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Maybe, just maybe… If you ask nicely, I’ll do more than...
His words churned in my head as I stared in disbelief at the reflection in the mirror.
Who are you?
What do you want?
My inner thoughts refused to believe that I had given in to him again.
Taking a few deep breaths, I wiped my eyes of the tears that refused to obey, falling again and again as sonn as he left the bathroom.
I looked at myself once more, lifting fingers to touch my lips.
His mouth had been there just moments ago, aggressively devouring mine.
Fucking Rozanov.
How could I beg…
I’d been doing so well!
I threw six months of silence in his face.
Only to give in the second he looked at me.
The sound of a door opening pulled me out of the thoughts. I shook myself out of it quickly and headed for the exit, passing a random athlete along the way.
— The MVP title of the year goes to… Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston Raiders hockey team…—
Sitting with my parents, I tried to suppress the euphoria I felt at the thought of his win.
Keeping emotions in check, I clapped indifferently along with everyone else. I didn’t give journalists any fuel—no reactions for photos, no close-up shots.
Just a minimal smile as I watched Rozanov walk up the stairs and deliver a short speech.
With every word he spoke, my mind drifted closer to the climax of the evening — the one my athletic rival had promised.
Do I want to go to him again?
Do I give in to that pleasure and the months of humiliation that always follow?
Another glass of champagne, another person for small talk—someone I have no desire to speak with, but have to, because of one of the many brand contracts.
I knew regardless of what I said, I’d be met with fake laughter, an overly firm handshake, and the false sense that the person standing in front of cared about anything apart from my fame and money.
They still don’t understand that I’m not the naïve, well-behaved boy they met years ago at the start of my career. Maybe Rozanov had something to do with that—or possibly I was never the composed type they thought I was.
After all, from the very beginning, I’d been trying to draw Ilya…
— Hollander — one of the NHL representatives, spoke up. — I’d like you to meet my daughter, Anna —
I looked at the dark-haired beauty in front of me, but aside from a handshake and a formal greeting, I gave her nothing more.
I was sick of being set up by old boardroom bastards.
— I’ve heard a lot about you. I was at the last game between Montreal and Boston, and it was an incredible spectacle —
— Thank you. I’ll pass that on to the team. It was just another game —
But inwardly, my thoughts drifted toward what happened after that match. In the privacy of my apartment—the one I bought solely so I could have sex with…
As if he could read my mind.
Just as Anna slipped her arm under mine and then led toward the bar, our walk was interrupted by a loud sound: an incoming message.
I resisted the urge to pull away immediately to check it until we reached the table where we both sat down.
We ordered new drinks, and then, only then, when she was momentarily distracted, did I look at my phone.
Lily: Penthouse 1. The door will be open.
Fuck. I can’t do this again. I can’t.
Despite the thoughts screaming in my head, I pulled my gaze away from the screen and discreetly scanned the room, checking if Rozanov was still there.
He was.
Standing among other NHL big shots, trying to keep up with a conversation probably filled with more advertising plans. But his gaze kept drifting straight to me. He looked slightly tense… maybe even… pissed?
Hard to say for sure.
What I saw clearly was him setting the champagne glass down, excusing himself from the group.
— That’s strange —
The voice beside me snapped me out of it.
— What is strange? —
— Strange phenomenon. Ilya Rozanov… Party animal and notorious womanizer… leaving a gathering celebrating his greatness in the sport. Not very him, don’t you think? —
He’ll be celebrating by sinking into me so deep I’ll feel it for days… possibly even months. I wanted to say it while simultaneously scolding myself for deciding to go to him again. Fuck it. I’m weak—a weak, weak man.
— Hm. Not very on brand? I don't think so. Could it be that post-gala aren’t his priority compared to club parties?—
— You think? —
The fascinated tone of his companion—Elena? Anna? Didn’t matter. I couldn’t even remember her name. But the voice was far too fascinated.
— Uh… If you know who he and I are, then you probably know I’m not the right person to have this conversation with —
I watched a blush bloom across her face.
So she was another fan. Mine? His? One of many?
— I’m sorry, Shane, I…
I would rather not hear this.
I thought irritably as my eyes stayed fixed on him, watching as he disappeared behind the closing elevator doors.
Ping.
Lily: Are you coming? Or would you rather stay with your new company?
Fucking Rozanov. Six months of silence, and suddenly assholedecides he wants to talk.
— It’s alright, but I have to go. I’ve got a long night ahead of me —
A night I’ll spend on my knees, my back, my stomach—beneath my rival.
