The Long Game: A Gay Sports Romance (Game Changers Book 6)
The Long Game: Chapter 38

May

Shane turned thirty in May, with very little fanfare. He celebrated at the cottage, with his parents, Ilya, and Anya. His dad barbecued hamburgers, and Shane ate two of them, washed them down with beer, and finished it all off with a big slice of chocolate cake. He’d decided he was done with fighting the future, and with trying to be perfect. He’d been an outstanding hockey player his whole life while also eating the occasional cheeseburger, and he could keep on doing that.

He was also, he’d decided, done with being a Montreal Voyageur. J.J. had apologized for even suggesting that Shane had tripped on purpose, but none of his other teammates—or his coaches—had. The media in Montreal had been vicious to Shane, and he didn’t think he could ever feel good about representing that team again.

Now, a week after Shane’s birthday, he and Ilya were just waiting until July, when the free-agent season started, to see what would happen. Shane had told Farah that Ottawa was his first choice. She hadn’t been surprised at all. Whether he ended up in Ottawa or somewhere else, whoever signed him would have to accept that they were signing Ilya Rozanov’s husband.

They’d sent out wedding invitations. It was short notice, but it wouldn’t be big and they’d hold it in Ilya’s backyard in July, a week before their charity camps started. Whoever happened to be in Ottawa could come. No pressure.

At the end of the summer, they were taking a honeymoon to Spain, because neither of them had been there and because, when Shane had worked up the nerve to ask him for vacation suggestions, Scott Hunter had enthusiastically rattled off a bunch of places there that were “gay as hell.” It would be another giant step outside of Shane’s comfort zone, but he was ready for it.

And he knew Ilya would be effortlessly spectacular in Ibiza.

Shane found Ilya in the hammock behind the cottage, gently rocking as the sun set spectacularly over the lake. It was, Shane was pretty sure, what photographers called “the golden hour.” Ilya was bathed in warm light, making his skin glow and picking out every bronze strand in his mop of curls. The playoff beard had been shaved down to his usual lazy stubble, and the ring and crucifix around his neck glinted against his bare chest. Shane wished he’d had his own phone on him so he could take a picture. No one had the right to look that perfect.

“Comfy?” Shane asked.

Ilya smiled sleepily at him. “Very.”

Shane hugged himself and rubbed his bare arms. “It’s getting cold, though.”

“Mm.” Ilya reached out his hand, and Shane took it.

“You never use this hammock,” Shane said.

“Yes, well.” Ilya didn’t finish his sentence, and Shane supposed he didn’t need to.

“I made tacos.”

“Oh yes?” Ilya sat up, and then gracefully extracted himself from the hammock in a way that seemed impossible to Shane. Whenever Shane had used the hammock, he’d basically dumped himself onto the lawn, sprawled out on his belly. “Where is Anya?”

“Asleep after that epic walk.” They held hands as they walked back up to the house. “Want to watch the game tonight?” The final round of the playoffs was starting that night, between New York and Colorado.

“Not really,” Ilya said.

Shane smiled. “Me neither.”

“Do you know what I want to do?”

“Is it filthy?”

“No. I want to make a video.”

“That sounds filthy.”

Ilya laughed and tugged Shane closer, bumping their shoulders together. “For Instagram. I want to post about us.” He stopped walking and pulled out his phone. He tapped it a few times, then held it at arm’s length in front of him.

“Oh,” Shane said. “Now?”

“Yes.” Then, after a second’s pause, Ilya cheerfully said, “Hello! I am Ilya, and this is my boyfriend, Shane. Say hello, Shane.”

“Um. Hi.”

“Shane, when are we getting married?”

“July.”

Ilya made an exaggerated surprised face. “July!”

Shane could see his own goofy, lovesick grin on Ilya’s phone screen. They hadn’t officially announced their engagement yet. “Still can’t believe it, huh?”

“We are getting married. And then we are going to keep playing hockey, break more records, and win more cups. Yes, Shane?”

“Hell yes.”

“See you in October, hockey fans,” Ilya said. Then he kissed Shane loudly on the cheek, and ended the video.

They watched it back together, and Shane had to admit they both looked pretty good, what with the perfect golden light. Also, they looked giddy with how in love they were. “I think Crowell is really going to like that video,” he said dryly.

“Fuck Crowell. I am posting it now.”

Shane still felt a twist of terror at the idea of angering the commissioner, but he quickly squashed it. They weren’t going to hide anymore. Not from anyone, and not for anyone. “God, I hope someone signs me.”

Ilya snorted. “Of course they will.”

“What if—”

“Shane,” Ilya said seriously. “Do we have to drive back to your trophy room in Montreal?”

Shane blushed. “No.”

“Or maybe you watch a YouTube video of your best goals while I blow you?”

Heat flooded Shane’s stomach. “I mean. It wouldn’t hurt to try.”

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