Chapter Thirteen
November 2016—Boston “Heading out?” Hayden asked from where he was watching television on the hotel bed.
“Yeah. Just for a bit. Meeting a friend.”
“If you say so.” Hayden grinned. Shane swallowed and tried not to let anything show on his face. His insides roiled with shame and fear and
anticipation.
“Just a friend,” Shane said.
“I won’t wait up.”
“It’s not—” Shane closed his eyes and calmed himself down. “It’s not that type of friend. I’ll be back soon.”
Hayden studied him a moment. “Well, that’s too bad. You need to get laid.”
“I’m fine.” Shane tugged his jacket on and checked himself quickly in
the mirror before leaving the room.
He shouldn’t be doing this.
They had arrived in Boston that morning and had a short practice that afternoon. The game was tomorrow afternoon, which meant he had the whole evening free.
Rozanov lived in a building that was a short cab ride from the hotel.
They had moved their Boston hookups from hotel rooms to Rozanov’s penthouse last season. Shane had been against the idea at the time, arguing that he didn’t want to risk being spotted entering Rozanov’s building. He had legitimately been concerned about that, and still was, but his real objection—the one that he didn’t voice—was that he didn’t want to make what they were doing seem more…personal. Meeting in hotel rooms or at Shane’s investment property was one thing, but every time Shane went to Rozanov’s actual home, he felt his world tilt a bit. It was an extra layer of wrongness thrown on top of the mountain of bad ideas they had been scaling for six years.
When he was on the steps in front of the building, he sent the text. I’m here.
The door clicked and he let himself in, taking the elevator all the way to the top. He told himself that he would talk to Rozanov tonight. That he would end this thing, and then he would go back to the hotel. He had lost count long ago of how many times he had broken this promise to himself over the years.
Rozanov answered the door wearing low-slung sweatpants and no shirt.
Shane swore under his breath. All thoughts of just talking to Rozanov left his mind.
As soon as Shane entered the penthouse, Rozanov turned and walked toward the bedroom. He didn’t say a word to him. Shane removed his shoes, dropped his coat on the floor, and followed him.
“The fuck is this?” Shane asked as he entered the bedroom. “You’re not speaking to me anymore? Just expect me to follow you like a dog?”
“Shh,” Rozanov said. He tilted Shane’s head up and kissed him hungrily.
Shane surrendered immediately, pushing his tongue into the other man’s mouth and slipping his hands into the back of his sweatpants.
Shane couldn’t think of a single reason why they needed to talk to each other anyway. Not anymore. Not when Rozanov was sucking on his tongue and sliding Shane’s shirt up his chest.
The shirt came off and Shane shoved Rozanov down to the bed so he was sitting at the end of it. Shane fell to his knees and hauled Rozanov’s sweatpants down. He didn’t feel like wasting any time.
Rozanov wasn’t wearing underwear, and his cock was half hard already.
Shane took it into his mouth.
“Jesus, Hollander,” Rozanov said. He placed a hand on the side of Shane’s face. “Couldn’t wait, could you?”
Shane closed his eyes. He should have felt embarrassed, but he loved the feeling of Rozanov growing harder against his tongue. He never felt submissive, doing this. He loved reducing Rozanov to whimpers and Russian profanity. And, god help him, he especially loved doing it here, in Rozanov’s home. In his bedroom.
Their relationship was weird. Obviously. Shane knew that nothing about this was normal.
The facts were these: they were two of the biggest hockey stars in the world, and for whatever reason, they both enjoyed fucking each other. The other thing they were in total agreement on is that no one could ever know that they enjoyed fucking each other. It would be best if no one knew that
they liked to fuck men at all, but it definitely couldn’t get out that the superstar rivals were very familiar with each other’s dicks.
Rozanov brushed a thumb over the freckles on Shane’s cheek, just under his eye.
“Stop,” Rozanov said in a low voice. “Enough. Stop.”
Shane pulled off and waited.
“I’d like to look at you tonight, I think. You on top?” Rozanov asked.
“Okay,” Shane said, but the request made him nervous. Usually Rozanov just took him from behind, on a bed or against a wall. Shane could pretend (or pretend he was pretending) that Rozanov was someone else that way.
Shane quickly pulled off the rest of his clothing. Rozanov took a moment to raise an eyebrow at Shane’s rigid, untouched cock. Shane blushed. “Shut up,” he muttered.
Rozanov grinned and scooted back on the bed, naked and sprawled out with his hands behind his head. Shane couldn’t help but grin back. This was so fucking weird, but maybe they could just pretend it wasn’t, for an hour or so. Maybe they could just be two guys who wanted to have sex.
