Page 44 of The Long Game (Game Changers #6)

The next morning, as Shane was putting the few things he’d unpacked back into his suitcase, there was a firm knock on his hotel room door. When he opened the door, he found J.J. there, holding two coffees.

“That for me?” Shane asked, stepping backward to let him in.

“If you don’t want it I can drink two.”

Shane took the coffee, and set it on the dresser. “Thanks.”

He wasn’t sure why J.J. was here, or why he’d brought him coffee. He was one of Shane’s closest friends, but this specific situation was unusual.

“So.” J.J. leaned against a wall with his own coffee. “You seemed kind of fucked up last night. About the Ottawa plane thing.”

Shane pulled an imperfectly folded T-shirt out of his suitcase and began refolding it. “No, I wasn’t. It was just, y’know, surprising.”

He realized his shoulders were hunched, so he made an effort to relax them.

“Uh-huh,” J.J. said. “You want to tell me the truth now?”

Shane frowned at the shirt he’d just folded, then shook it out and began folding it again.

Part of him wanted to tell J.J. everything.

Part of him needed to tell him. Needed to tell the whole world because having to hide suddenly felt so fucking unfair.

Shane wasn’t sure he could tell him, but he could tell him something.

“It’s nothing. I got some texts from...from Ilya. Rozanov.”

“I know which Ilya,” J.J. said with amusement.

“He sent them when the plane was...when he thought they were going to crash.”

A heavy silence filled the room, giving Shane a moment to realize how weird that must have sounded to J.J. Ilya thought he was about to die, so he’d texted Shane.

“He, um—” Shane started, but how on earth could he explain without admitting everything? “He’s—”

Shane squeezed his eyes shut. He was so fucking tired of lying. He could be grieving right now. If that plane had crashed, J.J. would be sitting in Shane’s hotel room right now watching him fall apart completely. There would have been no way Shane could have hidden his agony.

“He’s okay,” J.J. reminded him.

“I know.”

J.J. took the shirt from him before Shane could start folding it again. “Look, I know you’ve got this...thing...for Rozanov.”

Shane’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”

J.J. smiled sadly at him. “Why do you think I keep trying to set you up? Having a crush on a straight man is no good, buddy.”

Wait. What?

Shane was completely stunned, and needed to think fast. This was a lie he hadn’t considered hiding behind before: an unrequited crush. It made sense.

It fucking hurt, but it made sense.

“Is it obvious?” Shane sat on the bed. The misery in his voice was real, but not for the reason J.J. thought.

J.J. set his coffee on the dresser and sat on the bed next to Shane. “Sorry, buddy. I’m not saying everyone sees it, but not much gets past me, y’know?”

“Right,” Shane said, nodding fervently.

J.J. clapped a giant hand on Shane’s shoulder. “The good news is, you can do way better than Rozanov.”

Shane pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.

“I get that he’s attractive, but come on. That guy is annoying as fuck.”

Shane couldn’t hold back the laughter anymore. “You’re right. I should aim higher.”

“And it’s not like you guys could date or whatever anyway. Like, it would be impossible.”

Shane stopped laughing. “I know.”

“Can you imagine? Dating your rival? What a fucking scandal.”

Shane turned his gaze to the floor and said nothing.

“Hey,” J.J. said gently. He ducked his head so their eyes met. In French, he said, “I’m not making fun of you. It hurts to love someone who can’t love you back, and I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with that. You can always talk to me about it.”

He was being so earnest and sympathetic that it made Shane feel like a scumbag for lying. “Thanks.”

“And if you need someone to take you out, be your wingman or whatever...”

Shane’s smile returned. “I’ll consider it.”

J.J. stood and stretched his arms wide for a hug. Shane stood and was quickly engulfed by his friend.

“I’m glad Rozanov is all right,” J.J. said when they separated. “Seriously. He’s not entirely terrible.”

“Not always, no.”

“And Wyatt, geez. He woulda been on that plane too. I love that guy.” J.J. frowned. “I’m going to go call him.”

J.J. had never been a big fan of texting. He loved talking too much. “I’m sure he’s been waiting for your call,” Shane said dryly.

“Stay strong, friend,” J.J. said as he opened the door to leave. “We’ll get you through this and out the other side, okay?”

“I mean, you don’t really have to—”

But J.J. was gone.

Fucking hell. The other side. Shane wanted to haul the door back open and tell J.J. that the other side was a life together with Ilya. That there was no unrequited crush. That he was so fucking in love with Ilya it felt like his heart would burst sometimes, and that Ilya felt the same about Shane.

