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The locker room air was like ice against his blazing skin. Shane sucked in a breath, one hand white-knuckled in the towel around his waist. He strode to the locker that he'd left his clothes in hours before, back when this had just been another promo shoot.
(Although, even then, it had been a promo shoot with Ilya Rozanov, who had looked at him in that tiny LA hotel gym like he was daring Shane to crawl across the distance between them and kiss him until they were both breathless.)
Shane dropped his forehead against the locker door, the cold metal a welcome relief against the heat roaring through his entire body. He closed his eyes, but instantly, he was back in the shower room, Ilya Rozanov watching him with dark, knowing eyes as he washed further and further down his chest until his hand wrapped around-
He jerked away from the locker and only resisted slamming his head back against it because he knew Ilya would hear him.
Not here, he'd said.
Not here.
He could have said, What the fuck do you think you're doing? He could have said, You're fucked up. He could have said, Stop.
But he hadn't.
He'd said, "Not here."
Because he hadn't wanted Rozanov to stop. He'd wanted to watch Rozanov jerk himself to leaking, wanted him to saunter over the tiles to where Shane was standing, wanted him to fist that large, clever hand around Shane's stupid, treacherous dick and make him cum while Shane gasped into his mouth.
Groaning, Shane wiped a rough towel over his skin with brutal force, not actually caring if he was dry before he shoved sticky limbs into his sticky clothes. He refused to be caught naked by Ilya again; he couldn't trust what his body would do.
It had already betrayed him once, had shown Rozanov his darkest, dirtiest secret right there in the locker room shower, and Shane had been helpless to stop it. He still felt the leaden dread in his stomach when he'd glanced down and realised his dick was half-hard just from the way Ilya had been looking at him. Had been inviting Shane to look back. Holy shit, the air had felt electric and thick and so fucking intense. He'd been so caught up in it, he hadn't even noticed how fast his body was reacting to it. Not until Rozanov had.
But insanely (terrifyingly) (exhilaratingly), Rozanov hadn't said a word. He'd just done that.
Shane dropped onto the bench, ignoring the way the seat of his pants felt uncomfortably damp, and thrust his foot into a sock. If he left now, he'd be able to avoid Ilya and this entire situation altogether. After all, Rozanov had been the one jerking it in the shower, not Shane. All that Shane had done was get a little bricked up, and that could have been about anything. Guys reacted to stuff all the time: adrenaline, excitement, remembering their girlfriend going down on them. (Shane had never gotten hard thinking about a girlfriend going down on him, but he knew it happened. Sometimes. To other people.)
The point was, there was nothing keeping Shane in this room if he wanted out. He could grab his shoes, find his mom and go back to the hotel like nothing had ever happened. Go back to hanging out with teammates. Go back to dancing with pretty girls in bars. Go back to never having his whole body hum from the challenge in Rozanov's eyes.
Shane sucked in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut for just a second as he tried to wrestle the thought away. It was a bad idea. It was such a phenomenally bad idea. If anyone, if a single person saw what was happening, if they were caught, Shane's entire career could go up in flames before it had even begun. Just the fact that it was a man would be enough. But for the man to be Rozanov…
Shane had to put a stop to it now. Today. Before it could get any worse. This wasn't what he was supposed to want. This wasn't what Rozanov was supposed to want. This was the kind of shit spat out in insult inside every locker room Shane had ever known. This was the kind of shit that sent gloves flying across the ice in a blaze of fury. This was the kind of shit that made you less of a man.
(Rozanov didn't seem like less of a man. Shane didn't know how anyone could think of Rozanov as anything but.)
But Shane couldn't just leave; that wasn't fair. Shane could only imagine how panicked he'd have been if Rozanov had walked out after he'd seen the way Shane reacted to him, if he'd been left not knowing how Rozanov would use that information. Who he might tell. He had to make sure Rozanov knew Shane wasn't going to say anything to anyone.
And then he would leave.
Definitely.