by Rachel Reid
“Thanks. It was a pretty easy win, but I’ll take it.”
“These early games are all easy. Who are we playing next, Scotty? Fiji?”
Scott frowned at him. “Denmark. And I don’t want anyone being cocky about it.”
“Yes, sir,” Carter teased.
Carter looked nothing like Scott, with his dark skin and brown eyes, but he was just as attractive. The difference was that Carter knew he was attractive. He was the kind of guy who took over a room, but in a good way. Everyone liked him.
“How are you finding the accommodations?” Shane asked.
“Are you kidding?” Carter asked. “I’m sleeping on a cot—”
“It’s a twin bed,” Scott corrected him.
“Whatever. A fucking twin bed, wedged between two other twin beds. One of them has this fucking oaf snoring away on it.”
“I don’t snore.”
“And the other has Sully—Eric Sullivan—and I don’t even know that kid, but he’s even bigger than Scott. I would like to find the Sochi Four Seasons.”
Shane laughed. “I’m rooming with J.J., and your teammate, Greg Huff.”
“Well, Huff doesn’t take up much space,” Carter said, “but J.J. is a giant.”
“He’s not a fan of the beds either.”
“What are your plans for tonight?” Scott asked.
“I thought I’d watch some of the speed skating.”
Scott’s face lit up. “Yeah? That would be cool. I saw the men’s figure skating short program is tonight too.”
“Oh, right. That’s probably going to be packed.”
“Those fucking guys are brave to be here, you know?”
“Brave?” Scott asked.
Carter lowered his voice and glanced around the beach. “Yeah, like...because of the gay thing, right? Some of those guys are risking their lives for real here. Brave as hell.”
“Right,” Scott said. He turned his gaze to the ocean. Shane knew about Russia’s laws against homosexuality, but he’d been trying not to think too much about stuff like that. He just wanted to enjoy the Olympics, win the gold medal, and go home. But now he was thinking about Dev, a guy he’d trained with a bit from Ottawa who was on the men’s speed skating team, and who Shane knew was gay. He was here. Was he terrified? He must be.
“They should have beach volleyball at these games!” Carter said cheerfully. “Women’s beach volleyball. That’s exactly what the Winter Olympics needs, right?”
Shane nodded, but he was still thinking about Dev.
And about Rozanov.
Rozanov could take care of himself. This was his home turf. He would know how to keep safe.
“You still with us, Hollander?”
Shane blinked and looked at Carter and Scott. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“We were going to check out the McDonald’s in the athlete’s village. Thought it might be fun. Want to join us?”
“Um, I think I’m going to...” Text Rozanov? Try to lay eyes on him? Make sure he’d not been arrested for blowing a ski jumper or something? “Relax a bit in my room. Still jet lagged, y’know?”
“You can relax in that room?” Carter laughed. “Good luck, then. You have my number?”
“Yeah, I have it. I’ll see you guys later.”
Shane tried not to walk too quickly as he left, but he was suddenly desperate to make contact with Rozanov. The only problem was he had no idea where to find him.
He sent a text. Having a good time?
There. That was cool and casual. Just a friendly “Hey, we’re both at the Olympics! Fun, right? Also, are you in jail?”
He waited all night for a reply, but none came.
* * *
The Olympics were bullshit.
Ilya had been on edge all week. It had been days of smiling for the Russian media and mingling with government officials who made his skin crawl. Men and women who supported their country’s leader without question, and who expected Ilya to do the same. Ilya hadn’t had any time to enjoy himself; he’d barely had time to focus on his game.
And it showed.
The Russian men’s hockey team was a mess. These sorts of international tournaments were always awkward, with players being tossed together to form a “dream team” of superstars who had no idea how to play with each other, but this team was especially hopeless. Too many egos. Too much pressure, here in their home country, making tempers run high in the dressing room and on the ice. Too many stupid penalties being taken, too few goals being scored.
They were already out of the running for a medal, and that was beyond humiliating. Ilya just wanted it all to be over so he could go...home.
When had he started thinking of Boston as home?
Tonight Ilya’s attendance was requested (required) at a ridiculous gala, which was just a chance for the government to show off to foreign dignitaries. It was exactly the sort of event he couldn’t stand.
And making it worse was the fact that his father would be there. His father, who had only spoken to him this week to let him know how badly he had let Russia down, would be parading his famous son around the ballroom as if he was proud of him.
But first, Ilya was expected to go to his father’s hotel room. He wished he was strong enough to refuse.
He wasn’t. So he knocked on the hotel room door five minutes before six o’clock, because anything past five minutes early was late, in his father’s eyes.
The door opened, and there was Grigori Rozanov, in all his intimidating glory. He was wearing his full dress police uniform, and Ilya could see his stern frown even through the gray beard that covered his face. He was almost fifty years older than Ilya.