Rozanov slapped his own thighs, an invitation, and Shane went to him.
Later, when they were fucking, Shane braced himself with a hand flat on Rozanov’s chest. Rozanov covered that hand with his own, which surprised Shane. Rozanov never took his eyes off his face, except to watch when Shane started stroking himself.
Shane saw the glazed look in his eyes, and the way his mouth was hanging open, and he rode him harder.
“Fuck,” Rozanov grunted, and, without warning, he flipped them both over so he was on top, staring down at Shane as he held his legs and thrust into him wildly. His crucifix chain dangled between them, scraping Shane’s chest.
When Shane’s orgasm hit him, it was hard and sudden. His release seemed endless, splashing his chest and even up to his throat.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Rozanov panted, and Shane didn’t even have a chance to be shocked by the pet name before Rozanov was coming too.
When it was over, he dropped to his elbows over Shane and kissed him messily.
They took turns getting cleaned up in the bathroom. When Shane walked back into the bedroom, he stood stupidly in the middle of the room, near his pile of clothes on the floor. He should probably go.
But Rozanov was lounging on his bed and he patted the mattress next to him, so Shane went. He lay on his back beside Rozanov, not touching him, and stared at the ceiling until Rozanov rolled to his side, propped on an elbow, and gazed down at him.
Shane felt the same anxiety that had flooded him the last time they had been together. There was something a little too…tender…in the way Rozanov was looking at him. And there was something that was far too soothing about the way Rozanov’s fingers combed through Shane’s short hair, and curved down to trace the bridge of freckles that stretched across his face.
Shane had always hated his freckles. He had been surprised to learn, when he had become famous, that a lot of women seemed to find them very sexy. Or at least they found them adorable. He was even more surprised that Rozanov seemed to hold some sort of fascination with them.
Rozanov leaned in and pressed kisses to Shane’s hair and face and down to his throat. The kisses weren’t seductive or heated. They were light and sort of…adoring. Shane’s eyes fluttered closed, suddenly very sleepy, and he heard Rozanov murmur something to himself in Russian, and felt the
words tickle the skin under his jaw.
“Hm?” Shane asked distantly.
“You could stay,” Rozanov said.
“Stay?”
“Stay here. Tonight.”
Shane’s eyes opened. Rozanov was looking at him seriously again.
“You want me to stay here?”
Rozanov seemed to realize what he had just asked, because his face changed and he shrugged, forcing a half grin. “I’m not done with you yet.”
“Oh.” That was more familiar. “I can’t stay. You know that.”
“You could. The game is tomorrow afternoon. No morning practice.”
“I told Hayden—”
Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Is Hayden your mother?”
“No. But he’s…expecting me. I told him I was meeting a friend.”
Rozanov snorted. “That was a lie.”
Shane laughed at that. “Yeah. Well.”
Rozanov lowered himself until his nose was inches from Shane’s face.
“Stay.”
Shane couldn’t stay. There were probably a million reasons why he
couldn’t stay.
“Okay,” he said.
Rozanov smiled and kissed him. They stayed in the bed for a long time just…making out. Not really escalating things. And that was new. Shane really did like kissing Rozanov, but this seemed indulgent. And dangerous.
“Are you hungry?” Rozanov asked.
“For?”
“Food.”
Shane looked at him, and Rozanov laughed. He hopped off the bed and onto his feet. “Let’s eat something.”
Rozanov put his sweatpants back on, and this time grabbed a T-shirt from his dresser to throw on with them. Shane retrieved his own jeans and T-shirt from the floor and followed him into the kitchen.
“I got, um, ginger ale. You like that shit, right?”
“Yeah. I do.” Shane looked at him oddly. Shane often abstained from alcohol because he didn’t want to do anything that might compromise his performance on the ice. Over the years he had developed an affinity for ginger ale as a substitute for beer. But it wasn’t like he’d ever talked about that to Rozanov.
Instead of asking Rozanov how the hell he knew that he liked ginger ale, or why he cared enough to buy some, he asked, “You want to order
takeout, or—”
“Do you like tuna melts?”
“You want to make me a tuna melt?”
Rozanov shrugged. “I’m making one for me. I can make two. Ginger ale is in fridge.”
He seemed to really want Shane to drink the ginger ale. As Shane took one from the fridge, he wondered if it might be poisoned.
Rozanov was setting canned tuna, a baguette, and cheese slices on the counter, so Shane leaned back against the fridge and watched his fellow NHL superstar make him a sandwich.
“You head down to Florida after this game?” Rozanov asked, as if he didn’t know the answer.
