The Long Game: A Gay Sports Romance (Game Changers Book 6)
The Long Game: Chapter 15

As usual, Shane found himself pinned against a wall as soon as he entered Ilya’s house. Ilya was kissing him hungrily, one hand under Shane’s thigh, Shane’s leg wrapped around Ilya’s ass. Shane still had his jacket and shoes on.

“Miss me?” Shane said with a laugh against Ilya’s lips.

“No,” Ilya said, then went back to kissing him.

They kept it up for a while—kissing, touching, rubbing, getting hard against each other—while Shane grew uncomfortably warm in his outdoor clothes.

“Wait,” he panted. “Let me…” He fumbled for the zipper on his jacket, not wanting to interrupt things but needing to remove some layers.

Ilya released Shane’s thigh and stepped back. His eyes were shining and his lips were swollen, and Shane regretted trying to take the jacket off.

“We should stop,” Ilya said.

“What? Why?”

“Because.” He smiled. “We need to make dinner.”

When Shane had his jacket and shoes off, Ilya took his hand and led him to the kitchen. The counter was full of fresh vegetables, a box of organic farro, and a bowl of cooked salmon.

“What’s all this?” Shane asked.

“We are cooking together. Like we used to. I found a recipe that is okay for you.”

He picked up his iPad off the counter and showed Shane the recipe. Shane read it carefully, touched that Ilya had gone to this much trouble. “Looks good,” Shane said.

Ilya beamed.

Shane went to the sink to wash his hands, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. “This is very romantic, Ilya.”

“Is just food.”

“How long did it take you to replace that recipe?”

Ilya didn’t answer him.

They worked together, and it was nice. Shane missed cooking with Ilya, and regretted that his nutrition plan made it more difficult. They cooked the farro, and chopped, seasoned, and roasted the vegetables, then assembled it all into bowls, topping the grains and vegetables with chunks of salmon and fresh herbs.

“This is not bad,” Ilya conceded when they were eating at the kitchen table later. Ilya had lit a candle in the middle of the table, which Shane found adorable.

“Clean eating doesn’t have to suck,” Shane said. “I eat lots of delicious stuff.”

Ilya shot him a skeptical look, then took another bite of salmon and spiced cauliflower. “Not as good as chicken parmesan,” he said, after he swallowed.

Shane couldn’t argue that. Secretly, he’d fucking kill for some crispy chicken, smothered in cheese. Maybe with some pasta and alfredo sauce on the side. Maybe a beer to wash it down with. Some garlic bread…

But garlic bread wasn’t important. Winning was important. Playing in the NHL for as long as possible was important.

“For dessert,” Ilya said with a slight quirk of his lips, “we can look at a picture of cake.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“Or…” Ilya leaned in suggestively. “Maybe there is something else you are craving?”

“Like your dick, you mean?” Shane asked dryly.

Ilya grinned. “Is that part of your diet?”

“Gross.”

They both laughed, and Shane’s heart flipped happily in his chest. He loved quiet, domestic moments like this with Ilya. He loved joking about sex and laughing together. He loved that Ilya had looked up a recipe and bought fussy ingredients for it. That he’d given them this moment.

“I love you,” Shane said, the words out before he’d known he was going to say them.

Ilya’s smile turned bashful and sweet. “I still like to hear that.”

“I still like saying it.” They smiled at each other for a long moment, sappy as shit, then Shane said, “So. Are we watching the documentary tonight?”

“If you want.”

“You didn’t watch it already, did you?”

Ilya glared at him. “No.”

“But you remembered to record it?”

“Fuck, Shane. Yes.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

Ilya took a sip of water, then said, “We don’t have to watch it.”

“I want to.” Shane’s lips twitched. “I want to see what you said about me.”

“You mean the thing about how much you like having your balls sucked?”

Shane heaved an enormous sigh, then stood up to bring his empty plate to the sink.

“Because I definitely told them about that,” Ilya said.

“Okay.”

“And that you squeak when you are trying not to come.”

“I don’t squeak.”

Ilya shrugged. “This is why we need a sex tape. So you can see.”

“No way. You would leak it immediately.”

Ilya grinned. “Can you blame me?”

“Have you heard of this FanMail website?” Shane asked as they were getting settled on the couch later.

