Heated Rivalry Quotes

I have been with lots of women. That was not ... fake. But ... He looked at Shane, and Shane held his breath. I have only been in love with one person.

Ilya couldn’t believe what he had been reduced to. He was...infatuated. It was disgusting.

…And I want to learn Russian. I wasn’t kidding about that.” “I’ll teach you.” Shane smiled so wide and bright, Ilya almost had to look away. “I should let you sleep,” Shane said. “Da. Yes. Okay.” And then… Shane kissed the tips of two fingers and reached out and touched them to the screen. And Ilya’s heart fucking stopped.

Ilya was wearing a Boston Bears shirt. "That's not going to help." "Oh, do they not know I play for Boston?

I give Hunter shit, but what he did was brave. Kissing his boyfriend on TV like that. And the speech at the awards.” “It was. It really…made me hopeful. That things might be changing.” Ilya shot the puck back to Shane. “It made me jealous,” he admitted. Shane laughed. "You wanna kiss me on television?" "Yes. After I win the Stanley cup." Shane spread his arms out. "Oh, so in this scenario, you've just defeated me?" "Yes. Sorry." “I’m not going to be in the mood to kiss you if I’ve just lost the Stanley Cup, Rozanov.” “But you would be so proud of me!

When their eyes had locked, he'd squeezed Ilya's fingers, just a little. That look, and that squeeze, had said so many things to Ilya. I know. We were supposed to stand alone at the top, but we will always be there together.

Hollander was damn cute when he was embarrassed. "Did you buy a building so we would have somewhere to fuck, Hollander?" [...] Hollander had bought them a fucking building.

You are very beautiful,” Ilya said. Shane smiled without opening his eyes. “Come on.” “Is the truth. Your freckles.” Ilya grazed a fingertip over his own cheek. “I am nuts about them.” “I have no idea why. I hate them.” “Noooo...” Ilya moaned. “Hollander. They are stunning.” “Stunning?” “Yes. Am I not using that word right? Very beautiful. Um...take my breath?” “Wow. Alright” “I told you...” Ilya grinned. “You love praise.” When Shane didn’t reply, Ilya said, “And you like to hog it all for yourself. You asshole.

I have ruined you," Rozanov said when they broke apart. "No one else will do.

What? I want to know about your family! All I know is your mother is Japanese or something. Probably where you get your looks." "Half of them, yes." "And your dad is... boring? Is that where you get your boring from?" Shane shook his head, but he was smiling a bit. "My dad is not boring.

Shane seemed very excited about the burgers. He had followed a recipe online. Ilya took a sip of his beer. "Why the fuck are you making eight burgers?" he asked. "That's how many the recipe was for!" "You can't do math? Cut it in half?" "Leave me alone." Instead, Ilya stood directly behind Shane and draped an arm across his chest. He kissed him behind the ear. "No", he murmured.

But,” Shane said. He had to say this next part. It had been eating away at him for too long. “You want to get married, right? To a woman, I mean. You’re not...like me. You like women. And I’m sure...Svetlana is gorgeous and fun and...all that stuff. Right?” “Yes,” Ilya said. “I do. She is. But.” “But?” Ilya shrugged, and he looked like he was possibly blushing. “I have this problem,” he mumbled. Shane waited. “I like women. I always was thinking that to get married would be nice. Kids. All of that. Someday. But...this problem will not go away.” Shane bit his lip. “Tell me about this problem.” “Is so annoying.” Ilya sighed, and Shane could see him fighting a grin. “Always I am with beautiful women. Wonderful women. Everywhere.” “Sounds rough.” “Yes. Listen. These women, they are so sexy and fun, but is no matter. I cannot stop thinking about this short fucking hockey player with these stupid freckles and a weak backhand.” “A weak backhand?” Shane couldn’t stop smiling. “Yes. And he is just so boring and he drives a terrible car and...that is my problem. All of these beautiful women and I am always wishing they were him.” Ilya bent to take his third shot. “Is terrible problem.” Fuck. Shane was going start crying right here in his games room. He swallowed and steadied himself. “Do you want the problem to go away?” “No,” Ilya said seriously, looking Shane dead in the eye. “I do not want the problem to ever go away.