“Yeah. Couple games down there. Then over to Dallas and up to St.
Louis.”
Rozanov nodded. “We are in town here for this week. Then out west for
a while. Ginger ale good? Cold enough?”
“Yeah, it’s great. Thanks.”
He looked pleased. Shane watched him carefully distribute the mixture of tuna and mayonnaise and lemon juice on some baguette slices. It was weird, this domestic scene. It wasn’t anything that they had done before.
The melts went into the oven and Rozanov grabbed himself a bottle of Coke out of the fridge. Shane realized that he knew that Coke was Rozanov’s beverage of choice. So maybe they had picked up things about each other over the years, without really trying.
“Ready in ten minutes,” Rozanov said. He left the kitchen and went to sit on the couch in the living room. He turned on the television, which was showing the Buffalo vs. Chicago game.
Shane sat at the opposite end of the couch. He’d first considered the leather recliner that was next to the couch. Whatever they were to each other, they weren’t boyfriends. He knew how to behave around him when they were naked and pressed against each other, and he knew how to play against him on the ice, but just hanging out with their clothes on was uncharted territory.
“Jesus,” Rozanov said as they watched a Buffalo player get hauled to the penalty box. “You know that guy? Ryan Price?”
“I mean, just from playing against him. And, you know, not wanting to fight him.” Price was huge, and tough as hell. “You played with him, right?”
“Yes. For one season only. He was…not what you would think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like…quiet. Doesn’t make friends, really. But not a bad guy.
Just…weird. Sort of.”
“Well, he does seem to get traded every season. It would be hard to make friends that way.”
“He is probably hoping he gets traded again. Buffalo is terrible.”
“They definitely are.”
They watched in silence for another minute and then Shane asked, “What’s your favorite city to play in? On the road?”
Rozanov considered it. “I like New York. Because it’s New York. They
fucking hate me there.”
“They hate you everywhere.”
“They like me in Florida. Is all Boston fans down there. You?”
“I like Ottawa, because it’s my hometown. Toronto, because of the history between our teams. And, you know, anywhere warm, I guess.”
“L.A. is good. Beautiful women.” Shane noticed Rozanov stealing a glance at him as he said this.
“Sure. Yeah,” Shane said. “There’s beautiful women everywhere,
really.”
“When you are rich and famous, yes.”
They were silent a moment. The game went to commercial.
“There was a girl,” Rozanov said. “In New York. I used to see her when
I was in town.”
“Used to?”
“She is getting married.”
“Oh.” Shane looked into his ginger ale bottle. “Are you…upset about that?”
“What? No.” Rozanov seemed genuinely surprised, and maybe amused, by his question. “Was not like that. Just…convenient to have a reliable woman to sleep with in New York. With three teams to play against there, we are there a lot.”
“You think she’s the only woman in New York that would be willing to sleep with you?” Shane teased.
Rozanov smirked. “I think I will find someone.”
Another silence fell. Shane wondered if Rozanov was expecting him to share a piece of similar information. He couldn’t, really, so he said, “I find it hard, being so…high profile, you know? It’s hard to just…sleep with someone. Sometimes.”
“Yes. It is good to have reliable person.”
Shane offered him a small smile. “It is.”
Rozanov nodded and got up to go to the kitchen. “Stay,” he said. “I bring it here.”
Shane focused on the television and not on what they had just been talking about. Rozanov returned with two plates that he seemed to put some care into arranging tuna melts, potato chips, and dill pickles on.
“Another drink?” he asked.
“No. I’m good.” Shane kind of couldn’t believe that Rozanov had made them both dinner. He found it, he realized with some horror, adorable.
“Do you like them?” Rozanov asked after a minute of silent eating.
“What? The tuna melts?”
“No. Girls.”
Shane was caught off guard. “Oh. Sure. Yeah. I like them. Of course.”
This bit of stammering did not match the answer that first popped into Shane’s head, which was: not really.
“Never hear about you with girls,” Rozanov said plainly.
“Well. It’s private.”
“Right. Private.”
“I keep a lot of things private!” Shane said. He waved a hand between the two of them and added, “Obviously.”
Rozanov didn’t reply for a moment. Then he turned back to the
television and said, “I like girls.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“But I also like you.”
“Well, lucky me,” Shane grumbled.
“Not as a person, of course,” Rozanov teased. “But you have a good mouth.” He took a suggestive bite of his dill pickle.
At that moment, Rozanov’s phone rang. He looked at the screen and muttered something in Russian. “I have to take this. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Shane said, because of course it was.
Rozanov stood and walked out of the room, speaking to whoever was calling in Russian. Shane was left alone on the couch with his mind reeling.