He stepped aside to let Ilya into the room. He waited for Ilya to remove his wool overcoat, and then the inspection began. His father’s eyes raked over him while Ilya stood there, like a trembling child who was awaiting punishment. There was nothing—nothing—wrong with Ilya’s tuxedo. It was classic black, perfectly tailored, and his bowtie was impeccable. He had even given himself the closest shave he’d had in years. But his father would find something.
“You need a haircut,” was what Grigori finally settled on. Ilya had let his hair grow out this past season, but he’d slicked it back tonight.
“Yes, sir.”
His father frowned at his hair for another minute, as if he could scare it back into Ilya’s scalp, before he crossed the room to the bar. He poured vodka into two tumblers, and handed one to his son.
“The Minister wants to meet you tonight.”
The Minister of Internal Affairs was who he meant. His boss.
“I will be honored,” Ilya lied. He wanted to toss back the vodka and pour himself four or five more.
“You should be honored that he would want to meet you. After last night.”
Ilya bit down on the inside of his cheek.
“To lose to Latvia,” his father continued. “How could you have allowed that to happen? How are you not ashamed?”
“I am ashamed, Father.”
His father waved a hand. “Not nearly enough. They don’t teach you discipline in the American league. You are sloppy now. It’s a shame because you had such promise when you were young.”
I am only twenty-one. I am one of the best hockey players in the world.
“I am a better player now than I have ever been. The team just hasn’t been working well together.”
Wrong thing to say.
“You are the captain, are you not? Whose fault is it if the team isn’t working together?”
The coach?
Instead of saying anything, Ilya looked at the floor and waited for his father to change the subject.
Grigori stepped closer, setting his vodka on a table, and began to needlessly adjust Ilya’s bowtie. “Aagh. Who tied this for you? Your mother
? She doesn’t know how to do this properly.”
Ilya froze. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard before saying, as evenly as possible, “No, Father. Mom is dead. Remember?”
And then Grigori froze, and Ilya could see the confusion in his eyes before he blinked and shook his head. “Yes, of course. I know that. I was thinking of your stepmother.”
“And where is Polina tonight?” Ilya asked, ignoring his father’s obvious lie.
“Home.” No further explanation. Fine. Ilya didn’t care anyway.
His father released Ilya’s bowtie and smoothed a hand over his lapels.
“We should go,” Ilya said.
Grigori’s brow furrowed. “Yes...”
“To the gala,” Ilya supplied. “For the Olympics. You are going to introduce me to the Minister.”
Grigori’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. “I know that!” He turned away from his son and threw open the closet door. He pulled his overcoat off the hanger and put it on.
Ilya didn’t like his father, but he hated watching him deteriorate. He wondered if it would be easier when Grigori’s brain was fully gone and he no longer had to suffer the embarrassment of drifting in and out of himself.
“With me, Ilya. And behave tonight. Try to make up for the shame you have already brought your country.”
He made it hard to feel sorry for him.
“Of course. I will.”
As Ilya followed his father down the hallway to the elevators, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He quickly glanced at the screen.
Jane: Having a good time?
He really did not need Shane stupid Hollander to be trying to make contact. Not here. Not now.
He ignored the message, and stuffed his phone back into his pocket.
* * *
Shane saw Rozanov standing at the top of the lower bowl of seating during the Sweden versus Finland game. He was alone, wearing a long, black wool coat instead of his team jacket. His collar was turned up. His hands were in his pockets.
Shane was wearing his Team Canada jacket and knit hat. At the next break in play, he left his seat and walked around the perimeter of the seating until he was standing next to Rozanov.
“Hey,” Shane said.
Rozanov looked at him and shook his head. “Not here,” he said tightly.
“No, I’m not... I just wanted to see...how you’re doing.”
“Fine. Go. Sit down.”
Shane frowned. Rozanov looked exhausted. He had dark rings under his eyes, and his face was very pale. But the most noticeable—and alarming—change was in his eyes. The playful spark that always made Rozanov’s hazel eyes dance was just...gone. Extinguished.
“I—”
“We are not...anything. Not here, Hollander.” Rozanov’s eyes darted around them, as if searching for threats. It was the first time that Shane had ever seen Rozanov look uncomfortable.
“Are you okay?” Shane asked. He spoke as quietly as he could over the noise of the arena.
“Please go.”
“You didn’t answer my text and I thought...” Suddenly all the ways Shane might finish that sentence seemed stupid. I thought you were in danger. I thought you were in jail. I thought you were...sad.
“No, I didn’t answer your boring text. Now will you go?”
Rozanov was being an asshole, which was nothing new, but he didn’t seem to mean it. In fact, Shane would bet that Rozanov would actually really like him to stay. He looked like he could use a hug.
But obviously Shane wasn’t going to hug him here, so he just nodded and walked away. He didn’t really have time to think about Rozanov anyway; Canada was going to be playing in the gold medal game the following evening against either America or, if Finland lost this game, Sweden.
Rozanov, and his team, was done. And Shane knew that had to feel awful. Team Russia had just been...terrible. It wasn’t Rozanov’s fault, but Shane knew he would be beating himself up about it. Hell, Shane would be beating himself up, if it were his team.