“Yes. Is like, people pay to have famous people pretend to care about them.”

“That’s a bleak way of putting it, but sort of. I’d never heard of it until Hayden told me he’d been doing them and—”

Ilya slammed the remote onto the sofa cushion beside him. “Hayden is on FanMail?”

“Yeah.”

Ilya launched off the sofa and darted away.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shane asked.

“Getting my phone.” He returned a moment later with his phone in his hand, grinning at the screen. “A hundred dollars!” Ilya said. “Who would pay this for a video from Hayden?”

“Lots of people,” Shane said defensively. “He films them all the time.”

“I am going to buy one.”

“Ilya, no. Don’t be a dick.”

“Dear Hayden,” Ilya said aloud as he typed. “My boyfriend is sad because he has a very annoying coworker and needs to be cheered up. Could you send him a video and sing him his favorite song, ‘O Canada’?”

“That is not my favorite song.”

“What is?”

Shane didn’t have an answer ready for that, so he crossed his arms instead. “Please don’t send that.”

“Too late.”

“He’s going to know it’s you. What email address did you use?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ilya sat beside Shane and picked up the remote again. “Let’s watch this stupid thing.”

There was nothing particularly surprising or even interesting about the documentary. It was mostly a collection of their career highlights, with a few talking head interviews mixed in to create a bit of a story.

Ilya had been right: it wasn’t really about them.

But it was nice, having all these clips and interviews put together in a one-hour package. It was even nicer to be able to watch it curled up together on Ilya’s couch.

Suddenly a clip appeared that Shane had never seen before.

“Don’t watch this,” Ilya said. His tone was dead serious.

“Is this—oh.” On the screen, Shane had just been laid out by Cliff Marlow during a game against Boston. He winced. He’d never been able to remember that hit, but he sure remembered the injuries it caused.

Ilya’s body tensed against him as they both stared at Shane’s unconscious body on the ice.

“Spoiler,” Shane said with a shaky laugh. “I wake up.”

“I know,” Ilya said quietly.

In the video, Ilya was crouching over Shane’s body. The camera caught a close-up of Ilya’s face as he glanced over his shoulder and began to frantically wave medical staff over. His skin was ashen and his eyes were wide and terrified.

A crowd formed around Shane’s body seconds later, but Ilya didn’t leave. He stood, just outside the scrum, like a guardian. He was talking, but no one seemed to be listening to him.

A spinal board and a stretcher were brought onto the ice. Ilya had to be shoved out of the way by one of the medics, but that didn’t keep Ilya from staying as close as he was allowed, his eyes never leaving Shane’s body.

“Was I awake then?” Shane asked quietly. “I don’t remember.”

“Yes. Barely.” Ilya’s voice sounded small and unsteady. “You were trying to talk to me.”

Ilya never fucking left. Even though Shane’s teammates were all, sensibly, huddled near the Montreal bench, out of the way of the medics, Ilya stayed. He’d stood there in his Boston uniform, making sure Shane knew he wasn’t alone.

Shane squeezed his hand, now. Because Shane wasn’t the one reliving a traumatic moment by watching this.

“How could they not know?” Shane said. “How could anyone have seen this—seen you—and not known about us?” Ilya had displayed his heart so openly, smashed against the ice as unmistakably as Shane’s broken body.

“I don’t know,” Ilya said.

Ilya needed to stop watching this, so Shane climbed into his lap and kissed him. He’d never thought much about how scared Ilya had been. He’d been relieved that his injuries weren’t career-ending, and hadn’t thought much about the incident beyond that. But he knew if their situation had been reversed, Shane would have been a wreck. Injuries were part of the game, but getting knocked out cold was scary. He hoped Ilya never scared him like that.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” Shane said. “And I’m sorry I never knew about it.”

“Is fine,” Ilya said, even though his eyes were glistening with tears. “Was scary, but you are okay.”

“I’m okay,” Shane agreed.

Beside them, Ilya’s phone lit up. He picked it up, probably welcoming the distraction, and laughed.

“What?” Shane asked.

“Hayden texted me a picture of his middle finger.”

Shane woke up from a dream where he and Ilya were fucking at center ice. It had been ridiculous, and obviously fucking on ice would be difficult and uncomfortable, but it had also been hot as hell and now Shane was rock hard and felt about three strokes away from orgasm.