The truth was that he hadn’t ever had what he would consider to be a successful relationship with a woman. He’d had a decent amount of experience with them, but he couldn’t think of any sexual encounters with women that had actually been great. He wasn’t sure how any of the girls felt about it. Maybe they had just been excited to get into bed with a hockey star, and that was enough to distract them from how halfhearted his efforts had been.
He didn’t like being the one doing the fucking all that much; he loved being fucked. Women were not properly equipped to do that, and Shane was too embarrassed to ask them to use a dildo on him, so he more or less forced himself to endure the act of fucking women. Once he was aroused enough he could kind of get into it. It was a means to an end—the same end he was seeking no matter who he was with or what they were doing with him. He was obviously very athletic, which the women seemed to
appreciate, and that probably covered the fact that he wanted it to be over as quickly as possible. At least, he hoped so; he would hate for a woman to feel unappreciated. If he didn’t think they were getting something pleasurable out of being with him, he would stop altogether.
He preferred blow jobs. When a woman was sucking his dick it was easy enough to close his eyes and imagine…anyone…with their lips wrapped around him. The problem was that he wasn’t so keen on reciprocating. He would, because he wasn’t an asshole, but he had to really psych himself up for it, and he was almost certainly terrible at it. He’d heard teammates talk about eating pussy like it was the closest thing to heaven on earth. Shane had never gotten it.
But maybe he hadn’t met the right girl yet. That was what he kept telling himself. It made complete sense to him; just because he hadn’t really had his mind blown in the bedroom by a woman yet didn’t mean it was impossible. There must be a girl out there somewhere who could make him feel like he did when he was with—
“Sorry,” Rozanov said again when he sat back on the couch. “My father.”
“Oh.” And Shane knew he should ask whether or not everything was okay at home or something, but he was now consumed by one thought:
No one makes me feel like Ilya Rozanov does.
And because the terror Shane was feeling was probably all over his face, Rozanov was the one who asked, “Is everything okay?”
“What? Yeah. Of course. Um…is your dad all right?”
“Yes,” Rozanov said, a little too quickly and dismissively. “Fine.”
“Is he—?”
“You’re not eating,” Rozanov said, gesturing toward the mostly untouched plate of food on the coffee table in front of Shane.
“Sorry. It’s good. I was just, um…distracted by the game.”
Rozanov nodded. They went back to watching the game and this time Shane made sure to eat his food. He kept stealing glances at Rozanov while he ate, as if seeing him for the first time.
Oh god. What the fuck?
The game ended, and the feed switched to a Western Conference game that was in progress. Rozanov cleared their dishes away and, when he came back, wedged himself between Shane and the arm of the couch. He turned slightly and wrapped an arm around Shane, guiding him back to
rest against his own chest. Shane was surprised, but he went willingly.
Very willingly.
Resting against Rozanov like this, in his home, watching hockey, full of the food he had just made him…this was exactly what they weren’t supposed to be doing. This was what couples did.
But Rozanov’s chest was so warm and solid, and Shane could hear his heart beating where his ear was pressed against it. Rozanov’s fingers were idly playing with his hair, making Shane sleepy and unreasonably happy.
Eventually, Rozanov moved his other hand to slide up Shane’s thigh and cup him through his jeans. He massaged him with one big, skilled hand, and Shane’s cock quickly responded. When the bulge threatened to rip through the denim, Rozanov flicked open the button on his fly and carefully pulled down the zipper. Shane hadn’t bothered putting his briefs on again, so his cock popped out, and Rozanov started lazily stroking it at a frustrating pace.
Shane squirmed against Rozanov, even thrusting his hips a bit to try to get him to pick up the pace. He rubbed his back against the bulge he could feel in Rozanov’s sweatpants, hoping it would inspire a little more urgency in the other man. Rozanov didn’t take the bait. He was maddeningly gentle and patient, and had even started to press light kisses to Shane’s hair.
Shane wasn’t sure why he was letting Rozanov drive anyway. He flipped himself around and kissed Rozanov hard. At this angle, Shane was taller than him, and he could thread his fingers through Rozanov’s hair, tug his head back, and attack his mouth with as much force as he wanted. His sudden aggression drew a satisfying moan out of Rozanov, and Shane wanted more; he wanted to see how many moans and hisses he could wring from him.
He wedged his knee into the tight space between the back of the couch and Rozanov’s hip, and pressed himself down onto Rozanov’s lap. He squeezed him with his thighs, holding Rozanov in place as he ground his cock against Rozanov’s stomach.
