by Rachel Reid
Shane surrendered and put his beer bottle on the table. He stood and allowed Rose to lead him to the dance floor.
Shane really, really needed to up his fashion game. Hanging out with Rose and her friends made him feel like a slob, and being on the dance floor only emphasized how uninspired his wardrobe was. He had made an effort tonight, but his deep plum polo and dark blue pants seemed kind of basic. His sneakers were nice, though.
Rose put her arms around his neck and they danced. Or, at least, she danced. She was stunning, and she moved to the music with so much carefree joy. Shane was mesmerized.
Most of the girls on the dance floor seemed more like... Rozanov’s type. Or, at least, what he was pretty sure Rozanov was into, based on photos that Shane had seen on the internet completely by accident and not because he sometimes did image searches for Ilya Rozanov. He could easily imagine Ilya flirting with any one (or two) of the array of blonde, tanned girls with dark eyelashes and shimmery lips.
He wondered what Ilya was doing tonight. Had he been...disappointed...that they hadn’t hooked up?
Was Shane disappointed?
Rose flicked her dark hair around and laughed. “I love this song!” she yelled.
Shane smiled back. He had no idea what song it was. He kept his fingers on Rose’s waist—barely touching—as she closed her eyes and slid a hand down his chest.
Shane understood what was supposed to be happening here. He was supposed to be...escalating things. Touching her, teasing her. Making her want him. And then they would kiss and press closer together and...
So why wasn’t he?
* * *
Ilya headed straight for the dance floor as soon as they entered the club. It was late and the place was packed. A quick scan of the place told him that there were plenty of good options. Plenty of gorgeous girls who could take his mind off Shane stupid Hollander.
Wait.
It was impossible not to spot Rose Landry on the dance floor. Even in this crowd, she stood out.
And it only took him a second longer to realize the man she had her arms around—who had his hands on her waist—was Shane Hollander.
Fuck it.
Ilya moved purposefully to the other side of the dance floor. He found a girl inside a minute who was happy to press her body against his. By the next song, she had her tongue in his mouth.
He wondered if Hollander saw him.
* * *
Miles joined them on the dance floor, and Shane dropped his hands from Rose’s waist. Rose turned and smiled at Miles, and danced with him for a while. Miles kept looking over her shoulder at Shane. There almost seemed to be a hint of invitation in his eyes.
Shane looked away uncomfortably. He stood on the dance floor, just barely swaying, with his arms hanging limp at his sides. Now that Miles was here, he could probably slip away. Go back to the VIP area. Maybe even go home.
His eyes landed on a man he was sure was Victor St-Simon, a player for Boston. He was smiling at a girl he was dancing with. Shane frowned and glanced around. He spotted Ryan Carmichael. And Cliff Marlow.
And Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya was dancing with a girl. His head and shoulders towered over most of the crowd. Shane moved through the sea of dancers toward him without even realizing he was doing it.
He got close enough to see the way the heat of the room was causing Ilya’s damp hair to curl even tighter than usual, and the way his skin glistened the same way it had during the game. But the games didn’t have lighting like this; at the games, the music wasn’t pounding and Ilya’s body wasn’t writhing and the whole room didn’t scream sex.
Ilya had on a V-neck T-shirt that was almost transparent, despite being a dark color. Sometimes a light would hit him just right and Shane could see the outline of his bear tattoo, and the glint of his gold chain. The girl he was dancing with had her back to him, and she seemed to be grinding her ass into his crotch. Ilya was watching her, eyes hooded, lips parted. Shane watched as he bit down on his lower lip and closed his eyes before bending his head to kiss her neck. She turned and leaned up and kissed him. It was a wild, filthy kiss. She had her hands up the front of his shirt.
And Shane felt sick. He needed to leave.
He realized, suddenly, as if waking from a dream, that he was standing alone in the middle of a dance floor...not dancing. Just...staring. At Ilya.
He couldn’t let Ilya notice him.
* * *
Ilya pulled away from the kiss and smiled at his very willing partner. She was a good kisser. She had a tongue piercing. He liked that.
He glanced around the club, wondering where the best dark corner was to—
Holy fuck.
When his gaze landed on Shane Hollander, Shane’s eyes went wide.
Had Shane just been...watching him?
Ilya couldn’t resist pushing it. He gave him what he believed to be his sexiest smile, and bent down to whisper in the girl’s ear. “Should we take this somewhere else?”
He never took his eyes off Shane.
“Sorry,” she said, surprising him. “Not tonight, babe. I’m here with my boyfriend. He likes to watch me. It turns him on. But I’m leaving with him.”
The fuck? “Your...boyfriend?” He looked around nervously.
She laughed. “Relax. He’s not gonna hit you. He likes it, like I said.” She kissed his cheek, turned, and left him.
And Shane was gone.
Furious, and now even more desperately in need of release than he had been before he’d left the hotel, Ilya stormed off the dance floor and grabbed Victor by the arm. “I’m leaving.”
“With that girl? Right on, man.”
Ilya didn’t answer him.
* * *
Back at the hotel, Ilya jerked off in the shower before throwing himself angrily onto his bed.
