Page 47 of The Long Game (Game Changers #6)

“I don’t know what you are trying to prove,” Ilya said.

“That I’m the fastest skater in the league. Obviously.”

Ilya huffed. There was no way Shane was the fastest skater in the league. Even if it were a competition between only the two of them, Ilya had always been considered the faster skater. He could admit that Shane was a better stick handler, but Ilya was faster. No question.

“We will see,” Ilya said.

They were sitting together on the Eastern Conference team bench at the NHL All-Star Skills Competition, which was mostly a fun night that no one took too seriously. No one except Shane Hollander.

Shane and Ilya liked to enter the same event each year, so they could compete directly. The league liked that too, as did the fans. For whatever reason, Shane had wanted to enter the fastest skater competition this year. Ilya suspected it had a lot to do with Shane’s impending thirtieth birthday.

Ilya wasn’t nervous—he was a fast skater. He’d done this event once before, years ago, and he’d won. Shane had been injured that year and hadn’t been at the All-Star Weekend. Ilya’s victory had probably been bothering Shane ever since.

“Ready?” Ilya asked as they watched the ice crew set up the last of the pylons for the event.

“Absolutely.”

“It can be dangerous,” Ilya warned. “Watch those corners.”

“I know how to skate.”

“Are your blades sharp? Good edges?”

Shane gave him a withering look. “Worry about your own skates, Rozanov.”

Ilya smiled. Game fucking on.

They watched as a rookie for Vancouver broke the previous leader’s time by four tenths of a second. The other players tapped their sticks against the boards to congratulate him. The Western Conference bench engulfed the kid in hugs and back slaps and noogies.

“Are you going to break that poor kid’s heart?” Ilya asked.

“Yep,” Shane said, and leaped over the boards onto the ice.

The crowd went nuts as Shane took his place at the starting line.

The event was very simple: one lap around the perimeter of the ice surface, and the fastest time won.

Ilya always thought the fastest skater competition was a little ridiculous because there was usually less than a second dividing first and last place, so essentially it was a tie.

He still wanted to win, though.

But mostly he didn’t want Shane to break his ankle trying to shave a fraction of a second off his time by going too hard in the corners.

The start signal sounded, and Shane was off.

He whipped through the first two corners like he was being slingshotted, then pumped his legs hard down the straight length of the ice.

No one wore helmets for the skills competition, so Shane’s long hair flew behind him as he charged toward the final two corners.

Ilya’s heart was in his throat as he watched, terrified and dazzled at the same time.

Seconds later, Shane cleared the finish line, unharmed, and with the new lead time.

Well.

When Shane returned to the bench, he was met with more teasing and chirping than hugs.

“Wow, Hollander,” laughed a defenseman for Pittsburgh. “Couldn’t even let the kid finish celebrating before you destroyed him, huh?”

“Jesus Christ,” grumbled Wyatt, “you can’t just be the best player in the league, you’ve gotta be the fastest one too?”

“Hey!” Ilya protested. “He is not the best player in the league. Or the fastest.”

“Prove it,” Shane said with a sexy grin. Ilya wanted to devour him.

“When it is my turn, I will.”

The next three skaters failed to beat Shane’s time. Finally it was Ilya’s turn, as the last competitor in the event.

“Good luck,” Shane sing-songed as Ilya swung his legs over the boards.

“Maybe I will do it backwards,” Ilya said. “So it will be a challenge.”

Shane scowled at him, and Ilya laughed. Shane would never speak to him again if Ilya didn’t give this everything he had.

He skated slowly to the start line, waving at the crowd as he went. He’d do his best.

His best, as it turned out, was a fraction of a second too slow. Shane was declared the winner.

But, for real, it was basically a tie. So whatever.

Shane didn’t act like it was a tie. He flashed Ilya a smug little smile, as if Ilya even gave a shit about this thing.

“Congratulations,” Ilya said when Shane had stopped celebrating. “You are like one thousandth of a second faster than me. In this one race.”

“I won. That’s all that matters.”

Ilya wanted to say something obnoxious about how all of Shane’s food restrictions and self-sacrifice translated to exactly point one three seconds’ worth of athletic supremacy, but he decided to let Shane enjoy his victory instead.

Besides, winning stuff always made Shane horny, so Ilya considered himself the real winner.

Unfortunately, they had to watch Dallas Kent win the shot accuracy competition next, which was a real boner killer. Except the way Shane was huffing angrily beside Ilya was kind of hot.

“I fucking hate him,” Shane said.

“Yes.”

“I want to... I don’t know. I want him to be punished.”

“That would be nice,” Ilya agreed.

Shane glanced up to the box where Commissioner Crowell was sitting. “I wish he’d do something.”

