Ilya wasn’t nervous—he was a fast skater. He’d done this event once before, years ago, and he’d won. Shane had been injured that year and hadn’t been at the All-Star Weekend. Ilya’s victory had probably been bothering Shane ever since.
“Ready?” Ilya asked as they watched the ice crew set up the last of the pylons for the event.
“Absolutely.”
“It can be dangerous,” Ilya warned. “Watch those corners.”
“I know how to skate.”
“Are your blades sharp? Good edges?”
Shane gave him a withering look. “Worry about your own skates, Rozanov.”
Ilya smiled. Game fucking on.
They watched as a rookie for Vancouver broke the previous leader’s time by four tenths of a second. The other players tapped their sticks against the boards to congratulate him. The Western Conference bench engulfed the kid in hugs and back slaps and noogies.
“Are you going to break that poor kid’s heart?” Ilya asked.
“Yep,” Shane said, and leaped over the boards onto the ice.
The crowd went nuts as Shane took his place at the starting line. The event was very simple: one lap around the perimeter of the ice surface, and the fastest time won. Ilya always thought the fastest skater competition was a little ridiculous because there was usually less than a second dividing first and last place, so essentially it was a tie.
He still wanted to win, though.
But mostly he didn’t want Shane to break his ankle trying to shave a fraction of a second off his time by going too hard in the corners.
The start signal sounded, and Shane was off. He whipped through the first two corners like he was being slingshotted, then pumped his legs hard down the straight length of the ice. No one wore helmets for the skills competition, so Shane’s long hair flew behind him as he charged toward the final two corners. Ilya’s heart was in his throat as he watched, terrified and dazzled at the same time.
Seconds later, Shane cleared the finish line, unharmed, and with the new lead time.
Well.
When Shane returned to the bench, he was met with more teasing and chirping than hugs.
“Wow, Hollander,” laughed a defenseman for Pittsburgh. “Couldn’t even let the kid finish celebrating before you destroyed him, huh?”
“Jesus Christ,” grumbled Wyatt, “you can’t just be the best player in the league, you’ve gotta be the fastest one too?”
“Hey!” Ilya protested. “He is not the best player in the league. Or the fastest.”
“Prove it,” Shane said with a sexy grin. Ilya wanted to devour him.
“When it is my turn, I will.”
The next three skaters failed to beat Shane’s time. Finally it was Ilya’s turn, as the last competitor in the event.
“Good luck,” Shane sing-songed as Ilya swung his legs over the boards.
“Maybe I will do it backwards,” Ilya said. “So it will be a challenge.”
Shane scowled at him, and Ilya laughed. Shane would never speak to him again if Ilya didn’t give this everything he had.
He skated slowly to the start line, waving at the crowd as he went. He’d do his best.
His best, as it turned out, was a fraction of a second too slow. Shane was declared the winner.
But, for real, it was basically a tie. So whatever.
Shane didn’t act like it was a tie. He flashed Ilya a smug little smile, as if Ilya even gave a shit about this thing.
“Congratulations,” Ilya said when Shane had stopped celebrating. “You are like one thousandth of a second faster than me. In this one race.”
“I won. That’s all that matters.”
Ilya wanted to say something obnoxious about how all of Shane’s food restrictions and self-sacrifice translated to exactly point one three seconds’ worth of athletic supremacy, but he decided to let Shane enjoy his victory instead.
Besides, winning stuff always made Shane horny, so Ilya considered himself the real winner.
Unfortunately, they had to watch Dallas Kent win the shot accuracy competition next, which was a real boner killer. Except the way Shane was huffing angrily beside Ilya was kind of hot.
“I fucking hate him,” Shane said.
“Yes.”
“I want to... I don’t know. I want him to be punished.”
“That would be nice,” Ilya agreed.
Shane glanced up to the box where Commissioner Crowell was sitting. “I wish he’d do something.”
Ilya snorted, then realized he hadn’t told Shane the latest thing he’d heard about Crowell. “He will not help. He called Troy, a few days ago, and told him to stop posting about sexual assault on his Instagram.”
Shane’s head whipped around to face Ilya. “What? Wasn’t Troy just posting about, like, where victims could seek help? And about charities people could donate to?”
Ilya nodded. “Only helpful things, yes.”
“Why the fuck would Crowell want him to stop?”
Ilya nodded in the direction of Dallas Kent. “I think because it hurts Kent’s feelings.”
Shane’s mouth dropped open. “Seriously? Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Or because it makes the league look bad.”
Shane scoffed. “Probably.”
At that moment, Kent skated by them. Ilya glared at him, and he was sure Shane was doing the same.
“I meant to tell you,” Shane said, once Kent was out of earshot, “I was impressed with what Troy was doing.”
“Did you forget to tell me, or did you not tell me because you still hate him?”
“I don’t hate him.”
“Hm.”
“I’m glad you’re friends, or whatever,” Shane grumbled.
“I will tell him you said that,” Ilya said, “next time we are showering together.”
Shane elbowed him in the arm. “Shut up. I’m trying to watch this.”
“They are setting up pylons. Is that what you want to watch?”
Shane ducked his head, which meant his cheeks were turning pink.
Wyatt suddenly appeared in front of them and leaned one elbow on the boards. “How’s it going, fellas?”
“Shhh. Shane is watching the men set up pylons.”
“Would you fuck off?” Shane snarled.