There was something a little creepy about sitting in this small pool of light in the middle of total darkness. It was so eerily quiet - just the crackling of the fire, the occasional lap of water from the lake, and - A fucking wolf. That was a fucking wolf howl. "What the fuck was that?" Ilya said. He couldn't conceal the terror in his voice. But who the fuck cared, because they were surrounded by hungry wolves! Shane laughed. "It's a loon." "A what?" "A loon!" Shane was really laughing now. "It's a bird. Like a duck, kind of. Oh my god, you thought it was a wolf!" "What the fuck bird makes a noise like that?" "A loon!" Shane said again. Then he doubled over in hysterics. Ilya wanted to push him into the fire. "Fuck you and your loon!" Ilya said. "Stupid Canadian wolf bird.

In the car, Shane told his parents that he had been talking to Ilya Rozanov. “What’s he like?” his mother asked. “Kind of a dick,” Shane said.

Unfortunately, the move also caused him to smash Ilya in the face with his ass.

And...like I said. We’re an hour away from each other. All year.” He wanted Ilya to see this vision as clearly as he could. It seemed tantalizingly possible. Easy, even. “And you’d be in Canada. And you could apply for citizenship eventually.” “Yes. I understand that part.” “And maybe...someday. When we both retire. We can...be together. For real.” Ilya looked stunned by that part. “You really think that far ahead, Hollander?” “I do about this.” “You want that? To be together?” “I do. So much it terrifies me.” Ilya turned his face away from Shane, and was silent. Cold dread flooded Shane’s stomach; he had admitted too much." “But Ilya turned back and quickly rolled on top of Shane and was kissing him and kissing him and kept murmuring the same thing in Russian over and over again until he pulled back and translated: “I love you.” Shane froze. And then Ilya froze. “Holy shit,” Shane whispered. It wasn’t how he had meant to respond. “I...” Ilya’s eyes were so wide and so scared. “I love you too,” Shane said. Ilya gave a shaky smile and exhaled. “Thank Christ.” “Does it...does it feel like agony for you too?” Ilya started to nod, then stopped. He shook his head slowly instead. “Not anymore.

Ilya smiled to himself. He actually loved this. He loved being on the road, and disappointing home crowds across North America. He loved the insults, the booing, and, most of all, the sound of a crowd so gutted by his team's performance that they couldn't even bother to boo. A winded, humiliated crowd. That was Ilya's favorite sound.

I have been thinking...” Ilya said. He’d never said any of this out loud before. He maybe hadn’t even formed it altogether in his head before. “I am a free agent, after next season.” He definitely had Shane’s full attention now. “You’d leave Boston?” “I have just been thinking. Maybe...a Canadian team.” “Holy shit, really?” “Yes.” “Like where?” Ilya could see the thoughts play out on Shane’s face like a movie: What if we played together in Montreal? No. Montreal couldn’t afford both of us. “Not Montreal,” Ilya said gently. “No. I know.” But good god, now Ilya was imagining that. Playing together, living together, being together. It was never going to happen. But it was a nice thought.

Prologue October 2016—Montreal

There had always been small rivalries between us, but never before such an open display of hostility. With a sip of tea, I persuaded myself that we were all simply overreacting. Actors are by nature volatile—alchemic creatures composed of incendiary elements, emotion and ego and envy. Heat them up, stir them together, and sometimes you get gold. Sometimes disaster.

His mother looked at him sympathetically. “When the right one comes along, you’ll know,” she said. And Shane chickened out. Because he couldn’t tell them that the right one had come along, and it was the pissed-off Russian man who was currently heading the penalty box on their television.