By the time Shane returned to his seat, Rozanov was gone.
Chapter Eleven
June 2014—Las Vegas
At the end of the season, the league asked Rozanov and Hollander to present together at the NHL Awards. Because the league was cute, they asked them to present the award for Most Sportsmanlike.
Shane was waiting backstage in his tuxedo. Alone. No one knew where Rozanov was. They were supposed to walk out on stage together in three minutes.
“Where the hell is Rozanov?” a panicked director asked.
“I don’t know,” Shane said. “We, uh, don’t exactly talk much.”
The director stormed away, swearing.
Shane hadn’t been lying. He hadn’t spoken to Rozanov, off the ice, since the brief words they had shared at the Olympics. The humiliation of not even making it to the bronze medal game had seemingly been enough to cause Rozanov to not even want to look at Shane anymore, let alone talk to him. Touch him. Kiss him.
Shane had felt sorry for him, but then Rozanov turned the shame of losing so horribly in the Olympics into fuel that propelled him, and the Bears, all the way to the Stanley Cup.
Shane had watched that final game with Hayden and some of the other guys who had stuck around Montreal after their team had been eliminated in the third round. Shane had been sick with jealousy, but had also been undeniably proud when he’d watched Ilya Rozanov lift the cup over his head and roar. There had been tears streaming down Rozanov’s face as he’d hollered and hollered, and Shane had seen that this was more than the pride of being the best player on the best team in the NHL that year. Rozanov had proved something to somebody.
Shane had been shocked to find tears in his own eyes as he’d watched the raw emotion explode out of Rozanov. It was as if, with every heave of the cup over his head, Rozanov was saying “Fuck you, fuck you. I did it. Fuck you,” to someone.
Maybe to Shane. But he didn’t think so. He hoped not.
The last time they had really spoken had been almost six months ago, before the Olympics, and Shane hadn’t actually done all that much talking. What he had done was let Rozanov push him to his knees in the middle of his hotel room and fuck his mouth until Shane’s eyes watered.
Shane tugged at his shirt collar, now, and tried to will his blush away.
“Looking for me?” a familiar voice drawled behind him.
Shane whipped around and was faced with Ilya Rozanov looking so fucking good in his tux. He’d grown his hair out over the past season, and that night he’d been wearing it slicked back and tied in a little bun. He looked like a European fashion model.
“Fuck, Rozanov. What the fuck? We’re on in like five seconds!”
“Fifty seconds. We are fine.”
“Does it matter to you that everyone backstage has been having a heart attack looking for you?”
“Not really.”
Shane’s hands rolled into fists at his sides. “Where were you, anyway?”
“Busy.”
“Oh yeah? With who?”
Rozanov just smirked. “We’re on.”
He strode out onto the stage, leaving Shane to stupidly scramble to catch up with him. Fuck him. Not even a text for five months and now he’s going to be all sexy and annoying like nothing’s changed?
They went to the podium and recited their dumb banter about the importance of having respect for your fellow players. Shane did not have to pretend at all to hate Rozanov in that moment.
They got a lot of laughs. The fact that Shane was practically speaking through clenched teeth probably only enhanced the comedy.
“Hey,” Rozanov said, “before we give out the award, can I get a selfie?”
“What?” Shane asked. It was all part of the script.
“Just a quick one. I mean, when will this
happen again, right?”
“Fine, but hurry up.”
Rozanov wrapped an arm around Shane’s shoulders and pulled him tight against him. Everyone laughed. Rozanov held his phone out and snapped, Shane noticed, at least six quick photos.
“Give me your number. I’ll send it to you.”
“No chance,” Shane deadpanned.
Laughter.
Rozanov was slow to move his arm from Shane’s shoulders. When he finally did, he let his fingers brush the back of Shane’s neck, making every hair stand up.
Shane felt his cock swell a bit, and silently cursed him.
They read the nominees, gave the winner his trophy, and then Shane left the stage as quickly as possible. He kept walking until he found a small bathroom backstage. He entered, and left the door unlocked.
Less than thirty seconds later, Rozanov slipped inside and locked the door. He crowded Shane up against the wall. Shane was seething; he stared Rozanov right in the eye and waited for him to make the first move.
“Well?” Rozanov said.
“Well what?”
He gestured to the floor. “Are you not going to suck my dick?”
Shane’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck you! Why don’t you suck mine?”
“Hmm.” He traced a finger over Shane’s clenched jaw—so gently it made Shane close his eyes and part his lips involuntarily. “Maybe ask nice.”
Shane wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But instead, to his mortification, he heard himself say, “Please.”
Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “You want me to kneel on this dirty bathroom floor? You have to ask nicer than that, Hollander.”
“Please,” Shane gritted out. “Get on your knees and suck my dick. Please.”
Rozanov pressed his palm where Shane’s erection strained against his tuxedo pants, making Shane gasp and tilt his head back against the wall. Rozanov leaned in and brushed his lips over Shane’s ear.
“No.”
He let go of Shane, and stepped back.