— It was nice meeting you. —
A brief handshake and a forced smile were all I could offer her.
To throw her off my trail before following him, I stopped by my parents, making sure their evening was going smoothly.
After fifteen minutes of conversation with my father—quietly complaining about yet another networking event for my mother—I informed them I was heading to my room to get some well-deserved sleep.
I didn’t correct him when he assumed I was crushed about losing the award.
I wasn’t.
But the pride I felt over Rozanov’s victory was something I would never share with anyone.
Don’t do it. Don’t go there.
He ignored you for months.
In Sochi, he barely looked at you… right after helping you survive and really… enjoy your first time.
Do you remember how that felt?
How did and do you still feel?
— Fuck… —I hissed quietly as I pressed the elevator button for the floor where my opponent’s room was located.
I knew exactly how this would end—with more pain—but I couldn’t resist him.
The sight that greeted me immediately sent blood rushing to places that shut down rational thought.
Rozanov stood leaning against the balcony doorframe.
His white shirt was completely unbuttoned, a glass filled with ice and vodka in hand.
With the city lights and moonlight falling over his muscular chest, he looked like a Greek god.
I’m hopeless.
Completely, utterly lost.
— So? — he asked, expression giving nothing away.
— So? — I echoed, gripping the jacket tightly. When he said nothing more, I understood.
— Congratulations —
— A! — he exclaimed, pleased. — Thank you. Take off your clothes —
Fuck, my legs are already weak.
— What? — I asked, swallowing hard, my body already trembling as it prepared to obey. As always, I couldn’t say no to him.
— I won. Now take off your clothes — I want to look at you —
— You’re an asshole —
I said it without conviction, mechanically repeating what I always did. I started undressing slowly, glancing up now and then as his eyes measured every inch of my body.
But my thoughts drifted back to the bathroom, where Rozanov spoke fluent English.
Where, despite my nerves, I gave in and begged to make me feel good.
— What’s wrong? — He asked, pulling me out of my thoughts as he noticed my nervousness.
— There are a lot of windows here—
I thought this was another nail in the coffin, but as always, sensitive to my discomfort, Rozanov scanned the entire space, walked around one of the chairs, and started dragging it toward… the bedroom?
— Come — he said, voice firm but gentle.
I followed, dressed only in boxers. In that moment, I would’ve done anything he asked.
It terrified me.
But not enough to give up on tonight.
— Lie down in the middle of the bed —
Another command I followed without protest.
— Touch yourself —
The next words stopped me mid-motion.
— What? —
— Touch yourself. I want my reward… I want to... I want to watch as you touch yourself —
There was no restraint or shame in his voice.
The thought alone made me hard, but I didn’t know what to do.
It was new, exciting, and terrifying at the same time.
— I’ve never… —
— Of course you haven’t — he replied, tone lightly mocking.
— Fuck off — I shot back automatically, a shiver running through.
— Hollander, touch yourself —
His voice was still commanding, but beneath it was a request. E
verything depended on me. His heated gaze and serious expression finally convinced me to act.
The next few minutes blurred together.
I wasn’t sure if I was really doing this or dreaming. After he mentioned the win again, I pushed my boxers down and truly started touching myself.
— Fuuuuuck… — Rozanov hissed.
I knew I was finally doing it right; his indifference melted away minute by minute. The temporary power I held was intoxicated, but it still wasn’t enough.
I want you.
I thought, picking up the pace…
— I want… — I finally said out loud, voice breaking slightly.
— What do you want? — My athletic rival picked it up instantly.
— I want… —
I can’t say it.
I can’t give myself away.
— Use your words, Hollander, and maybe I’ll give it to you — Rozanov coaxed.
— I want… You… —
When begging, humiliating words still didn’t get him out of the chair; I decided to be brutally honest.
— I need… — Fuck, I’m going to finish like this — I need you —
Finally.
Finally, I said the magic words, and Rozanov moved.
I could see he was just as aroused as I was.
He swallowed loudly, saliva mixed with a mouthful of vodka he took before undressing and walking toward the bed.
Hours passed before we stopped.
I felt wrecked from the inside, but in a good way. My muscles were limp, mind pleasantly empty.
I lay beside him with a glass of cold, but still disgusting, vodka. Despite the closeness we’d shared, I felt a chasm between us.
As if the fact that he’d spent the last few hours drilling into me over and over again, as deep as possible, kissing my back along the spine, meant nothing.
I watched his profile with fascination as smoke curled around him.
He was smoking a cigarette, even though I always scold him for it.
Tonight, I said nothing.