“Why do I need this so much?” Shane muttered the words against Rozanov’s lips, and hoped the other man hadn’t heard them.
“Need what?” Rozanov asked, as if he didn’t know.
Shane didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his hips so he could haul down Rozanov’s waistband and pull his cock out.
“Fuck, Hollander.”
Rozanov’s head fell back on the arm of the couch, and Shane took the opportunity to kiss and lick and bite his neck. Then he took both of their cocks in his hand and started stroking them.
“Yes. Do that,” Rozanov moaned.
It was dry, and a little rough, but it was exactly what Shane wanted.
Rozanov bucked up into his hand, and Shane knew it was what he wanted too. He brought their mouths back together and kissed Rozanov wildly.
“Wait.” Rozanov grabbed Shane’s wrist and stopped his furious stroking. He pulled Shane’s hand to his face and spit in his hand. Which was gross. But instead of making a face or bitching at him about it, Shane found it absurdly arousing.
The saliva didn’t add a ton of lubrication, but by then Shane’s cock was leaking enough to make up for it. He stroked faster, with his forehead resting on Rozanov’s shoulder. Shane was very close, and judging by the way Rozanov was thrusting his hips and babbling in Russian, he wasn’t far behind.
“You like that?” he growled. “You gonna come for me, Rozanov?”
“Fucking make me, Hollander.”
Shane gasped, and his stroking became frantic and sloppy and he was so
close…
“Come on,” he gritted out.
Then Rozanov went very still and said, “Oh god. Shane…” and he came in hot bursts, coating Shane’s hand and allowing Shane to use the slickness to bring himself off almost immediately, with the sound of his first name being spoken in a breathless Russian accent still ringing in his ears.
They held each other, both breathing heavily as they waited for their hearts to stop racing. But Shane didn’t think his heart would ever stop
racing.
Shane. He called me Shane.
He pulled back so he could see Rozanov’s face, and was shocked to see him staring at him with the same wide-eyed terror that Shane felt.
“Ilya,” he said, barely more than a whisper.
Ilya didn’t answer. Instead, he crushed their mouths together and kissed Shane in a raw, uncontrolled way that felt like an apology.
Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh no.
When they broke apart, Ilya rested his forehead against Shane’s and they just breathed together. Shane held Ilya’s face in his hands, and Ilya was
stroking his back.
Was Shane supposed to say something? Nothing had actually been admitted here. No grand declarations. No questions asked.
Shane untangled himself from Ilya and stood. “I should go.”
It was an understatement. Shane needed to get the fuck out of there.
Immediately. He clumsily tucked himself back into his jeans as he staggered backward, away from Ilya. Shit, where did I leave my
underwear?
“Go?”
“Yeah… I…uh, I shouldn’t stay. I can’t. We can’t. This is…”
Ilya shifted on the couch, stretching one arm across the back and resting his ankle on his knee, casual as anything. “This is nothing, Hollander.”
Hollander. You called me Shane. “I know. I just…team meeting in the morning. I forgot.”
That made Ilya laugh. It wasn’t warm. “You forgot about a team meeting? Sure.”
Shane was already at the door, shoving his feet into his sneakers. Fuck the underwear; he needed to leave. “Thanks for the tuna melt. Um…”
Ilya sighed loudly and raised himself off the couch. Shane was frozen in place, staring in terror as Ilya slowly walked toward him. When he reached him, he tugged down on the hem of Shane’s T-shirt, straightening it for him. “Goodnight, then.”
Shane met Ilya’s intense gaze. His eyes were daring him to stay, and, god, Shane wanted to take that dare.
“Goodnight,” Shane said, barely above a whisper.
Ilya’s eyes lost their heat, and his brow furrowed, as if he’d just realized that Shane was really leaving. Then, just as quickly, he schooled his face to its default expression of cool indifference.
Shane wanted to kiss him, but he opened the door instead, and darted into the hallway. He strode past the elevators, straight to the stairwell, not wanting to linger outside Ilya’s door. He jogged down the sixteen flights of stairs, trying to put as much distance between himself and temptation as possible. When he reached the bottom, he leaned back against the wall of
the stairwell for a moment.
What is happening?
This was bad. This was really fucking bad. Shane’s heart was racing, and it wasn’t from taking the stairs. Every fiber of him wanted to run right
back up those stairs and into Ilya’s arms. To wrap himself around him and go to bed with him and wake up with him.
And that was why Shane marched straight out of Ilya’s building, and didn’t stop walking until he was safely back in his hotel room.
In his panic, he wasn’t careful enough about not waking Hayden. He wasn’t in the room for ten seconds before the bedside lamp was turned on.
“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.
