Harris smiled in a way that let Ilya know that he knew he wouldn’t be there. He stood and patted Ilya’s shoulder, which was a bit of a reach for him. He was even shorter than Shane. “I’d better get out of here before you take your shorts off and I actually combust.”
Ilya’s lips quirked up. “Do you even work for this team, or do you just hang out in the locker room?”
Harris winked at him. “Don’t tell anyone.”
He crossed the room to talk to Wyatt, and Ilya removed the rest of his gear and headed for the showers.
Ten minutes later he returned to the locker room, which was quieter than it had been when he’d left. He spotted Haas sitting in his stall, still wearing most of his gear, smiling at his puck. Ilya secured the towel around his waist and walked over to him.
“We can get that, um…” Ilya couldn’t remember the right word. “Made like a trophy.”
Luca quickly set the puck on the bench beside him, as if he were embarrassed about it. “It is just one goal,” he said.
Ilya sat next to him. “I have mine still, in my trophy room at home.”
“That room must be very full,” Luca said earnestly.
Ilya grinned. “Very. But the first goal puck is my favorite.”
Luca’s cheeks pinked, making him look even younger than he was. “Really?”
“Yes. Because it was the beginning, you know? Soon you will have a room full of NHL pucks and trophies, but—” Ilya picked up the puck “—it all started with this one.”
Luca ducked his head. “I wish we had won the game.”
Ilya almost made a joke about how Luca would get used to losing soon, but that wasn’t the message he wanted to send to his rookie. “Me too.” He poked Luca’s arm. “Are you going to Monk’s?”
Luca’s eyes went wide. “Are you?”
It hurt Ilya’s heart how badly this kid wanted him to come out with the team. How much it would mean to him. He knew Luca had idolized him growing up; he’d read the interviews.
But Ilya just…couldn’t. Not tonight. He didn’t have the energy to even fake it tonight.
“Next time,” he said with a weak attempt at a smile.
Later, in bed, Ilya couldn’t get his brain to shut up. It was unfortunate because his brain had nothing nice to say about him.
He knew, rationally, that he wasn’t worthless. He was an NHL all-star, the captain of his team, and was beloved by fans. He had a wonderful boyfriend who loved him so much he was willing to endure a lot of stress and sneaking around just to be with him. He was loved.
But he wasn’t sure he deserved to be. He couldn’t make himself believe that. Not right now.
He wished Shane was with him. They’d only been apart for two days, but Ilya would give anything to have Shane in his arms right now.
Weak. His brain said it in his father’s voice. Disgusted and cruel.
Ilya grabbed his phone off the nightstand. Maybe he was weak, but he needed whatever he could get from Shane right now. A sleepy selfie. A good-night text. A heart emoji. Anything.
Early the next morning, Shane woke to find a missed text on his phone, sent after one A.M.
Ilya: Are you awake?
Shane huffed and shook his head. Was Ilya ever not horny?
Chapter Eight
Ilya had a decision to make.
He could play it safe and take the sure thing, or he could risk it all for a shot at glory.
No decision at all, really. He rolled the dice.
“But that was a full house,” Yuna pointed out.
Ilya rolled two dice onto the table. “And now it is four threes.” He picked up the one nonconforming die and kissed it before rolling it.
“No!” said David as soon as the die came to a stop.
“Shit,” said Yuna.
“Yahtzee!” Ilya yelled. He raised his arms in triumph.
“I don’t know why we invite you over,” Yuna grumbled.
“Because I bring hand pies.” Ilya had learned from Harris about a bakery outside the city that sold the best hand pies Ilya had ever eaten. He especially liked the cherry ones.
“He has a point there,” David said.
Ilya’s phone rang then. When he saw who was calling, he grinned and stood up from the Hollanders’ kitchen table.
“Let me guess who that is,” Yuna teased.
Ilya winked at her as he walked into the living room and answered the call. “Hi.”
“Hey,” said Shane. “How’s it going?”
“Good. I am at your parents’ house.”
“Oh yeah? What are you doing there?”
“Destroying them at Yahtzee.”
Shane laughed. “Mom won’t like that.”
“She loves me.” Ilya strolled over to the mantel, which was covered in framed photos of Shane at various ages, mostly in hockey gear. He’d been a truly adorable kid. “Ready for the game?”
“Sure. It’s just Boston.”
Ilya huffed. His own team hadn’t won against Boston in ages. “Cocky.”
“Usually. But you like it.”
Ilya’s lips curved up. “Yes.”
“You’re gonna watch, right?”
“Maybe.” Ilya traced a finger over a photo of Shane in his junior hockey uniform. He looked about seventeen—the age he’d been when Ilya had first met him. “Maybe we will watch a movie instead.”
“Dick,” Shane said affectionately.
“But you like it.”
“I do. But I also like the rest of you.” His voice dipped into a more seductive tone. “I’ve been fucking dying to have you inside me, though.”
Ilya grinned. “You are on speaker phone by the way.”
“What?”
“I am kidding.”
“Jesus.” Shane exhaled. “Not funny.”
“If you say so.”
“I should probably go. We’re leaving for the arena soon.”
“Okay.”
There was a long pause—the same long pause that made an appearance at the end of most of their phone conversations. Both men needing to end the call, neither one wanting to.
“Good luck tonight,” Ilya said finally. “Try not to embarrass yourself too much.”
Shane snorted. “Sure.”
“Call me later, yes?”
“Of course.”
Ilya smiled at the photo of teenage Shane. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”
“Ya vsegda budu tebya lubit,” Shane replied.
“Show-off.”
They ended the call, and Ilya returned to the kitchen, shaking his head at how gross he and Shane had become.
“He looks good tonight,” Yuna said.
Ilya murmured his agreement from his end of the couch. Shane looked good every night. He was a great player on a great team. Ilya was a great player on a terrible team, and he felt less great with each passing week.
“Is it weird to watch Boston play?” David asked.
It had been once, but not anymore. Their roster had changed quite a bit in the two seasons since Ilya had played for Boston. “I have a better team now,” Ilya said. “Well, better for me. The team is bad.”
“You don’t regret it?” Yuna asked. “Leaving?”
“Never.” It was mostly the truth. He might have led Boston to another Stanley Cup if he’d played for them last season. They’d gotten close, even without him.