Page 2 of The Long Game (Game Changers #6)

Ilya was dreaming of his mother.

He knew, somehow, that he was dreaming, but his stomach still twisted with dread as he slowly crossed the familiar lawn behind Shane’s cottage to where he could see a pale arm hanging limply from the hammock. The same way it had hung from her bed once, when he’d been twelve years old.

Then, in the dream, her hand moved. Her wrist twisted, and her fingers danced, as if she was moving them to music. Ilya smiled, and walked faster.

“Mom,” he said when he reached her, in English, for some reason. Irina Rozanova smiled at him from her hammock—the one that he and Shane had installed together last summer—looking young and beautiful and perfectly relaxed. She didn’t speak, only smiled and took his hand.

“Shane is in the house,” Ilya told her. “I want you to meet him.”

Her smile grew wider, but she stayed silent. Ilya looked toward the house, where he could see his boyfriend’s silhouette in the kitchen window. Ilya waved to him, and Shane moved away from the window. Good. He would be here soon, then.

Ilya gazed at his mother while he waited, knowing that this wouldn’t last. He would wake up, she would disappear. But still he wanted her to meet Shane.

Shane was taking his fucking time. There was no sign of him when Ilya looked back at the house, and he began to panic.

Irina patted his hand. She was still smiling, but it looked pained. Her skin was tinged with gray.

“No,” Ilya said. “Wait. He will be here.”

An annoying bird started chirping loudly nearby, and Ilya gripped his mother’s hand more tightly. “Just...wait. Don’t go.”

Everything dissolved. The bird turned into Ilya’s alarm, and Ilya found himself in Shane’s bed in Montreal.

He snarled at his phone as he turned off the alarm, then scrunched his eyes closed, trying to get the dream back.

It was gone.

He stretched out one hand, searching for Shane, but found his half of the bed empty. And cold.

Jesus, how long had Shane been awake?

It was the first day of that summer’s charity hockey camps, so Ilya shouldn’t be surprised Shane had gotten an early start. He supposed he should get out of bed and find him.

He rolled to his back and exhaled loudly, trying to release the vortex of feelings that the dreams always churned up inside him.

The joy of seeing his mother again, the heartbreak of realizing it wasn’t real, and the frustration of Shane not moving fast enough.

Of not caring enough. It was this last emotion that Ilya needed to shake off most of all, because it was ridiculous.

Shane cared. Shane cared enough that he’d suggested naming their charity after Ilya’s mother.

He threw on a pair of sweatpants and headed to the kitchen. He found Shane sitting at the kitchen table, already wearing a camp-branded polo shirt, studying his laptop screen through his glasses.

“Good morning,” Ilya said.

“Hey,” Shane said without looking away from the screen. “Just going over the medical forms for the kids. There are so many different things. A couple of the kids are allergic to eggs.”

“Then we won’t throw eggs at them.”

“It’s serious! What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing did last year.”

“I know, but it still could.”

Ilya crossed the room and stopped directly behind him. He put his hands on Shane’s shoulders and squeezed gently. “It will probably happen, someone getting sick or hurt. But it will be okay. Is hockey. And kids.”

He combed his fingers through the long strands at the back of Shane’s head. Ilya liked it long; he’d liked the way it matched Shane’s transformation when they were alone together by the lake, relaxed and even a bit silly.

Shane rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “I don’t want this week to be a disaster.”

“You are worrying too much.”

“Easy for you to say,” Shane grumbled. “Your mom hasn’t been texting all week with stressful details about this damn camp.”

Ilya’s hands dropped to his sides. “No,” he said quietly. “She has not.”

It was early, and Shane had probably barely slept and was tied into even more knots than usual, so Ilya decided to let the insensitive comment go.

He knew Shane hadn’t meant anything by it.

Just like he knew he couldn’t be mad at him for never rushing outside to meet Ilya’s mother in his recurring dreams.

Instead, Ilya made coffee, because it seemed Shane hadn’t done that yet.

“Where is Yuna?” Ilya asked, suddenly realizing she wasn’t in the kitchen. She was staying with them for the week of the camp. Shane’s dad, David, was back home in Ottawa, working.

Shane huffed. “She left for the rink like forty minutes ago.”

As Ilya had gotten to know Shane’s parents better, he’d been surprised to learn that Shane—the most determined overachiever Ilya had ever met—was the slacker in the family. “And how many times has she texted you since?”

“Too many. There’s a local news crew coming this afternoon, I guess. It’s French, so I’ll talk to them.”

“Okay.”

“I know it’s annoying to have them come on the first day, but...”

“Is fine.”

Shane turned in his chair to face Ilya. “Do you think we’re ready?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya said mildly. “We only have eight pro hockey players coaching this thing. Do you think that is enough to teach some kids how to play hockey?”