He couldn’t sleep. He curled on his side and watched the minutes tick by on the alarm clock beside the bed.
Stupid fucking Shane Hollander. Stupid Rose Landry.
Oh god, what was wrong with him? Why did he care? Ilya had been ready to let that weird girl with the kinky boyfriend do whatever she wanted to with him. What did it matter what Shane was doing when Ilya didn’t require him?
Except Shane had been watching him make out with that girl. And Shane had looked so fucking good. Not, like, clothes-wise; Shane’s wardrobe was as boring as he was. But something about seeing Shane Hollander in that environment had been...exhilarating.
What if Ilya had been able to get closer to him? Would Shane have danced with him, right there in that packed Montreal nightclub? Would he have let Ilya push that stupid polo up and run his hands over the hard lines of his abs? Would he have tilted his head back and sucked in a breath when Ilya kissed his neck?
No. It would never have happened. Shane was with Rose now. And he and Ilya couldn’t even appear to be friendly with each other, let alone be spotted grinding against each other in a club.
He pinched the cross that hung around his neck and rubbed it with his thumb as he scowled into the dark room. He had never in his life been angry about someone sleeping with someone else. He was largely indifferent to most things.
Was it just that Ilya liked his sex with a generous helping of danger, and Shane provided both? Or was he just being childish about having to share his favorite toy with a gorgeous movie star?
Somewhere, buried deep in his brain, there was a third reason that was screaming for attention.
Ilya ignored it.
Chapter Fifteen
One week later—Montreal
Shane liked Rose Landry. He did.
She was easy to talk to, and she had a warmth about her that drew people in. She was a bigger celebrity than he was, but she handled it so easily. She laughed a lot, and when she asked people questions—which was often—she genuinely seemed to care about their
answers. Maybe it was because she was an actress, but she always seemed very interested in people. Always observing. And she remembered every detail.
They had slept together a couple of times. It had been...fine. Better than usual, really. Except Shane knew she wouldn’t be so dazzled by his stardom that she would be able to overlook his performance, and that had made him nervous. Which had made it more difficult for him to...perform.
But she had been patient and helpful, and he’d completed the task both times. He may have noticed some surprise on her part that it seemed to be such a chore for him—especially the second time. He was sure she wasn’t used to that.
Tonight, Shane was alone with her at a private table in a wine bar in Old Montreal. He had actually been surprised when he’d arrived and found her alone there. He’d been expecting the usual crowd of Rose’s friends and coworkers.
“I thought it would be nice to have some time to...talk,” she’d explained. “Just the two of us.”
“Sure.” Shane had nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. It’s nice.”
They talked for a long time, over wine and charcuterie. At one point Rose laughed at some dumb joke Shane made. “You’re so cute,” she said. “Have I told you how cute you are?”
“No,” Shane said, blushing a little.
“You are. I’ll tell you,” she said, leaning in, “Miles is extremely jealous.”
“Of me?”
She laughed. “No, silly! Of me!”
“Oh.” Shane let that sink in. “Oh!”
Rose’s eyes bugged out a bit. “Wait...did you not notice that Miles is gay?”
“Um... I guess I hadn’t really thought about it,” Shane lied.
“Well, he is. And he’s low-key in love with you.”
“Oh.” Shane knew he was beet red. He hoped the dim lighting hid it.
“Are you...surprised that a young actor is gay, Shane?”
“No—I mean...no.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Are there, like, gay hockey players?” she asked. “I mean, obviously, yes, there are, right? But are there any openly gay hockey players?”
“No,” Shane said. “I mean, yes. There are gay players. Bi players. Whatever. I’m sure there must be, yeah. But no one has ever...come out. Publicly.” Why is she asking me about this?
“Hm,” she said.
“What?”
She gave him a small smile. He wasn’t sure what it meant. “I’m sorry. I’m going about this the wrong way.”
“Going about what?” And suddenly Shane felt like he was staring down a slap shot. He braced himself for impact.
She reached out and put her hand on his. “Shane. I really like you. But... I’m getting the vibe that maybe I’m not...doing it for you.”
“You are! You do! I like you a lot too!”
“You like talking to me.”
“Yeah...”
“Do you like...kissing me?”
“Sure.”
She laughed. “Wow.”
Oh god. Shane was fucking this up. “I mean...yes, of course I do!”
“It’s okay, Shane. I just...get the impression...that maybe you would rather be kissing, just for example... Miles?”
Shane didn’t know what to say. He had never encountered a direct accusation like this before.
Except it wasn’t really an accusation. Rose wasn’t judging him. She was just trying to understand him.
He stared into his wineglass. He knew he had taken too long to reply already. The jig was up.
“It’s okay,” she said again, her voice soft and warm. Her fingers brushed over his hand reassuringly.
“I like you,” Shane said quietly. “I like being with you. I like talking to you. But the sex part... I know it’s...a problem.”
“It’s not a problem,” she said. “A problem is something you can solve. We’re like...a square peg and a round hole.” She scrunched her nose. “Ew. No. Gross. Forget I said that.”
