Heated Rivalry: Part 1 – Chapter 2

“Shane, could you move a little closer to Ilya, please?”

Shane felt Ilya Rozanov’s arm brush against his as he stepped closer to him for the photographer.

“That’s perfect. All right, smile, boys.”

Shane’s eyes were bombarded with camera flashes. He stood pressed against Rozanov, who seemed to have grown another couple of inches since January.

To Rozanov’s right was a giant American defenseman named Sullivan, who had been drafted third overall by Phoenix.

Rozanov had been drafted first.

Shane had spent the past six months since the World Juniors being a little bit…obsessed…with Ilya Rozanov. They had quite a bit in common, career-wise. They were both the captains of their respective teams, and had both led their teams to the championship this season. Both men had been named league and playoff MVPs, and both had been the scoring leaders of their respective leagues. The only difference between them was that Shane had a silver medal at home, and Rozanov had gold.

And now Shane had come in second place again. After a life of always coming first in hockey.

This fucking guy.

It wasn’t all bad. Shane had been drafted by the Montreal Voyageurs, who, besides being the most legendary franchise in the league, were also only an hour’s drive from his hometown of Ottawa. It was a good fit for Shane, who was fluent in both French and English, and who had always had a lot of respect for the Voyageurs, despite having grown up an Ottawa fan. But still. Being picked second stung.

Adding to the drama of the day was the fact that Rozanov had been drafted by Montreal’s archrivals, the Boston Bears. Shane knew his career was now going to be inescapably linked to Rozanov’s. If one of them had been drafted by a team in the Western Conference, maybe the rivalry would never have gotten off the ground. But this was going to be intense.

Which didn’t mean that Shane couldn’t be polite to Rozanov now.

“Congratulations,” he said, turning to shake Rozanov’s hand when the photographers were done.

There was a definite smugness in Rozanov’s smile when he said, “Thank you.”

Rozanov didn’t congratulate Shane. Instead, he patted Shane’s fucking shoulder, like he was consoling a child who had struck out at Little League. Shane jerked away from his touch, and was about to say something that was decidedly less polite than “congratulations,” but they were both immediately pulled away in opposite directions for interviews.

Shane didn’t see Rozanov again until he was back at the hotel. The lobby was packed with athletic young men in suits, but even in that crowd Rozanov stood out. He was one of the taller men there, and cleaned up—with his dark navy suit hugging his body—he looked like a model.

Shane felt short. He had turned eighteen last month, but he felt like a kid.

Rozanov had turned eighteen too. Just last week. Which Shane knew because he was obsessed with him.

That night, in his private hotel room (his proud parents were across the hall), Shane couldn’t sleep.

It had been an exhausting day, and, yes, he had been drafted by the NHL. He had achieved the thing he had worked his whole life toward. And being chosen second overall was nothing to sulk about.

He wasn’t sulking. Not really. He was just…bothered. By something.

He sighed and rolled out of bed. He threw on some sweats and his sneakers and headed down to the hotel gym. Maybe he could shut his mind off with some exercise.

The gym was mercifully empty. Shane stepped onto one of the two treadmills and started running at a gentle pace. He didn’t wear headphones; he just lost himself in the noise of the machine.

He didn’t notice when someone else entered the gym. He only realized he wasn’t alone when the other man stepped onto the treadmill next to him.

Ilya Rozanov gave him a quick nod and turned to face the white wall at the front of the room as he started running alongside Shane.

Shane tried to ignore Rozanov’s presence. There was nothing weird about it; he must have been having trouble sleeping too. Or maybe he always hit the gym after midnight. Or maybe the time zone was messing with him. Or maybe…

Rozanov increased the speed on his machine. He didn’t glance at Shane at all. Because Shane was petty and competitive, he increased the speed on his own machine…just a little faster than Rozanov’s.

Within a minute, Rozanov did the same thing, raising the bar and silently waiting for Shane to match him. Shane glanced over and saw a slight smirk on Rozanov’s lips. Shane shook his head and fought his own smile. He cranked up the speed.

They kept on this way, caught in a silent battle, until they were both testing the limits of their machines. They were running at a sprint pace for far longer than was comfortable, and Shane’s entire body was burning in protest. But he didn’t want to stop, or even slow down, until Rozanov did. Rozanov , for fuck’s sake. Shane could beat him.

But Rozanov showed no signs of quitting.

They kept up that pace for another minute or two, and Shane finally slammed his hand on the emergency stop button and stumbled off. He leaned against the back wall, gasping for breath, before sliding down to sit on the floor. Rozanov stopped his own machine, and was holding on to the console for support.

“Fuck,” Shane wheezed. Rozanov laughed and sat himself on the floor against the wall facing Shane. Rozanov’s gray, sleeveless shirt was soaked through with sweat. They both sat with their legs sprawled out in front of them; Rozanov’s sneakers were almost touching Shane’s ankle.

Rozanov ran a hand through his damp hair in a move that was more interesting to Shane than it should have been. Rozanov was so…

. Shane was baby-faced and short, and couldn’t grow proper facial hair, and barely had any chest hair. Rozanov was almost exactly the same age as him, but he looked like he had crossed over a magical line to adulthood.

Shane quickly turned his gaze to the floor, and hoped the flush from the exercise covered his blushing.

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

“Yeah. Totally.”

“Everything you dreamed of?”

Shane looked him dead in the eye. “Almost.”

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

“Fuck off.”

“Montreal is nice, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Is Boston nice?”

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

Rozanov nodded.

They were silent a moment, and then Rozanov tapped Shane’s ankle with the bottom of his sneaker. “Hey. We will see a lot of each other.”

It took Shane a minute. “Oh. Yeah. Montreal and Boston play against each other a lot.”

“Should be interesting.”

Rozanov took a long haul from his water bottle. Shane pretended he was only looking longingly at the way his throat worked because he had forgotten to bring a bottle for himself. It wasn’t until Rozanov’s Adam’s apple stopped bobbing and his lips were dark and glistening that Shane realized he was staring. The lips quirked up a bit, and Rozanov extended his arm, offering Shane his bottle.

“Oh. I’m all right. Thanks.”

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

The tips of their fingers touched briefly together. Shane held the bottle away from his lips and quickly squirted water into his mouth. Rozanov watched him.

It was the first time that Shane felt it. It was like the air in the room had thickened.

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. But in that moment, Shane wanted…

. He couldn’t even name it.

He passed the water bottle back, and this time he could swear Rozanov let his fingers brush Shane’s wrist on purpose. It was a moment that seemed to last forever, but was probably less than a second.

Shane wanted Rozanov to touch him again.

Shane wanted to touch him back.

Maybe Shane wanted to him.

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

Rozanov looked up at him from the floor. “You will be seeing plenty of me.”

Shane nodded and left the room as fast as he could. He waited until he was back in his room before he let himself freak out.

He had never… Jesus Christ, he had a He wasn’t…

Well, that was true. But she had just started a new summer job…

Yeah, all right. Maybe it wasn’t really working out with her, but it wasn’t like she was the only girl he’d ever…done stuff with.

Okay, that one he couldn’t explain.

But he get in the shower and jerk off and try like hell to think about his girlfriend, or girl. Anything other than those red, wet lips and that dark stubble and those hazel eyes…

For the rest of his life, Shane Hollander would have to live with the fact that he had ended his NHL draft day by getting himself off to thoughts of Ilya Rozanov.