Chapter 6: The Long Game: Chapter 6

“How many men have you been with?”

Ilya glanced up with interest from the coffee mug he’d been spooning sugar into. Shane had blurted the question out and was now staring fixedly at his poached eggs. His ears were bright pink.

“This week, you mean?” Ilya asked calmly.

Shane turned his gaze up, his annoyance radiating across the breakfast table in grumpy waves. “No, asshole. I mean ever.”

Ilya took a long sip of coffee, his eyes locked on Shane’s over the rim of his Ottawa Centaurs mug. He very slowly lowered the mug back to the table, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Why?”

“Because you’ve never told me.”

“Maybe I don’t keep track.”

Shane glared at him, then turned his attention back to his eggs. “Never mind.”

Ilya’s mouth quirked up. He let a silence hang between them, just long enough for Shane to perhaps believe that Ilya was going to let this go.

He wasn’t.

“How many are you hoping it will be?”

Shane shook his head. “Forget it. I don’t care anymore.”

“Bullshit.”

It was clear from the tightness in Shane’s jaw when he looked back up at Ilya that he cared a lot. “You said there was one guy in Moscow. The, um…”

“My coach’s son. Yes. He was one.”

“The first one?”

“I said he was. Yes.”

“You never said that. I mean, it was implied, I guess, but—”

“He was the first.” Ilya bit the inside of his cheek, then added, “Possibly the best too.”

“You’re such a giant dick.”

“You know who had a giant dick?” Ilya asked wistfully.

Shane’s chair screeched across the kitchen floor as he stood up. He snatched his plate off the table and stormed off toward the sink. Ilya continued eating his breakfast.

“Was I the second?” Shane asked, after he had finished rinsing his plate.

“Biggest dick?”

“Stop it.”

Ilya made a show of picking up a point of toast, chewing thoughtfully as if he couldn’t quite recall how many men he’d bedded before Shane. “Maybe.”

Shane folded his arms. “I didn’t think this would be such a difficult question to answer.”

“Can you remember every goal you have ever scored?”

“Oh, is it a similar number?” Shane had scored over five hundred goals in the NHL alone.

“Give or take.”

Shane left the kitchen.

Ilya gave him a one-minute head start, then sauntered off after him. He found him near the front door, already wearing his jacket. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

Ilya leaned back against the wall. “So soon?” Shane did have to drive back to Montreal that morning, but Ilya certainly wasn’t going to let him go like this.

“I told you number,” Shane said.

As if Ilya had ever forgotten. “Yes. Two men besides me. Both terrible.”

“Not . Just not…”

Ilya waggled his eyebrows.

“I’m leaving.” Shane put his hand on the doorknob. Ilya put his hand on Shane’s shoulder.

“You were the second.”

Shane didn’t turn around. “And after me?”

“Is there a wrong answer to this question?”

Shane exhaled, his shoulders slumping. “No.”

“A few. Not many. Was dangerous, right? A rare treat.”

“Yuck.”

Ilya let his hand slide off Shane’s shoulder and down his chest. Shane took a small step backward, and almost relaxed against him. Ilya dipped his head and kissed Shane’s neck, and Shane relaxed more. “None of them matter. Not anymore.”

Shane sighed. “I know.”

“Then why ask?”

Shane turned. Ilya kept his arm draped over him, his hand now resting on Shane’s back. “I don’t know.” He thunked his forehead against Ilya’s chest. “Sorry.”

Ilya wrapped his other arm around him and held him close as he nuzzled Shane’s dark, glossy hair. It smelled like expensive shampoo. “I will miss you.”

Shane exhaled loudly. “Are you ready to do another season of this?”

Ilya’s heart stuttered. What did that question mean? “Another season of what?”

Shane pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “Hiding.”

It would be, altogether, their eleventh NHL season of hiding. Seven seasons of secret hookups, and three seasons of being in a mostly secret committed relationship. It had been a of hiding.

“Sure,” Ilya said.

“I hate it.”

“I know. Me too.”

“I can’t believe no one has figured it out yet.”

“Well,” Ilya said, brushing a thumb over Shane’s cheek. “I am way out of your league.”

“Right.”

“Who would believe you if you told them?”

Shane punched his arm, then captured Ilya’s lips in a sweet kiss. He tasted like coffee and home, and Ilya really wished he didn’t need to leave.

“You should quit hockey,” Ilya murmured. “Send them a text. Say you quit. Stay here with me.”

“I’m not ending my career via text.”

“Email, then.”

“I have to go.”

Another long kiss, this one a little less sweet. A little more urgent. By the time they broke apart, Shane was pressed against a wall, and Ilya’s T-shirt was rucked up to his chest. Both men were breathing heavily, with flushed skin and semi-hard dicks.

“I have to—” Shane said again.

“Go. Yes.”

“Three weeks and you’ll be in Montreal, right?”

“Three weeks.”

“Not so bad.” Shane smiled sadly at him. Three weeks wasn’t such a long time, but Ilya was so goddamned tired of having their relationship sliced up into single nights with weeks between them. Two nights in a row if they were lucky.

Except the summers, when they were together almost every day, and Ilya’s soul lightened as he soaked up Shane’s proximity the same way his golden-brown hair lightened in the sun. Ilya loved hockey, but he lived for the summers now.

Summer was over. The NHL regular season officially started in two days. His soul would have to live on sun-drenched memories and the anticipation of stolen nights of explosive sex and tender kisses.

“I love you,” Ilya said between the deep breaths he was taking in an attempt to cool his blood.

Shane slipped out from between Ilya and the wall and squeezed his arm. “Love you too.” Shane exhaled, and Ilya politely ignored the tremor in it. “Okay. Three weeks.”

“Three weeks. Text me when you get home.”

“Of course.” Shane kissed him one more time, and then he was gone.