Shane laughed. “I get it.”
“We just...aren’t supposed to fit together. And that’s fine. But we can’t keep trying.”
Shane nodded. “For the record, I’m not sure that I’m...like Miles, exactly.”
When he met her eyes, she smiled. “Well, it’s nothing that you need to figure out today.” She took a sip of her wine, possibly for courage, because the next words out of her mouth were, “Have you ever been with a man?”
For whatever reason, Shane didn’t feel like lying. He’d made it this far.
“Yes.”
“And? Was it different?”
“Of course.”
“I mean...was it better?”
Shane’s memory supplied him with flashes of golden brown curls and sparkling hazel eyes and a playful smile and hard muscles and of strong hands holding him down as he was entered and filled and...
“Yeah,” Shane said softly. “Yeah. It was better.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is... I kind of prefer to be the hole. Than the peg.”
“Ha!” Rose threw her head back in delight. Shane laughed too. He felt lighter, suddenly.
Later, before they left the bar, Rose gave him a mischievous look over the rim of her wineglass and said, “So...should I give Miles your number?”
“No. Thank you, but no. I need to...figure some stuff out.”
“I know. I was just joking. Mostly.”
They waited outside for her driver and she said, “Let’s be friends. And I don’t mean in an ‘I hope we can still be friends’ bullshit way. I mean it. Let’s be friends. Let’s be best friends. Because I really do care about you a lot, Shane. And I feel like you might not have anyone else to talk to about...certain things.”
“I’d like that. You’re right. I don’t. And I care about you too. We’ll be friends. You have my number. Text me. Text me all the time. Please.”
“Whenever we’re in the same city, we’ll hang out. I promise.”
She hugged him as her driver pulled up. He hugged her back and kissed the top of her head. He was surprised to feel tears in his eyes.
The same night—Boston
Svetlana was his favorite.
Ilya watched her now, perched on the end of his bed, naked, flipping through channels searching for the Vancouver vs. Colorado hockey game. When she found it, she slapped the remote down on the mattress and shimmied back until she was beside Ilya, against the headboard. She pulled the cigarette from between his lips and took a drag.
“I thought you quit,” she teased.
She had vivid blue eyes, and long, straight hair that was so blonde it almost had no color at all. She couldn’t have looked less like...
“Why is Matheson still on the power play line?” she complained at the television, in Russian. “It’s bullshit. He’s been horrible all season. They should put Bogrov in.”
“Why don’t you coach Colorado then?” Ilya asked, snatching back his cigarette.
“They would be lucky to have me.”
Ilya laughed. He had first met Svetlana three years ago, when she’d worked for the Lamborghini dealership in Boston. He had been surprised to learn, after he had slept with her the first time, that she was the daughter of a retired Russian Boston Bears star player. She possibly knew more about hockey than Ilya did.
“What was that shot?” she asked the television. “He should have gone high!”
“Mm. It is a little harder when you are the one who is actually doing it.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “What would you know?” she said. Then she smiled, and they both laughed.
Despite her fierce love of hockey, she never treated Ilya with any reverence. Maybe it was being the daughter of a former superstar that made her unable to put Ilya on a pedestal. She seemed to want exactly what Ilya wanted: a no-expectations hookup from time to time. They
had fun together, and she was incredibly beautiful. The fact that Ilya could speak to her in Russian was a bonus.
“Ugh. Matheson again. He’s terrible!”
“Why do you even care about Colorado?”
“I care about all teams. I don’t like good Russian players being put on the second line so a no-talent Canadian can hog the spotlight.”
“No talent?”
“No talent! None! You can tell him, next time you see him.”
“I will.”
“Good. You tell him Svetlana Vetrova says he is terrible.”
“I’ll see him next week at the All-Star Game.”
“I can’t believe Matheson is an all-star. It makes no sense.”
“He is beloved.”
“He is terrible.”
Ilya rolled his eyes and smiled.
“You are playing with Shane Hollander this year, right? In the All-Star Game?” Svetlana asked, as if she didn’t know the answer.
“Yes. Is he also terrible?”
“No! No, Hollander is amazing. I love Shane Hollander.” She sort of purred the last few words.
“Traitor.”
“He’s a beautiful skater. Such talented hands. And so cute.”
“Now you are trying to make me angry.”
“You can’t argue those facts, Ilya.”
“No,” Ilya said, grinding the butt of his cigarette into a small plate he was using as a makeshift ashtray. “I can’t argue them. He is very good.”
“And cute.”
“If you say so.”
She pulled her knees to her chest. “Are we going to fuck again, or should I get dressed? I’m cold.”
Ilya considered her question, then shrugged. “I’m hungry. You should get dressed.”
She looked momentarily surprised, then her features changed to match his own cool indifference. “All right.”
She stood up and began retrieving her clothes from the floor. Ilya watched her, but his mind wasn’t on her slim, perfect body.
Would he have shrugged if Shane had asked him if they were going to fuck again? Would he have turned down his chance to enjoy his body as many times as he possibly could? Don’t you dare put your clothes on, Hollander. I’m not done with you yet.