That when Shane finally saw Ilya again—in two days, hopefully—he was going to...god, he didn’t even know what he wanted to do.

Except he did know. He knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted to reach the other side. He wanted that life together. Not in ten years, but now. Because ten years suddenly seemed like an impossible wait.

Ilya pulled into his driveway just after two in the afternoon the day his team flew home from Florida. It felt like two in the morning, he was so drained.

But Shane’s Jeep Cherokee was there, at least an hour before Ilya had been expecting it to be, which gave him a sudden burst of energy.

He parked his own SUV next to Shane’s, not bothering with the garage, and jogged to the front door.

It opened as soon as he reached it, and there was Shane, looking perfect in nice pants and a soft, dark blue sweater.

“Our plane got in earl—” But that was all Shane managed to say before Ilya grabbed his face with both hands and kissed the hell out of him.

And Shane let him. Right there on Ilya’s front step, mostly secluded but still partially visible from the street. Shane kissed him back with equal urgency and, if he felt the same as Ilya, relief.

Ilya wanted to tell him so many things, but he couldn’t seem to stop kissing him. It was bitter cold all around them, but Shane’s mouth was warm and nothing about this place felt like Florida, so Ilya would happily stay here forever, kissing Shane in the snow.

Eventually they broke apart, and Shane managed only to say, “Come inside,” before they were kissing again.

Finally, finally, Shane took Ilya’s hand and led him inside. It was only then that Ilya realized Shane hadn’t been wearing a coat.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said. “You must be freezing.”

“I’m fine.” Shane watched him remove his outerwear, chewing his lip and sliding his hands in and out of the pockets of his dress pants. He seemed uneasy.

Ilya tried to kiss him again, but Shane took a step back and said, “Follow me?”

Ilya smiled. “Anywhere.”

Shane let out an oddly nervous laugh, which made Ilya laugh. Then Shane took his hand again, and they walked together to Ilya’s living room, where—

“What is this?” Ilya asked. The drapes were drawn across the large windows that normally looked out to the river, and the room was dark. Except for the glow of about a million candles.

They were everywhere: on the tables, on the floor, on the mantel, even on the arms of the furniture. It was beautiful and...weird.

“Are you trying to burn my house down?” was what Ilya finally said.

Shane’s lips curved up. “They’re electric. Fucking relax, Rozanov.”

Ilya’s heart started to race, but not because he was concerned about fire safety.

He’d once told Shane, years ago, that one day he would cover the dock at his cottage in candles.

That he’d bring Shane down there, then ask him to marry him.

It had been a joke, sort of. But now he was really standing in a room full of candles and—

Shane sank to one knee in front of him.

Ilya had enjoyed watching Shane go to his knees in front of him many times over the years, but he knew immediately that this was different. He suddenly felt winded. And dizzy. And maybe a little queasy.

“What is this?” he whispered.

Shane gazed up at him, his expression steady and determined, and said, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

Ilya swallowed. Why was it so hard to swallow? It was like he had no saliva at all.

“We’ve wasted so much time,” Shane continued. “Years of denial, then years of hiding what we are to each other.”

“Shane—”

“Could you not interrupt?” Shane said with a teasing smile. “For once in your life?”

Ilya pressed his lips together.

“I don’t have a plan for anything beyond this,” Shane confessed, “but I know what I want. There’s nothing in my life that matters to me more than you, Ilya.” He slid his hand into his pants pocket again. He had to lean awkwardly to one side to fit his fingers inside.

Then, Shane was holding a ring, pinched between two fingers, in the space between himself and Ilya.

“Shane,” Ilya said again, unable to stop himself.

“I choose you, Ilya. I promise I will always, always choose you.” Shane’s eyes began to shimmer. He took a deep breath and said, “Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, will you marry me?”

Ilya wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he realized he hadn’t said anything. He hoped it had only been a second or two, but judging from the fear in Shane’s eyes, it must have been longer. Finally, in a tight, trembling voice, he said, “You know my middle name.”

“It’s on Wikipedia. I kind of fell down a rabbit hole learning about the Russian tradition of using the father’s name to—”

“Yes,” Ilya interrupted.

“Sorry. I’m babbling. You know how Russian names work.”

“No,” Ilya clarified. “Yes.”

Shane stared at him with obvious confusion. Ilya nodded to the ring.

“Yes,” Ilya said again. “I am saying yes, Hollander.”

“Oh.” Then Shane’s lips spread into a wide grin. “Yeah?” He scrambled to his feet and into Ilya’s arms.

They kissed, and Ilya said, “Yes.” They kissed again, and Ilya said, “Of course.”