through the air in front of them, “here is view.”
Shane’s eyes turned toward the blanket of city lights that sprawled beneath them, but they quickly found their way back to Rozanov’s face. He saw the clench in Rozanov’s jaw, and the hardness of his eyes.
“I go back to Russia. In three days.”
“Oh.”
They were both silent for a long time. Shane wasn’t sure if Rozanov had more to tell him or not. He decided not to push. It wasn’t like they were friends.
“I should get back,” Shane said, after several minutes of gazing down at the city. “My parents might still be at the party.”
“Your parents,” Rozanov said. “Right.”
“I guess… I guess I’ll see you next season.”
Shane stuck out his hand. Rozanov looked at it. Then he turned his head left and right, looking all around them.
A split second later, Shane found himself pushed back from the railing, against a wall. Rozanov’s mouth was pressed hard against his, and his hands gripped his arms roughly, fingers digging into his biceps.
Shane felt panicked. This was super fucking dangerous. And stupid. And confusing. And…
Shane kissed him back, just as angrily. Because fuck this guy for doing shit like this. Hiding away all night on a fucking rooftop, smoking a goddamned cigarette in the dark like the worst cliché of a brooding heartthrob. Making Shane feel bad for winning an award that he
completely fucking deserved. And then, on a whim, pressing Shane against a wall and kissing him like he would die without Shane’s mouth on his.
Kissing him until Shane’s senses were full of hard muscle pressed against him and the taste of cigarette and the slick heat of Rozanov’s tongue in his
mouth.
What the fuck.
Shane grabbed Rozanov’s lapels and shoved him back. They couldn’t do this here. At all.
Shane looked frantically around them. There was no one. But, Jesus, there could have been.
Rozanov leaned in to kiss Shane again, and Shane dodged him.
“No,” he said. “No way. Not here. What’s wrong with you?”
Rozanov gave him that crooked grin that did absurd things to Shane’s stomach.
“We can’t,” Shane said. He meant it, but it hurt to say. “I have to go.
You should go to bed, Rozanov.”
The smile disappeared.
“See you next season,” Rozanov said. Then he turned and walked toward the elevators.
Shane waited a few minutes so they wouldn’t have to ride down together.
Next season. Next season would be different. He was going to end this stupid thing between them and focus on his game.
