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Shane squirmed a little in the uncomfortable hotel armchair and checked his phone again. No new messages since the winky face Rozanov had sent in response to a room number, and that had been a solid 45 minutes ago.
Boston traffic wasn’t great, Shane knew, but he was getting impatient.
He thought, briefly, of heading back to his actual room, the one he shared with Hayden, the one several floors below. But he knew he was never going to do that. Instead, he’d sit perched in a stiff-backed chair, occasionally peeking in the mirror above the dresser to make sure his hair still looked okay, and wait for a knock.
Instead of that expected knock, his phone buzzed in his hand, and he quickly flipped it over and unlocked it to read Rozanov’s message.
Lily: The Walden, yes?
Shane frowned, and typed out a response.
Jane: Yes. It’s new. Do you need the address again?
Lily: No I’m here
Oh. Then why wasn’t he here, Shane wondered, his heart thumping in that Pavlovian way it did when he knew Rozanov was nearby.
Lily: But I need to swipe a key to get up to your floor
Lily: Don’t suppose you left one for “Lily” at the front desk?
Fuck. Shane dimly remembered having to swipe his keycard to get up to the room earlier, but he’d been buzzing with adrenaline after winning the game against Boston in overtime. It had been muscle memory, like when you set your wallet in its usual spot on top of your dresser but have no recollection of actually doing so. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Lily: Or else you’ll just have to come downstairs and get me
That was exactly what Shane was afraid of. It was kind of his worst nightmare, in fact: being face to face with Ilya Rozanov in the lobby of a hotel that was crawling with Shane’s teammates, coaching staff, and lord knew who else that might recognize them.
He should definitely tell Rozanov to just head back home. To forget about meeting up this time. That it wasn’t worth the risk.
Jane: I’ll be right down.
—
Ilya paced in front of the well-appointed elevator bank at the Walden, then forced himself to stop and stand still, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He did his best not to look around the hotel lobby too much as he waited.
He was glad it was cold enough to wear a toque. He wasn’t sure he’d have a great excuse for skulking around the lobby of the Voyageurs’ hotel if someone noticed him.
Speaking of one very specific Voyageur…where was Hollander?
As if on cue, Ilya’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out.
Jane: Where the fuck are you
Ilya huffed. “I’m right here,” he muttered, tapping out a quick reply.
Lily: At the elevators
Jane: Which ones?
Uhh. Ilya frowned up at the twin elevator doors in front of him, then swiveled his head to look at the reception desk. A woman with her hair in a high, tight bun smiled at him politely, and he instinctively nodded back.
Jane: There are elevators across from the reception desk and then another set around the corner by the bar
Jane: They go to different floors
Shit. Ilya was clearly standing in front of the elevator bank by reception, and given that there was no fuming, freckled Canadian to be seen, Hollander must have been at the other bank.
Lily: Why did you pick such a complicated hotel Hollander
Lily: Always so extra
Lily: Coming
He tugged his hat a bit lower and headed in the direction that he thought he remembered seeing the hotel bar.
Jane: I didn’t pick it! Team management did. Obviously.
Jane: Hurry up
Ilya couldn’t hide the little grin on his face as he read the latest messages. Hollander was always so impatient.
Currently, Ilya could relate. It had been too long since—well, since.
He spotted the bar, an upscale, stuffy-looking kind of place called the Mallard, and ducked his head when he recognized the broad shoulders of a few Voyageurs players. He made a wide arc around it and turned left down a hallway.
The first alcove he spotted turned out to be the entryway to the ladies’ room. The second, the men’s. The next, a maintenance closet. And that appeared to be it. Had he missed the elevators in his haste to get away from the bar?
“Rozanov.” The hissed voice behind him was infused with annoyance and yet still somehow set Ilya’s blood thrumming in his veins. He whirled around to see Hollander at the other end of the empty hallway, the hood of his sweatshirt making a shadow cut across his face.
“Trying to get me alone in a broom closet?” Ilya couldn’t help himself, and gestured to the door beside him. “There are more comfortable places, but okay.”
Hollander absolutely seethed. “This is such a terrible idea. Literally the worst.”
“Do you want me to leave?” Ilya offered, and he halfway meant it. At least, he would, if Hollander asked.
But instead, Hollander shook his head once, tightly. “No, just— follow me. But don’t draw any attention to yourself.”
“Be boring. Got it. Will just do my best Shane Hollander impression.”
It probably didn’t bode well for Hollander’s nerves that he didn’t even spare Ilya a withering glance at that one. Instead, he adjusted his hoodie, ducked his head, and made his way back to the area near the bar where Ilya had made the wrong turn.
