“I hate it.”
“I know. Me too.”
“I can’t believe no one has figured it out yet.”
“Well,” Ilya said, brushing a thumb over Shane’s cheek. “I am way out of your league.”
“Right.”
“Who would believe you if you told them?”
Shane punched his arm, then captured Ilya’s lips in a sweet kiss. He tasted like coffee and home, and Ilya really wished he didn’t need to leave.
“You should quit hockey,” Ilya murmured. “Send them a text. Say you quit. Stay here with me.”
“I’m not ending my career via text.”
“Email, then.”
“I have to go.”
Another long kiss, this one a little less sweet. A little more urgent. By the time they broke apart, Shane was pressed against a wall, and Ilya’s T-shirt was rucked up to his chest. Both men were breathing heavily, with flushed skin and semi-hard dicks.
“I have to—” Shane said again.
“Go. Yes.”
“Three weeks and you’ll be in Montreal, right?”
“Three weeks.”
“Not so bad.” Shane smiled sadly at him. Three weeks wasn’t such a long time, but Ilya was so goddamned tired of having their relationship sliced up into single nights with weeks between them. Two nights in a row if they were lucky.
Except the summers, when they were together almost every day, and Ilya’s soul lightened as he soaked up Shane’s proximity the same way his golden-brown hair lightened in the sun. Ilya loved hockey, but he lived for the summers now.
Summer was over. The NHL regular season officially started in two days. His soul would have to live on sun-drenchedmemories and the anticipation of stolen nights of explosive sex and tender kisses.
“I love you,” Ilya said between the deep breaths he was taking in an attempt to cool his blood.
Shane slipped out from between Ilya and the wall and squeezed his arm. “Love you too.” Shane exhaled, and Ilya politely ignored the tremor in it. “Okay. Three weeks.”
“Three weeks. Text me when you get home.”
“Of course.” Shane kissed him one more time, and then he was gone.
Chapter Seven
Dynasty.
That was the word going through Shane’s head—the word that had been repeated again and again in Montreal lately—as he watched the Stanley Cup Champions banner rise to the rafters.
It was his third banner ceremony. His third Stanley Cup win. After so many years of barely making the playoffs, Montreal had a dynasty hockey team again. And there was no reason to be modest—it had started with him.
“Doesn’t get boring, does it?” J.J. said.
They were standing together on the ice, the whole team gathered around the trophies they’d won last season, including the Stanley Cup. The crowd—a packed house, as always—was roaring with pride as the banner ascended.
“Nope,” Shane said.