Ilya snorted, then realized he hadn’t told Shane the latest thing he’d heard about Crowell. “He will not help. He called Troy, a few days ago, and told him to stop posting about sexual assault on his Instagram.”

Shane’s head whipped around to face Ilya. “What? Wasn’t Troy just posting about, like, where victims could seek help? And about charities people could donate to?”

Ilya nodded. “Only helpful things, yes.”

“Why the fuck would Crowell want him to stop?”

Ilya nodded in the direction of Dallas Kent. “I think because it hurts Kent’s feelings.”

Shane’s mouth dropped open. “Seriously? Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Or because it makes the league look bad.”

Shane scoffed. “Probably.”

At that moment, Kent skated by them. Ilya glared at him, and he was sure Shane was doing the same.

“I meant to tell you,” Shane said, once Kent was out of earshot, “I was impressed with what Troy was doing.”

“Did you forget to tell me, or did you not tell me because you still hate him?”

“I don’t hate him.”

“Hm.”

“I’m glad you’re friends, or whatever,” Shane grumbled.

“I will tell him you said that,” Ilya said, “next time we are showering together.”

Shane elbowed him in the arm. “Shut up. I’m trying to watch this.”

“They are setting up pylons. Is that what you want to watch?”

Shane ducked his head, which meant his cheeks were turning pink.

Wyatt suddenly appeared in front of them and leaned one elbow on the boards. “How’s it going, fellas?”

“Shhh. Shane is watching the men set up pylons.”

“Would you fuck off?” Shane snarled.

Wyatt glanced at the ice. “That’s cool. The ice crew’s hard work isn’t appreciated enough. Except the Zamboni drivers. Talk about all-stars.” He slapped the boards. “There should be a Zamboni competition. With obstacles and stuff.”

Ilya blinked at his goalie. “Yes. Great idea, Hazy.”

“Congrats on winning the skating thing, Shane.”

“Thanks.”

“It was a tie, basically,” Ilya said.

“That’s not what the clock said,” Shane argued.

“If we did it again right now, I would probably win.”

“Well, you should have won the first time, dickhead.”

Wyatt furrowed his brow at them. “You know, you two don’t have to sit together.”

“Hello, Hunter,” Ilya said cheerfully as he sat in the chair next to Scott Hunter. A bunch of the players were gathered in the hotel bar, most of them sitting at large tables.

“Rozanov,” Scott said with a wary nod.

Ilya plunked his pint of beer on the table and leaned back in his chair. “Too bad about the thing you lost.”

Scott huffed. “The stickhandling event is stupid anyway. It’s designed to make us look bad.”

“Mm. Someone still won, though.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t win your event either. Hollander smoked you.”

“Was basically a tie.”

Scott took a sip of his own beer and seemed to glance around for someone else to talk to. Finally he sighed and said, “Your team’s been playing well lately.”

It was an understatement. Ottawa had been on fire since returning from their nearly ill-fated trip to Florida, and was enjoying a franchise-record winning streak. “We’re making the playoffs this year,” Ilya said.

“Might be a bit early to be stating that as fact.”

“I don’t think so. We are very good. Remember when we beat you? We haven’t lost since then. Since that time we beat you.”

Scott snorted. “Man, you’re annoying.”

Ilya grinned. “Hollander told me you want to coach our camps.”

“One of them, maybe. Yeah.”

“What are your qualifications? We have a boring guy already: Hollander.”

“You know what? I might be busy this summer after all.”

Ilya nudged him. “We are happy to have you. Really. The kids will be very excited.”

Scott eyed him suspiciously. “Okay?”

“Yes. And bring Kip. We go out at night sometimes and have fun. Ryan Price brings his boyfriend.”

Scott’s face relaxed a bit. “Kip said he’d like to see Montreal.”

Ilya gasped. “Ottawa is also good!”

“Yeah, but Montreal is Montreal.”

Ilya couldn’t argue that. He glanced across the room and spotted Shane, talking to Colorado’s team captain, Matheson. Shane was wearing that sexy silk T-shirt that Rose bought him—the one that was practically transparent—and Ilya had been stealing glances at him all night.

Ilya briefly rubbed his own chest, searching for and finding the round outline of the ring hidden under his shirt.

“How is married life?” he asked.

Scott’s expression shifted back to suspicious. “Good...”

“You are happy? Kip is happy?”

“Last I heard.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows.

“This morning!” Scott clarified. “I was talking to him this morning! He was going to come with me, actually, but he’s doing some volunteer work in Brooklyn this weekend instead.”

“Nice of him.”

“Yeah,” Scott said defensively. “He’s nice.”

“Good.” Ilya took a drink of beer. Shane was laughing at something Matheson said. His eyes were all crinkled. “Is Kip happy you are retiring this year?”