Italy still has a provincial sophistication that comes from its long history as a collection of city states. That, combined with a hot climate, means that the Italians occupy their streets and squares with much greater ease than the English. The resultant street life is very rich, even in small towns like Arezzo and Gaiole, fertile ground for the peeping Tom aspect of an actor’s preparation. I took many trips to Siena, and was struck by its beauty, but also by the beauty of the Siennese themselves. They are dark, fierce, and aristocratic, very different to the much paler Venetians or Florentines. They have always looked like this, as the paintings of their ancestors testify. I observed the groups of young people, the lounging grace with which they wore their clothes, their sense of always being on show. I walked the streets, they paraded them. It did not matter that I do not speak a word of Italian; I made up stories about them, and took surreptitious photographs. I was in Siena on the final day of the Palio, a lengthy festival ending in a horse race around the main square. Each district is represented by a horse and jockey and a pair of flag-bearers. The day is spent by teams of supporters with drums, banners, and ceremonial horse and rider processing round the town singing a strange chanting song. Outside the Cathedral, watched from a high window by a smiling Cardinal and a group of nuns, with a huge crowd in the Cathedral Square itself, the supporters passed, and to drum rolls the two flag-bearers hurled their flags high into the air and caught them, the crowd roaring in approval. The winner of the extremely dangerous horse race is presented with a palio, a standard bearing the effigy of the Virgin. In the last few years the jockeys have had to be professional by law, as when they were amateurs, corruption and bribery were rife. The teams wear a curious fancy dress encompassing styles from the twelfth to the eighteenth centuries. They are followed by gangs of young men, supporters, who create an atmosphere or intense rivalry and barely suppressed violence as they run through the narrow streets in the heat of the day. It was perfect. I took many more photographs. At the farmhouse that evening, after far too much Chianti, I and my friends played a bizarre game. In the dark, some of us moved lighted candles from one room to another, whilst others watched the effect of the light on faces and on the rooms from outside. It was like a strange living film of the paintings we had seen. Maybe Derek Jarman was spying on us.

Um, and this is….Ilya. Rozanov. You probably know that.” “Hi,” Ilya said. “And he’s been…visiting. He’s…we’re, um…” What were they, exactly? It occurred to Shane that he and Ilya hadn’t even figured out what label they were comfortable with. “Lovers,” Ilya offered. Fuck, way to choose the grossest possible word, Ilya. Well, there was no going back from that word. Shane could only wait for the aftermath. “But…you hate him,” Mom said. “No, I…don’t. I mean. Sometimes I do, kinda. But mostly I..love him. Actually.” “You..what?

We’re really going to do this, aren’t we?” The statement was vague, but Ilya understood. “Yes. If you want to try this, I will do what I need to do.” “I will too. Anything. I want this. I want us.” Ilya brushed Shane’s hair out of his eyes. “Then I am moving to Ottawa, I think.” “And we’re starting a charity.” “And we will become friends.” “And we’ll see each other all the time. As much as possible. And spend the summers together. Here.” “Yes.” They kissed again. Ilya couldn’t believe they had solved this impossible problem. Maybe it wouldn’t go as smoothly as they imagined, but it was a plan. “And when I retire,” Ilya said, “after I have won twelve Stanley Cups and thirteen MVP awards—” “The hell you will.” “And you have been retired for, like, eight years already because you got very bad at hockey...” Shane laughed. “Okay.” “Then I will bring you to that dock out there. I will have hundreds of candles all over it...” “That sounds like a fire hazard.” “Is on the water, Hollander. Fucking relax. Will be beautiful, you will love it. The candles. The lake. The full moon.” “Oh, is it a clear night?” “Yes. Of course. And I will get on one knee—” “Ilya—” “And I will say, ‘Shane Hollander, will you please marry me so I can become Canadian citizen faster?’” Shane burst out laughing, and shoved him. “You’re such an asshole.” “And you will say yes, because you are a nice, helpful guy.” “No,” Shane said, taking his hands. “I will say yes because I will still be madly in love with you. And I’ll want to spend the rest of my life with you.” - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry

The text is candid about the dangers. In the heat of the moment, R. Yoĥanan and Resh Lakish both say things they subsequently regret, with devastating consequences. But R. Yoĥanan remains insistent that the search for truth can be no less important than the truth itself, that scholarship thrives on challenge, and that, as the sages put it, “rivalry between scribes increases wisdom

The thought hit him that this was it. This was going to be his sex life now. No more meaningless—but undeniably hot—one-night stands. No more booty calls while he was on the road. He was going to give it all up for this chance