Twenty minutes into the climate disaster action movie Ilya had found on television, Troy said, “Even when I played for Toronto, we hardly ever beat the Admirals.”
Ilya just grunted.
“I wish Scott Hunter wasn’t such a decent guy,” Troy continued. “I’d love to just hate him, y’know?”
“You wish he wasn’t hot,” Ilya said.
Troy’s eyes widened in surprise, as if he’d forgotten that he’d come out to Ilya already. Then he huffed out a laugh and said, “Yeah. That too.”
Ilya smiled for the first time in hours.
They watched the movie in silence for a while, then Ilya blurted out, “I am a shitty captain.”
“What? No you’re not.”
“Anyone on the team would be a better captain than me.”
“As if,” Troy scoffed. “I’ll bet you’ve been captain of every team you’ve ever played for.”
Well. Yes. “Does not matter. I am a bad captain for this team. Now.”
“No way. You’re a fucking legend. All the young guys idolized you growing up, and they still do. I fucking idolized you, man.”
This time Ilya scoffed. “I am not so much older than you, Barrett.”
“I just mean, when I played junior, everyone wanted to be like you. Guys like Hunter and Hollander, they’re amazing, but you look like you’re having fun out there, y’know? You’re a leader, but you’re also, like, cool.”
Ilya’s eyebrows shot up. “Cool?”
Troy’s lips curled into something that was almost a smile. “Compared to Hunter and Hollander.”
Ilya laughed out loud, which made Troy laugh. “Wow,” Ilya said. “Is that a compliment?”
“Totally.”
“I am hotter than them too.”
Troy raked his gaze over Ilya appraisingly, and for an uncomfortable moment, Ilya thought he may have come here to seduce him. Then Troy wrinkled his nose and said, “Meh. I wouldn’t say that.”
They both laughed again, and Ilya hit him with a pillow.
“I am no Harris,” Ilya teased.
Troy’s cheeks darkened. “Shut up.”
“Why? Is cute.”
“It’s embarrassing. I can’t believe you know about that.” Troy buried his face in the pillow Ilya had hit him with.
“Harris should know about it,” Ilya said.
“No way. Never.”
“That is dumb. He is nuts about you.”
“Well, then he’s dumb.” Troy settled the pillow in his lap, then started nervously kneading it with one hand. “You think he likes me, though?”
“I am never wrong about these things.” He wasn’t lying. Ilya had always been an expert at detecting when someone was attracted to him, or to anyone else. Harris was definitely crushing on Troy.
Attraction, sex. Those things were easy. Relationships, feelings, love. Ilya was still working on how to navigate that stuff.
Troy left when the movie ended, which was far later than either of them should have been awake with a game to play in New Jersey tomorrow, but again, Ilya was a bad captain.
A tiny voice in his head, that maybe sounded a bit like Shane, told him that bad captains don’t make new teammates feel comfortable coming out to them. Or feel comfortable knocking on their captain’s hotel room door in the middle of the night just to hang out.
When Ilya was in bed, but before he went to sleep, he typed out a text to Shane: I’m sorry.
He deleted it. He wasn’t really sorry for anything. Instead he wrote, I miss you, then deleted that too.
After staring at his phone for several minutes, he typed a red heart emoji, and sent it.
He was surprised when Shane replied almost right away. He’d expected Shane to be asleep.
Shane: I’ve been working on an apology text for over an hour.
Ilya smiled and wrote, How many words do you have?
Shane: Too many. I’m really sorry about what I said. I’m glad you told Troy. I’m glad you have a friend you trust.
Ilya felt immediately lighter. He wrote, Thank you. It feels good, to have someone know.
Shane: I was being a jealous prick.
Ilya: I know. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, He is very hot. I understand.
Shane: You’re the worst.
Ilya: Maybe he is up for that threesome you pretend you don’t want.
Shane: Good night, Ilya.
Ilya: Would be a nice Christmas present…
He watched the three dots for what seemed like forever as Shane typed. Finally, Shane’s reply appeared: For Troy, maybe.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“It’s fucking Christmas, Hollander,” Ilya groaned. “Eat a cookie.”
Shane bit back a whole speech about how even one cookie would fuck up all his hard work. He wasn’t on a weight loss diet, he was following a complicated nutritional regimen designed to enhance physical performance.
But Shane didn’t want to explain all of that again, so instead he rolled his eyes as hard as he could.
“I don’t want a cookie.” It was a lie. It was a fucking lie. He wanted a cookie so bad.
“Yuna,” Ilya called out. “Tell your son to eat a cookie.”
“Leave him alone,” Yuna called from…whatever room she was in at the moment. She moved around so much it was hard to keep track. “We love Shane even without carbs.”
Shane would really like it if everyone stopped talking about his diet. It shouldn’t be a big deal. He was a professional athlete who was treating his body as if he were a professional athlete. His nutritionist had worked with some of the top athletes in the world, and they all swore by him. Maybe Ilya was getting away with eating like a stoner teenage goat for now, but he’d be thirty soon, and that would change. Shane preferred to stop any physical deterioration before it started.
“You don’t even celebrate Christmas,” Shane said grumpily.
“I celebrate cookies,” Ilya said, then crammed an entire thumbprint cookie in his mouth.
“Gross.”
“It has jam!” Ilya said through a mouthful of cookie.
Ilya did love jam. Especially raspberry. He had a spot of it on his cheek that Shane decided not to tell him about.
“Here,” Yuna said as she emerged from the garage. She tossed something that Shane barely managed to catch. “I got you a treat.”
Shane frowned at the pomegranate in his hands. “Thanks.”
Ilya laughed. “Take a bite!”
“You don’t bite into a pomegranate, dumbass.”
“No? There isn’t important fiber and nutrients in the, um, shell?”
Shane huffed and took his pomegranate to the kitchen. The whole Christmas day so far had been weird, and sort of tense. They’d been sniping at each other since Shane had arrived at Ilya’s yesterday morning.
They’d woken up together after a somewhat competitive evening playing foosball on the new table Shane had bought as a Christmas gift for Ilya. It had been delivered earlier that day, and Ilya had been thrilled with it. So that had been okay.
Their heated foosball battle had turned into heated making out, and then sex, which had also been okay. Normal. Overall a decent Christmas Eve.
In the morning, Ilya had grouched about Shane not being fun to make breakfast for, and Shane had told him he didn’t ask Ilya to make breakfast for him. They’d argued back and forth while Shane made a smoothie and Ilya made himself scrambled eggs with toast and sausages. Then they’d glared at each other across the kitchen table while they ate.