ILYA ROZANOV

Ilya Rozanov fucks. No matter where he was—Moscow, Montreal, Boston— he was getting laid. Most girls in the stands would disagree with his name ranked number five on the Cosmopolitan’s hottest NHL men, but the russian was not worried. He did not need billboards and fancy modeling deals, all he needed was a good, firm mattress and a couple condoms. Maybe some vodka. Definitely a cigarette. It was one of his favorite forms of stress relief, no strings attached touching and kissing, getting bare and raw in a hotel room or a penthouse. He had been around, made a name for himself among women and men alike. He is reminded of it every time he steps foot into a Boston club with his team, practically dragged through the crowd to a dingy wooden counter. Ilya’s narrow eyes scanned the shelves