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Story

Chapter 22

Evan watched Ilya Rozanov and his brother, Shane Hollander, the first and second picks of the Major League Hockey draft get ordered around by a photographer and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, given that Shane looked at the camera with the same flat expression he always wore when a camera was thrust into his face.

“Hollander,” the photograph called out, causing immediate confusion and making all movement stop.

“Evan,” Shane sighed. “You’re the third pick. Get your ass up here for the pictures.”

Evan, who had tossed his jersey with the print “Hollander, E. 27” over his shoulder, mirrored his older brother’s sigh and stepped up on the other side of the tall Russian man. He grabbed his jersey, shook it out and held it out the way Shane and Rozanov were doing with three fingers held up, to show that he had been the third pick.

“Stand closer together!” the photographer ordered, and the Hollander brothers shared a look that turned into a quick grin before they sandwiched Rozanov between themselves, startling the Russian player.

“What the fuck?” Rozanov blurted out.

Before either Hollander could answer, the photographer snapped a couple of pictures, and then they were done. They shook hands and congratulated each other, though Rozanov smirked with a definite smugness on his face that made Evan want to punch him as he said, ‘Thank you.’

He didn’t congratulate either of them and instead patted their shoulders as if they had struck out at Little League or something. It was infuriating, and they both jerked away from the Russian’s touch, ready to say something less than what Canadian politeness demanded of them.

Before either of them could snark at him for his audacity, they were dragged apart for further interviews, though Shane and Evan were kept together as they were drafted for the same team, the Montreal Voyageurs.

They didn’t see Rozanov again until they were back at the hotel, where the lobby was packed with athletic young men in suits, but even in that kind of crowd, Ilya Rozanov stood out.

Shane watched him as they mingled with the crowd. He leaned toward Evan when he realized his brother was watching him watch Rozanov.

“He looks like a fucking GQ model,” he murmured into his ear.

Evan shivered in response to his brother’s breath fanning against his ear, and he grinned.

“He does … but so do you,” he responded.

“You know I don’t,” Shane replied.

“Right. Your looks and talents have nothing to do with the sponsors lining up at our front door,” the slightly younger Hollander said, rolling his eyes at his brother.

“Evan,” Shane hissed.

“You know that it is at least part of the reason,” Evan said.

“They have taken you on too,” Shane reminded him of his own success.

They had found a manager who helped them make well-rounded choices for their future, but didn’t pressure them if they said no for one reason or another.

The whole debacle with their mother had shaken the hockey world around them, and they had stood their ground when people told them they should have just sucked it up for their mother’s sake.

Later that night, Shane couldn’t sleep. So he got up again, pulled on some sweats and his sneakers and headed down to the hotel gym, knowing that he might be able to shut his mind off with some exercise.

The gym was empty, and Shane was grateful for it. He stepped onto one of the two treadmills and started running at a slow pace. He had left his phone and headphones up in his hotel room, so he ran just listening to himself breath and the noise of the machine.

He didn’t notice when someone else entered the gym until a certain Russian hockey player stepped onto the treadmill next to him.

Shane didn’t stop running as Rozanov joined him with a quick nod. They ran next to each other in silence and tried to ignore each other for the moment.

Shane tried to figure out why Rozanov was there without actually asking the man, and finally decided that he either habitually went to the gym at this time of night, or the time zones might be messing with him.

Rozanov increased the speed of his machine next to him, and the competitive part of Shane couldn’t help but pick up the challenge, and they were off, running side by side until they both were testing the limits of the machines and their own.

They were sprinting far longer than was comfortable, with their muscles burning in protest, but it was clear neither of them wanted to give in and be the first one to stop.

Eventually, they had to, though. They stumbled away from the machines and collapsed on the floor across from each other, leaning against the wall and gasping for breath.

“Fuck,” Shane gasped out, wheezing.

Rozanov burst out laughing. His gray, sleeveless shirt was soaked through with sweat, and they both sat with their legs sprawled out in front of them. Their sneakers nearly touching the other’s ankle.

Shane licked his lips when Rozanov ran a hand through his damp hair, and quickly turned his gaze to the floor when he realized that he was more attracted to the man than he thought possible.

Rozanov was so damn masculine in a way Shane had yet to achieve in his opinion. He was baby-faced and short and couldn’t grow proper facial hair. Hell, he barely had any chest hair, which was embarrassing as far as he was concerned.