My thoughts drifted back to Sochi. To our last conversation.
I didn’t reply to your messages because they were boring.
I tried to convince myself it was nothing.
That tonight had happened like always, according to schedule, according to the unspoken rule of meeting whenever we were in the same place.
I decided to break the silence.
— Are you going back to Russia for the summer after the season? —
— Of course. That’s home —
Home. Where you wouldn’t even look at me for more than two seconds.
I swallowed the bitterness.
— I don’t know… Do you like it there? —
You don’t. You’re not yourself there.
— What kind of question is that? — he snapped.
— I… I don’t know. Lately—
— I’m tired. I want to sleep —
What the fuck?
I thought, stunned and hurt. I’d assumed we’d spend the night together. Instead, after rough sex, Rozanov decided to discard me like something unnecessary.
That was our arrangement, sure, but…
Where was the man who, the first time, asked every few seconds if I was okay?
Be reasonable.
You only meet for one thing.
You don’t need to stay.
— Oh. Okay. I should probably go then —
— Yeah —
What an asshole.
Tears welled in my eyes. I knew I wouldn’t let myself be that weak in front of my… sex partner? But I also knew something inside me had cracked.
After pulling myself together in the bathroom, I came out fully dressed and ready. Ready to finish this.
— That was the last time —
— What? —
Ah. Finally, a reaction. Too late.
I heard him jump out of bed, almost running into the living room.
— Hollander? What’s going on? What are you saying? —
He stopped with the couch between us.
I knew that if he came closer, I wouldn’t go through with it.
But I also knew my heart couldn’t survive another night like this.
This game had stopped being fun.
It stopped when there started to be…
— Rozanov, this was a good arrangement. A good one. But I can’t do this anymore. I… —
— Hollander, don’t be ridiculous —
— Don’t tell me what to do or how to feel. Fuck. That was the last time —
— Hollander… —
His voice was unrecognizable.
Suddenly, he was gentle. Full of emotion. The man I’d seen a few times in bed.
The one who shattered the armor around my heart and forced it to beat only for him.
Jesus fuck, I’m screwed.
— Please don’t come any closer — I said, because distance was the only protection I had left.
— I don’t understand. Did I do something you didn’t like? — he asked, lost, staring at me like I was the one hurting him.
— What? No. I mean… —
— You mean? — Rozanov’s gaze drilled into me.
— Fuck! Why do I have to explain myself to you? —
My question was met with silence, so I continued.
— You ignored me for over half a year!
Zero replies. Zero attempts to contact me.
You showed up at the gala like nothing happened, kissed me in a public bathroom where anyone could walk in on us, dragged me out because you wanted to fuck someone… and discarded.
Jesus fuck.
I feel used!
What do you want from me? I don’t have anything more to give! —
None of this was ever supposed to come out.
— Hollander, what’s happening? —
— We’re done. This arrangement doesn’t work for me anymore —
— I… What can I do? —
That question caught me off guard. Did he care about quick sex once a year? Impossible. Probably wounded pride, I reasoned.
— Fuck, Rozanov. Nothing. There’s nothing to add. Don’t text me. Don’t look for me in a crowd. Don’t contact me in any other way. You’re still not my rival, aside from whatever our marketing teams are selling, but this —
I gestured between us.
— This is done —
With a heavy heart and tears threatening to fall, I headed for the door.
— Hollander? Hollander, please… —
— Good night, Rozanov —
My voice trembled slightly as I closed the door behind.
I walked mechanically toward the elevator.
The moment it shut, warm tears streamed down my cheeks. I wiped my face with my sleeve, trying to convince myself this was the best possible decision.
I can’t meet someone just for quick sex when I’m…
I can’t let myself be used, even if I enjoy it, when I’m…
I swallowed hard.
When I’m… in love.
Fuck.
Two months later
Lily: Still mad about Vegas?
Jane: Read.
Lily: Summer in the middle of nowhere is boring. I’m reading The New Yorker.
Jane: Read.
Three months later
Lily: Big game tomorrow.
Jane: Read.
Lily: Seeing each other after?
Jane: Read.
Lily: Where was Hollander during today’s game? Because he definitely wasn’t on the ice.
Jane: Read.
Lily: Don’t do this.
Jane: Read.
Six months later
Lily: Okay, I get it now. I will always reply to you.
Jane: Read.
Lily: This is ridiculous. 1987, I will wait until 10pm.
Jane: Read.
Lily: Shane Hollander and Rose Landry?
Jane: Read.
Lily: Good for you.
Jane: Read.