Jesus. What if he’d actually shot his load in his sleep? Ilya would never let him live it down.

He turned his head to replace Ilya sprawled out on his stomach beside him, deep asleep with his mouth hanging open and hair covering most of his face.

Shane’s heart swelled. This beautiful man was all his.

He closed his eyes and reached down to ruthlessly squeeze the base of his own cock, then did some deep breathing. No point in being this fired up if Ilya was dead to the world.

When he finally got himself under control, he opened his eyes and found Ilya grinning at him.

“Trying not to come?” Ilya asked.

Shane palmed Ilya’s face, pushing his stupid grin away. “You were asleep! What the fuck?”

“I woke up,” Ilya said simply. “And you were meditating with your dick in your hand.”

Shane shoved him onto his back and climbed on top of him, straddling him so he could look down at his smirking boyfriend and try to gain some dignity back. “I was not meditating.”

“Okay.”

“I had a sexy dream, that’s all. And I woke up all…aroused, or whatever.”

Ilya folded his arms behind his head. “Tell me about this dream.”

“No way.”

Ilya’s mouth fell open in mock offense. “You will not share?”

“Nope.”

“It was about another man, then. Was it Hayden?”

Shane threw his head back and groaned. “For the last time, I’m not attracted to Hayden.”

“Too bad for Hayden.”

“Hayden is straight and not attracted to me!”

“If you say so.”

Shane rolled his head in a dramatic fashion until he was glaring down at Ilya again. “I guess all I had to do to get rid of this hard-on was wake you up. Now I’m too annoyed to be turned on.”

“I don’t think that is true.”

And, no. It wasn’t true. Not now that Shane was finally cluing into the fact that he was straddling his very handsome boyfriend’s naked body. He couldn’t resist being aroused by Ilya’s crooked smile and sleepy, half-lidded eyes.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Shane said helplessly, sliding his palms up to Ilya’s chest.

Ilya’s smile grew. “Tell me about the dream.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

Ilya pulled one hand from behind his head and cupped Shane’s mostly soft dick. “Tell me one thing.”

Shane’s breath hitched as Ilya began to slowly massage his cock. “I—we were…fucking.”

“Wow,” Ilya said dryly.

Shane wasn’t going to sit here and be accused of having unimaginative sex dreams. He swallowed his shame and added, “At center ice.”

Ilya’s eyebrows shot up.

“I know that logistically,” Shane continued quickly, “it would be, y’know, basically impossible, but dreams are weird. So, yeah. Center ice.”

“Were there people there? A crowd?”

Shane’s cheeks heated. “I don’t think so. Maybe it started as a game, but then we were naked and alone, I think.”

“Interesting.” Ilya moved his hand down to caress Shane’s balls. “I have had dreams where we are fucking in front of people. Like we are showing off.”

Shane gasped as Ilya gently tugged at his sac. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

Ilya chuckled. “Do you think so?”

“Sure. You’ve probably gone to sex parties and fucked in front of a captive audience before, right?”

A second later, Shane found himself on his back, with Ilya looming over him. Ilya bent low and kissed Shane’s throat.

“No,” Ilya said. “No sex parties.” He kissed a trail down Shane’s chest and stomach, then lifted his head. “Wait. How many people is a party?”

Shane narrowed his eyes at him, and Ilya grinned broadly. Shane never knew when Ilya was being serious about his sexual past, or when he was just talking shit to get Shane riled up. He knew that, ultimately, it didn’t really matter how many people Ilya had slept with, but it did fascinate Shane that the number could really be anywhere between two and a million.

It was definitely more than two.

Probably less than a million.

“Tell me what you think a sex party is,” Ilya teased. His eyes danced with glee.

“No.”

“Please. I have to know.”

“Weren’t you about to—”

“Yes. In a minute. Is there, like, balloons?”

Shane rolled his eyes, then moved like he was going to leave the bed. Ilya laughed and pinned him down, hands wrapped around Shane’s wrists. As he gazed down at Shane, his expression shifted from teasing to something softer.

“I am so glad I met you,” Ilya said quietly.

Shane’s heart clenched. It was such a simple statement, but it was so open and honest, and it instantly made Shane think of the flip side of those words.

