“You should sign with Ottawa. Your contract is probably cheap, yes?”
Hayden shook his head. “You’re a hard guy to like, Rozanov.”
“That is not what Shane thinks.”
“What doesn’t Shane think?” asked Shane, sneaking up behind Ilya.
“Nothing,” Ilya said, smiling like the love-struck fool he was at his brand-new husband.
“So…” Shane said nervously. “Mom has it in her head that we need to, like, dance. In front of everyone.”
“Oh?”
“Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about it, but I guess that’s a wedding thing, right?”
Hayden looked gobsmacked. “Yeah, it’s a fucking wedding thing, you moron. Did you guys not even pick a song?”
“Shane does not know any songs,” Ilya said.
Shane was apparently too nervous to acknowledge Ilya’s quip. “So, like, do we just get whoever is in charge of the music to play a song and we, like, slow dance in the middle of the lawn? I don’t really know how to dance.”
“Come on,” Ilya said, and extended his hand.
It turned out that Harris had taken over the music duties and had his phone connected to Ilya’s wireless speakers, which someone had brought outside.
“Harris,” Ilya called from the middle of the yard. “Play something romantic.”
“You’re letting me choose?” Harris sounded terrified.
“Just put on whatever. Is fine.” Ilya glanced at Shane’s anxious face. “Something short.”
Ilya held out his hand to Shane.
“Oh, are you leading?” Shane asked.
“Yes. Because you can’t dance.”
Shane huffed and took his hand, then placed his other hand on Ilya’s back as the opening vocals of Rihanna’s “Diamonds” started playing.
“This sounds like a weird choice,” Shane said.
“No,” Ilya said softly. “Is perfect.”
They danced—well, rotated—under the lights and surrounded by everyone they loved as Rihanna sang lyrics that, secretly, had always made Ilya think of Shane.
“Oh,” Shane said, halfway through the song. “I’ve heard this before.”
Ilya laughed. “I love you so much it sucks.”
Shane beamed at him. “That’s too bad, because this is as good as it’s going to get.”
“No,” Ilya said fondly. “I don’t think it is.”
Epilogue
October
“You know,” Shane said. “The last time I was at an Ottawa Centaurs home opener, I was twelve years old.”
Ilya smiled at him. He hadn’t been able to stop smiling since he’d woken up that morning, and Shane had been just as giddy. They’d kissed each other awake, then took Anya for a jog. They made a big breakfast together and ate it on the back deck because it had been a beautiful, sunny day. Shane had reminded Ilya to take his pill with breakfast—unnecessary, because Ilya had an alert set on his phone to remind him, but still very sweet. They’d had lunch with David and Yuna because Shane had insisted that was an important opening night ritual.
They’d driven together to the arena, stopping at the end of Willa and Andrew’s driveway to get a pep talk and to read their sign. This time it had said Shane Hollander + Ilya Rozanov = and then what had looked like a crude drawing of the Stanley Cup.
It had been a perfect day. Ilya was looking forward to ten more years of them.
“You look good,” Ilya said now. “Even with that stupid logo.”
Shane glanced down at his jersey. “It’s growing on me.”
“Liar.”
“Stop flirting and get in order,” Bood said with a smile. “Shane, you’re supposed to be way up there, between Luca and Tanner.”
“Yes,” Ilya said solemnly. “The back of the line is for captains.”
Shane glanced again at his own jersey, this time to the empty space on his left chest. “Right. Not used to not having that C.”
“Get used to it,” Ilya said, tapping his own C. “This stays right here.”
Shane gave him a mocking salute, then made his way up the line.
“Fucking prima donna,” Bood teased.
“Who the fuck does he think he is, right?”
“He’s coming for that C.”
Ilya smiled. “I know.”
He heard Shane’s name being called, then the roar of a packed house cheering for the hometown superstar they could finally claim as their own.
“Shit. He’s already more popular than us,” Bood said.
“More popular than you, maybe.”
A few minutes later, Ilya rocketed out onto the ice and completed the circle at center ice. Shane stood directly across from him, smiling wide. Ilya smiled back.
“Time to finally get one of those banners, I think,” Bood said over the cheering and the pounding music. “For real this time.”
They absolutely would. Ilya had never been so sure of anything.
“Let’s fucking get it.”
Acknowledgments
Huge thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, and recommended Heated Rivalry. I am overwhelmed by how much love the book received, and I really appreciate it.
Thank you to everyone who wrote to me to let me know you loved Ilya and Shane. To everyone who made fan art. To everyone who noticed tiny details in the book that I didn’t expect anyone to notice and completely made my day. To everyone in my hockey-watching Discord group, and everyone in my author support groups. To the Russian speakers who helped me with Russian phrasing. To my agent, Deidre Knight, who made this sequel happen. To everyone at Carina Press for always being so easy to work with. To my amazing editor, Mackenzie Walton, for making this book better.
And finally to my husband, Matt, and my kids, Mitchell and Trevor, who could not be more supportive and I really appreciate their patience.
About the Author
Rachel Reid has always lived in Nova Scotia, Canada, and will likely continue to do so. She has two boring degrees and two interesting sons. She has been a hockey fan since childhood, but sadly never made it to the NHL herself. She enjoys books about hot men doing hot things, and cool ladies being awesome.
You can follow Rachel on Instagram at rachelreidwrites and Twitter @akaRachelReid if you like thirsty posts about hockey players, and on Goodreads, if you want to follow the mountain of books she is always reading. Her website and blog, where she writes more things, is www.rachelreidwrites.com.
Keep reading for an excerpt from Season’s Change by Cait Nary.
A veteran hockey player and a rookie can’t get away from each other—or their own desires—in this sexy, heartfelt opposites-attract hockey romance.
Season’s Change
by Cait Nary
Chapter One
Puking like an under-conditioned rookie was not an auspicious start to Olly Järvinen’s sixth North American Hockey Association training camp—his first after getting traded to the Washington Eagles.
But here he was, bent over a black plastic trash can. Acid burned at the back of his throat, worse than the wildfire in his lungs from sprinting on the treadmill. By some undeserved miracle, his maximal oxygen uptake number was only a little lower than last year’s. It was hard to be grateful for that when the inside of the trash can was flickering around the edges: water bottles, wet wipes, half-digested bites of the protein bar he’d choked down that morning.