Ilya dutifully followed, a few feet behind.
When they reached the part of the lobby with an open-air view into the bar, Ilya could tell precisely when Hollander noticed his teammates’ silhouettes inside. His posture tightened up, his gait stuttering. Ilya didn’t let up his pace, and brushed a shoulder against Hollander’s when he reached him.
“Just keep walking,” he murmured. “Almost there.”
A few moments later they were in front of an elevator bank—the other elevator bank, the one Ilya had somehow completely missed when he’d taken a detour down the mystery hallway. At least it was somewhat secluded, and no one else was waiting. Small miracles.
“Take a breath, Hollander,” he said softly as he pressed the button to go up, and beside him, Hollander did. Maybe he hadn’t realized he hadn’t been breathing to begin with.
“What’s taking so long?” Hollander muttered, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie. “Should we try the stairs?”
“You want to walk up sixteen flights of stairs after a game that went into overtime?”
To his credit, Hollander only looked like he was considering it, rather than diving for the privacy of the stairwell. Luckily for him (for both of them, really; Ilya knew he was in fantastic shape but that didn’t mean his thighs had sixteen flights in them at this point in the night, not when he wanted to conserve energy for...other things) the elevator bell dinged softly, the doors sliding open in front of them.
Hollander hurried in, Ilya close at his heels. The doors shut.
Ilya waited until Hollander had swiped his stupid keycard and pressed the button for the 17th floor before he lunged for him, crowding him up against the mirrored sidewall of the elevator car and crushing their lips together, swallowing down Hollander’s surprised little mmph sound.
His tongue swiped into Hollander’s mouth, hands clutching insistently at his waist and back. He figured they had a solid 45, maybe 60 seconds. Time enough to be worth it.
“Roza—” Hollander started, as Ilya shifted to kiss down the side of his neck. “There could be cameras,” he protested, but the way one of his hands had slipped under the back of the waistband of Ilya’s joggers took the bite out of it.
“Hotel security has to fry bigger fish than this,” Ilya said, capturing one of Hollander’s earlobes between his teeth.
“Bigger fish to fry,” Hollander gasped.
“Yes. Is what I said.”
Another precious few seconds passed, Ilya’s heart thudding in his chest, before the elevator bell dinged again to indicate they’d reached their floor. Reluctantly, he stepped back, but not without one last kiss to Hollander’s perfect pink mouth, fast and firm and chaste.
The doors opened, revealing a standard hotel hallway. They’d almost made it.
They walked down the hallway side by side at a quick clip—no need to tempt fate any further—and finally reached room 1712. Hollander swiped his card, and then they were safe inside at last.
Hollander heaved a sigh, and Ilya chuckled, gently pressing him back against the door and reaching out to toy with one of the strings of his hoodie. The hood had slipped off Hollander's head during their elevator activities. Ilya's other hand slid up to rest on Hollander’s shoulder, thumb stroking the skin at the side of his neck as the adrenaline of the last few minutes seeped out of his body.
“Next time,” Ilya said, then softly, too softly, dangerously softly, pressed a kiss to the corner of Hollander’s mouth. “Just come to my penthouse. Will be safer, I think.”
—
Grace let her head loll to one side, then the other, tugging her hair out of its typical high bun in the Walden’s back breakroom. It had been a long shift, but at least it was over.
“You’re covering for me tomorrow, right?” Hector asked as he pulled on his jacket. “I’ve got my kid’s recital.”
“Yeah, but you owe me.”
He winced. “I think I still owe you from the last time.”
Grace shrugged. He did, in fact, but whatever.
“Hey, did you see all those hockey players in here tonight?” Hector grinned. “I gave a restaurant recommendation to a guy with like three missing teeth. I don’t follow the NHL enough to know who they were or nothing, but still, pretty cool.”
Grace didn’t follow the NHL either, but her dad did, which meant she knew at least two or three of the Montreal Voyageurs players who had checked in with her by name, and knew a few others by face.
It also meant she recognized the Boston Bears starting center when she saw him following that cute Montreal center to the east elevator bank like a lovesick puppy.
Discretion was a cornerstone of working in the hospitality industry, so Grace wouldn’t tell her dad about it.
But still, she liked to know things. It made the job more tolerable.
“Yeah,” Grace said. “Pretty cool. Hey, have fun at Gina’s recital tomorrow, okay?”
Hector grinned. “Night, Grace. You’re the best.”
She was. She knew.