Rozanov was a month younger than him, but he already looked like a fucking adult. It was kind of infuriating.

“What a fucking day, huh?” Rozanov said.

“Yeah. Totally,” Shane found himself agreeing without a thought.

“Everything you dreamed of?”

Rozanov’s thick accent made Shane shiver, though he hoped it—like the blushing—could be put on the exhaustion from the exercise.

Shane couldn’t stop him from looking Rozanov in the eyes.

“Almost,” he said.

Rozanov grinned back. “Sorry I ruined your big day.”

“Fuck off,” Shane blurted out.

“Montreal is nice, yes?”

Shane nodded. “Yes.”

“Is Boston nice?”

“Sure. Yeah. I’ve only been there a couple of times, but it’s a good town.”

Rozanov nodded slowly.

Silence reigned for a moment, aside from their slowly slowing breaths. Then Rozanov tapped Shane’s ankle with the bottom of his sneaker.

“Hey,” he said. “We will see a lot of each other.”

It took Shane a minute to process what the Russian meant. “Oh. Yeah. Montreal and Boston play against each other a lot.”

Rozanov grinned. “Should be interesting.”

Shane found himself agreeing, even if he didn’t respond out loud.

Rozanov took a long sip from his water bottle, with Shane pretending he was just looking longingly at the way his throat worked because he had forgotten his own bottle of water.

It wasn’t until Rozanov’s Adam’s apple stopped bobbing and his lips were dark and glistening that Shane realized he was staring.

Rozanov’s lips quirked up a bit, and he held out the bottle in a silent offering.

“Oh, I’m all right. Thanks.” Shane said.

Rozanov shook the bottle at him, and Shane gave in. He needed water, and it would be dumb to refuse.

The tips of their fingers touched, and Shane held the bottle away from his lips to avoid a second-hand kiss and quickly squirted water into his mouth with Rozanov watching.

It was the first time Shane had felt it. It was as if the air in the room thickened and everything inside him was buzzing and on edge, like he was about to jump out of a plane.

He didn’t know if Rozanov felt anything similar, but in that very moment, Shane wanted something he didn’t even have a name for.

He passed the water bottle back, and this time their fingers brushed against each other. The moment felt like forever, even if it was probably less than a second.

Shane suddenly was sure of one thing. He wanted Rozanov to touch him again. Wanted to touch him back. Hell, he wanted to <i>kiss</i> him.

Stunned by that sudden thought, Shane jumped to his feet.

“I’m going to bed. I guess I’ll … see you around, right?”

Rozanov stayed on the ground and looked up at him, “You will be seeing plenty of me,” he assured him.

Shane nodded and left the room as fast as he could without actually running. He barreled up the stairs, ignoring the elevator close by.

Minutes later he stumbled into the room he shared with Evan and collapsed on the bed next to his sleeping brother.

Evan’s eyes fluttered open.

“Shane?” he slurred sleepily. “Everything all right?”

Shane couldn’t help it. He trusted his brother with his whole being, so he said all those thoughts tumbling around in his head out loud.

“What the fuck was that? Jesus Christ, I have a girlfriend …,” he blurted out.

“A girlfriend you’ve been hoping will break up with you for weeks. She didn’t even join us to see you drafted,” Evan reminded him, his voice still thick with sleep.

“I haven’t even thought about her all day until right now,” Shane admitted. “Hell, I haven’t even called her yet.”

Evan snorted. He had realized quite a while ago that his brother wasn’t really into girls at all, but figured it was best to allow Shane to figure himself out.

The fact that his older brother’s half-chubby was pushing against Evan’s leg didn’t bother the younger of the two brothers all that much. He was used to it.

He knew only one person could rile Shane up like this, so he rolled his eyes fondly, ruffled Shane’s hair and told him, “Go jerk off in the shower. I don’t want to watch.”

Shane looked confused for a hot minute before realization dawned, and his head turned bright red. He stumbled off the bed and into the bathroom, taking his brother’s advice while his mind replayed Rozanov drinking with those red, wet lips and that dark stubble and those pretty hazel eyes.

“Damn,” he hissed out and collapsed against the wall in the shower, panting for breath. He’d never come this fast before.