What if they’d never met?

But they had, and they were perfect for each other in a way that probably only they would ever understand. Their relationship wasn’t easy, but it existed. They’d made it happen, against all odds, and they’d protected it.

Shane couldn’t replace words, so he tried to lift his arms and Ilya let him, releasing his wrists immediately. Shane wrapped his arms around him, pulling him down, and held him. They stayed like that for several minutes, breathing against each other and saying nothing.

“Now, then,” Ilya said, then kissed Shane’s throat. “I want to blow you while you think about getting fucked at center ice.”

Shane let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t actually want to be fucked at—ah.” His back arched when Ilya wrapped his plush lips around the head of Shane’s cock.

Shane didn’t think about being fucked at center ice or anywhere else while Ilya took him apart with his mouth. He reached for Ilya’s hand and held it tight, fingers woven together. There was absolutely nowhere else Shane wanted to be.

Shane was determined not to say anything as he watched Ilya slather about a pound of cream cheese on a sesame seed bagel. If Ilya wanted to eat nothing but empty carbs and saturated fats, that wasn’t any of Shane’s business. Instead, Shane bit the inside of his cheek, and continued to measure out protein powder for his breakfast smoothie.

“Oh come on,” he cried, about thirty seconds later when Ilya started adding a layer of Nutella to the mountain of cream cheese.

“What?” Ilya asked.

Shane waved a hand at Ilya’s breakfast. “That’s how you’re going to start your day?”

“No,” Ilya said, dipping his knife back into the Nutella jar. “I started my day by blowing you. Remember?”

Yes, Shane remembered. But he wasn’t going to let that stop his outrage. “Are you seriously going to eat that?”

“Are you seriously going to drink that?” Ilya said, pointing his knife with its glob of Nutella at Shane’s blender.

“This is balanced and contains a ton of nutrients and protein. That contains nothing but sugar and fuck knows what else.”

“Chocolate,” Ilya said helpfully. He finished smearing the Nutella on, then grabbed a banana and waved it in Shane’s face. “Look. Healthy.”

Shane watched as Ilya peeled the banana and began slicing it over the bagel. “Whatever,” Shane sighed, and went back to making his smoothie. He didn’t want to see what Ilya added next. Probably sprinkles. Or onion rings.

While they were eating at Ilya’s breakfast bar, Shane checked his email and was shocked to replace one from the NHL’s league commissioner, Roger Crowell. He was even more surprised when he read that Crowell wanted to meet with him when Shane traveled to New York later that week.

“Holy shit,” he said aloud.

“What?” Ilya asked through a mouthful of bagel and chocolate.

“Crowell wants to meet with me.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea.” Shane wrote back right away, confirming that of course he would. Then he immediately spiraled into a panic about what the meeting could possibly be about.

“He doesn’t say why?” Ilya asked.

“No.”

“That is weird.”

“I know it’s fucking weird! Why me?”

“Is it just you?”

“I—” Okay, Shane didn’t actually know. “Maybe? It sounded like it. He didn’t mention anyone else.”

The commissioner was the single most powerful person in the NHL, overseeing basically everything. He wasn’t a particularly popular man among players. Shane had always regarded him with an appropriate amount of respect, mixed with a bit of wariness.

“What if he knows about us?” Shane asked, jumping to the worst-case scenario.

“Why would he?”

Shane chewed his lip. It was true that there was no way Crowell would know about his relationship with Ilya. It probably wasn’t that.

“Maybe he wants to give you a special award,” Ilya said. “Second-best hockey player.”

Shane ignored him. “I’ve met him, but never actually, y’know, met him. Like, I’ve never had a real conversation with him. Is this something he does?”

Ilya shrugged.

“Is it about the documentary, do you think?”

“Possible.”

Shane exhaled. “It’s probably nothing to worry about, right?”

“Probably not. But I like how worried you get.” Ilya bumped his shoulder against him affectionately.

“Whatever.”

Ilya leaned in for a kiss, and Shane dodged him. “No way. Not after you ate that.”

“Come on,” Ilya said, grinning as he leaned in again. “You can taste chocolate again.”

“No.”

In the end, Shane couldn’t resist kissing him. It was better than chocolate.