Let's bet?

      The cold air burned his lungs. The lighter clicked in his frozen hands but refused to give him a flame to light his cigarette. Ilya was starting to get annoyed, continuing to flick it. His eyes lit up with happiness when he finally saw that small, longed-for flame.       — You can’t smoke here, — came a voice from the side. Rozanov turned toward the newcomer with irritation on his face.       Devil.       — Really? — Ilya muttered in response, clamping the cigarette between his lips.       — Smoking kills.       — Uh-huh.       Silence fell. It felt unnatural. Ilya kept inhaling and exhaling vapor. The guy beside him continued standing there, staring at him. What are you still doing here, Hollander? echoed in his head.       Rozanov didn’t particularly like Shane. He didn’t hate him, just… well, how was he supposed to feel about him? That Canadian of Asian descent was his rival on the ice.             They were competitors. Their faces were always shown side by side in magazines and interviews.       If someone heard “Rozanov,” they would immediately add “Hollander.”       Their names appeared on the same line more often than grown children with their elderly parents.       On the other hand, it was fame. And for a hockey player, that was what mattered most. The more famous you were, the more money you earned.       — Are you just going to stand there and stare at me? — Ilya asked, putting out his cigarette against the brick wall.       — Sorry, I just… — Shane looked like he was trying to find the right words.       — Just what?       — Ilya, — the guy exhaled. He looked straight into Rozanov’s eyes. — You’re an incredible player. No, really! I’m amazed at how you manage to play so well.       — You’re right, — Rozanov smirked. — I am incredible. Now I need to go.       — Sorry if I made you angry or offended you, — Hollander lowered his gaze to the ground.       He looked like a puppy being scolded for breaking a vase.       Ilya turned to him. Looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.       — You won’t be this nice when we beat you.       Hollander lifted his eyes. He smiled slightly—a kind, almost gentle smile.       — You won’t.       Rozanov bared his teeth in a grin.       — Wanna bet?

***

      “The World Junior Championship final has ended with Russia’s victory!

      An incredible game, strong players, sometimes too impulsive. Ilya Rozanov, the young hockey player, managed to defeat the Canadian Shane Hollander. How will Shane respond to this loss?”       Shane leaned back against the pillows. The bed gave a faint sound, as if something heavy had fallen onto it. Hollander stared at the ceiling. The TV host’s voice faded into the background.       Wanna bet?       His thoughts kept returning to that single word.       — In the end, I still lost, — Shane shook his head.       He suddenly sat up. His gaze caught the electronic clock reading five minutes to eight.       It was already night outside. In winter, night fell faster than anyone would like.       — I need to train.       The gym was large but empty. Not a soul there except Hollander himself. Shane sighed with relief. Sometimes he needed to train in silence, without anyone else around.       He put on his headphones and turned on some playlist with French songs, then started working out.       First, he needed to warm up, so he headed straight to the treadmill. The speed wasn’t high, but enough that after five minutes he was already sweating.       One song changed to another. Shane closed his eyes, breathing loudly in and out. Drops of sweat ran down his forehead to his chin. He wiped them away automatically.       He didn’t notice when someone else appeared beside him. He was too absorbed in repeating the lyrics.       But out of the corner of his eye, Shane caught sight of very familiar blond curls, now stuck to a face damp with sweat.       Rozanov felt the stare and looked back. Shane immediately looked away and increased his speed. Ilya took it as a challenge—a mini competition—and sped up as well.       For about three minutes they tried to outrun each other on the treadmill. Both were already gasping for breath, but neither wanted to give up. Their silent war continued. Only the sound of their breathing echoed through the hall.       Shane gave in first—maybe because he had started earlier than Ilya; he didn’t know. Ilya followed right after him, nearly meeting the floor face-first.       Hollander leaned his back against the cold mirrored wall. From his hot breath, it began to fog and melt. He stared at his reflection—or rather, at what was reflected behind him. Who.       He saw Rozanov approach and sit down across from him in a lotus position. He was holding two bottles of cold water. Shane looked at them thirstily. Rozanov handed one to him; Shane immediately grabbed it and began drinking, quickly emptying it.       — Forgot your water, Hollander? — Rozanov chuckled. — I thought guys like you didn’t forget things like that.       — We all make mistakes. And you’re not the one to judge me.       — You’re right. Not me. But I still can’t keep quiet.       Silence fell again. Their heavy breathing gradually softened. The adrenaline in their blood began to cool.       Rozanov kept sitting with his legs spread, completely unbothered. For him, it was normal. But Shane couldn’t tear his eyes away.       His gaze moved from Rozanov’s face, when he thought the other wasn’t looking, downward. And it lingered too long on his crotch.       Suddenly it became too quiet. Shane quickly lifted his eyes from that intimate part of his rival and saw that he was being watched.       Hollander’s face flushed red. He blushed as if he had just run a marathon—more or less what he had done.       — Like the shorts? — Ilya asked with a smile. — Bought them at Zara.       Hollander froze. He mumbled something in response, but it seemed his companion wasn’t particularly interested.       — Yeah, the shorts.       Rozanov pressed his palms to the floor and exhaled deeply.       — Listen, Hollander, — Ilya began. —Do you remember our conversation half a year ago?       Shane tore his eyes away from the now-empty water bottle and looked at him.       — Vaguely, — the Canadian lied.       Rozanov studied him for a few seconds, as if checking whether he was lying. Apparently not seeing any signs of it, he continued:       "You were saying something about the harm of smoking and my incredible abilities." Shane went silent. Of course he remembered that conversation very well—he had replayed it in his head about twenty times before falling asleep.       — That’s when you also said something like, ‘I already know that,’ right?       — Exactly! —the Russian brightened. — And you say you don’t remember. You remember everything, Hollander. Of course. Damn it, I’ll remember it forever.       — Why did you suddenly bring it up?       — Do you remember our bet?       Hollander licked his lips—whether because they were dry or because of something else, something more secret and hidden.       — Yeah. We bet on who would win the Championship.       — And it was my team, — Ilya boasted.       — I already congratulated you.       — Oh come on, Hollander. That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about the winner of the bet. That was me.       — I know. So what do you want in the end? For me to ask for your autograph? —Shane joked.       Ilya fell silent. Shane didn’t even notice at first, lost in his own laughter.       — Let’s sleep together?