Page 79 of The Long Game
“Miss me?” Shane said with a laugh against Ilya’s lips.
“No,” Ilya said, then went back to kissing him.
They kept it up for a while—kissing, touching, rubbing, getting hard against each other—while Shane grew uncomfortably warm in his outdoor clothes.
“Wait,” he panted. “Let me...” He fumbled for the zipper on his jacket, not wanting to interrupt things but needing to remove some layers.
Ilya released Shane’s thigh and stepped back. His eyes were shining and his lips were swollen, and Shane regretted trying to take the jacket off.
“We should stop,” Ilya said.
“What? Why?”
“Because.” He smiled. “We need to make dinner.”
When Shane had his jacket and shoes off, Ilya took his hand and led him to the kitchen. The counter was full of fresh vegetables, a box of organic farro, and a bowl of cooked salmon.
“What’s all this?” Shane asked.
“We are cooking together. Like we used to. I found a recipe that is okay for you.”
He picked up his iPad off the counter and showed Shane the recipe. Shane read it carefully, touched that Ilya had gone to this much trouble. “Looks good,” Shane said.
Ilya beamed.
Shane went to the sink to wash his hands, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. “This is very romantic, Ilya.”
“Is just food.”
“How long did it take you to find that recipe?”
Ilya didn’t answer him.
They worked together, and it was nice. Shane missed cooking with Ilya, and regretted that his nutrition plan made it more difficult. They cooked the farro, and chopped, seasoned, and roasted the vegetables, then assembled it all into bowls, topping the grains and vegetables with chunks of salmon and fresh herbs.
“This is not bad,” Ilya conceded when they were eating at the kitchen table later. Ilya had lit a candle in the middle of the table, which Shane found adorable.
“Clean eating doesn’t have to suck,” Shane said. “I eat lots of delicious stuff.”
Ilya shot him a skeptical look, then took another bite of salmon and spiced cauliflower. “Not as good as chicken parmesan,” he said, after he swallowed.
Shane couldn’t argue that. Secretly, he’d fucking kill for some crispy chicken, smothered in cheese. Maybe with some pasta and alfredo sauce on the side. Maybe a beer to wash it down with. Some garlic bread...
But garlic bread wasn’t important. Winning was important. Playing in the NHL for as long as possible was important.
“For dessert,” Ilya said with a slight quirk of his lips, “we can look at a picture of cake.”
Shane rolled his eyes.
“Or...” Ilya leaned in suggestively. “Maybe there is something else you are craving?”
“Like your dick, you mean?” Shane asked dryly.
Ilya grinned. “Is that part of your diet?”
“Gross.”
They both laughed, and Shane’s heart flipped happily in his chest. He loved quiet, domestic moments like this with Ilya. He loved joking about sex and laughing together. He loved that Ilya had looked up a recipe and bought fussy ingredients for it. That he’d given them this moment.