“I’m just...” Whatever Shane was going to say dissolved into a frustrated sigh.

Ilya grabbed the back of Shane’s chair and pulled him away from the table and his laptop. He crouched in front of him, resting his folded arms on Shane’s knees. “You are just being you.”

Ilya was excited about the camps—he’d enjoyed them last year—but he didn’t like how quickly Shane had reverted to his usual, uptight self.

These weeks could have been spent at the cottage, laughing together in the kitchen, dunking each other underwater in the lake, and enjoying unhurried, indulgent sex in a place where they were safe and alone.

Ilya could be sitting on the dock there right now, his feet dangling in the cool water with Shane’s head in his lap.

But these camps were important to both of them. They would raise money for organizations and initiatives that helped people who struggled with mental illness. People who struggled the way Ilya’s mother had struggled.

The worry didn’t leave Shane’s eyes, but his voice was soft when he said, “What if someone figures us out?”

“We are good at protecting this thing,” Ilya said. “We have been doing it for years. And we did it last year.”

“Barely! Ryan Price fucking walked in on us kissing! What if that happens again?”

Ilya grinned. “Am I so impossible to resist?”

Shane lightly kicked Ilya’s ankle. “As if. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“I will try to control myself.”

Shane played with a curl of hair near Ilya’s ear. “No kissing,” he said sternly. “Not even behind closed doors, okay? Not until we get home.”

“Yes, no problem. I barely even like you.” Ilya’s words were undermined by the way he was pressing his cheek into Shane’s palm.

“I’m worried about Hayden too,” Shane said.

“Kissing you?”

“No! Giving us away, I mean.”

Ilya huffed. “Is possible. He is not smart.”

Hayden Pike was Shane’s teammate, and, for reasons Ilya still couldn’t understand, was also one of the very few people on earth who knew the truth about Shane and Ilya’s relationship. And he was one of the coaches at their camp, despite Ilya’s protests that he wasn’t coach material.

Shane tugged hard on the curl he’d been gently twisting. “He’s my best friend.”

“I thought I was your best friend.”

“Hayden’s my best friend that I don’t kiss,” Shane clarified.

“Too bad for Hayden.” Ilya stood, stopping halfway to give Shane a quick kiss, then went to the coffeemaker.

He filled two mugs with black coffee, placed one on the table beside Shane’s laptop, then began adding cream and sugar to his own mug.

Shane was doing a strict performance diet thing, so any dairy products or sugar in the house were Ilya’s.

“Thanks,” Shane mumbled, about a minute after Ilya gave him his coffee. He was looking at his phone now.

“Yuna again?”

“Yeah.”

“Should we go?”

“No. It’s okay. Enjoy your coffee.” Shane stood and turned to face Ilya. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” Ilya lied. “Better than you, probably.”

“Probably.” Shane removed his reading glasses, then raked his gaze over Ilya’s body. “You’re unfairly handsome in the mornings, you know that?”

Ilya grinned. “Tell me in Russian.”

Shane’s nose scrunched up in concentration. “Um...ty ochen’ krasiv?”

Ilya’s heart fluttered the way it always did when Shane attempted Russian. “Close enough.”

“No. Tell me how I could have said it better,” Shane insisted.

Instead, Ilya kissed him, slow and lazy with Shane’s palms gliding over Ilya’s bare chest.

“You need to get dressed,” Shane murmured. “And eat something.”

“I will get McDonald’s breakfast on the way.”

“Gross.” Shane stepped back and retrieved his coffee from the table. “I’m serious about the no kissing today. And don’t, like, be sexy.”

“Impossible.”

“You know what I mean. No innuendo.”

“Innu-what? Is this a sex thing?”

“No flirting. No, y’know, trying to get me all turned on or whatever. Be professional.”

Ilya stepped close to him. “I do not have to try to get you all turned on, moy lyubimyy.”

Shane’s lips parted and he shifted his stance, just slightly. Then he blinked and said, “That. Exactly that. Don’t do anything like it today.”

Ilya trailed a fingertip down Shane’s cheek. “Why? Are you all turned on?”

“No. And as soon as I see you eating one of those disgusting breakfast sandwiches I’ll never want to kiss you again.”

Ilya laughed. “I’d better eat two, then. To be safe.”

“Welcome to Camp Rozanov,” Ilya announced.

“Boooo,” said Wyatt Hayes, and the kids laughed.

“Is that not the name?” Ilya asked innocently. “I thought we had agreed.”

Shane could only shake his head, pressing his lips tight together to suppress his grin.

“It’s the Game Changers Hockey Camp!” one of the kids yelled out.