Chapter Text
Shane knew Ilya thought he was boring and uncreative. That while he might go along with Ilya’s ideas about how to have “fun” together, he rarely was the initiator. But that had been the fearful, romantically uncertain and much less experienced Shane, not the real one who was an NHL star, in full control of all other aspects of his life, and now entering what he considered full adulthood. In the last few weeks he had a whirlwind relationship with a superstar actress, come to grips with his own sexuality, unpacked how he felt about Ilya, and then had bravely steered his relationship with Rozanov—no, no, ILYA—into a new phase.
But truth be told, after years of stolen moments (in which they were not talking much), and chirpy or sexty texts, he and Ilya still didn’t know each other too well. So it wasn’t completely crazy that Shane began to worry about whether Ilya might start to think, now that they were trying to use their mouths more to talk rather than on each other, that he was a tad staid.
But hey, he thought, his mind working a million miles an hour as Ilya puttered in the kitchen, they had a game that night, he had shown up here contrary to all of his pre-game self-imposed rules, he was in Ilya’s bed with a couple hours until he needed to be back at the hotel, and he wanted to surprise Ilya by doing something … out of character.
The handcuffs were just sitting in the drawer. Along with a few other odds and ends — fingernail clippers (ew, did he clip his nails in bed?), tiger balm, some various tubes with Cyrillic letters, some silk scarves. Shane had never actually held handcuffs before. They were surprisingly heavy-duty, definitely not Halloween-costume quality. He turned the key, loosening the cuffs. He clipped one of them over his wrist, then snapped it together. These must have belonged to a real Boston cop. Irish, he supposed, that’s what they always were in movies. He wondered if the owner of the cuffs was a he or she, and if he or she had gotten into trouble for misappropriating equipment.
Ilya came back to the room with a Coke and a ginger ale. Shane pulled the sheet over his hands, hiding them, heart beating wildly. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, or how Ilya would react to this. They hadn’t ever done anything like this before. They’d never had time to do anything like this before. He guessed one person normally used the cuffs, and the other did, well, whatever the other person wanted to do. He had something more romantic in mind.
“Thirsty?” Ilya asked, climbing up on the foot of the bed and snaking his way toward Shane.
Shane waited until Ilya reached over him, setting the cans on the nightstand.
“Thirsty for something,” Shane said, momentarily distracted by Ilya’s throat. He caught Ilya’s bicep with his free hand and then drew out his cuffed hand from under the sheet, quickly locking the other end to Ilya’s wrist.
“Holy fuck,” Ilya said, eyes widening in delight. “You found these in the drawer?”
“Yup,” Shane said languidly, dangling the key in front of Ilya’s eyes. “I was stealing from you, and now you must punish me. But I thought it’d be more fun if we decided the punishment together.”
Ilya made a guttural noise and brought their handcuffed hands together over Shane’s head, and then shimmied up his belly.
Shane flicked the key toward the nightstand with his free hand, but misjudged the distance. Adrenaline, he thought, subconsciously assessing his athletic abilities. The key skittered across the table and fell off the other side.
“Shit,” he said, half-lifting himself off the bed, trying to see where it went.
They heard a metallic clink.
“Oh shit,” Ilya said, his eyes wide but still crinkled at the edges in laughter. He dragged Shane up off the bed, his left and Shane’s right wrists attached. He pulled Shane over to the edge of the bed, and they both peered over to where the key had disappeared.
Down the HVAC vent.
“Maybe it didn’t go all the way down,” Shane said. “Like maybe there is a catch under there.”
Ilya pulled him further over and then almost off the bed face-first so he could put his face down to the vent. “Can I just pull this cover thing off?”
“I think so?” Shane asked, regaining his balance and crouching behind Ilya. Ilya grasped the vent cover and lifted it, then looked in.
“It goes straight down,” he said. “I don’t see it. Where is the other end, Mr. Real Estate?”
Shane frowned. “Well I guess it would somehow get into your HVAC system.”
“HVAC? What is that?”
“Like, heating ventilation air conditioning. Your furnace or your AC,” Shane said, shaking his head. “But without a snake, I don’t know how we would know where it would be in there.”
“Snake, I do not know this either. Other than serpent-snake creature, which I do not have.”
“It’s a tool,” Shane sighed. “You wouldn’t have one. A worker would fish around with it to find something way down the …” Ilya pulled them both up, and sat back on the bed, scratching his ear. He looked down at their wrists, then at Shane.
“I … I’m so sorry,” Shane stammered. “I thought … I thought …”
“You thought it would be exciting,” Ilya said, lying back, and staring at the ceiling. “Yes, Hollander, this is—exciting.”
Shane’s breaths started to come faster. What the fuck were they going to do? They were shackled together. They were kind of dressed, thank God, but anyone they called would immediately understand what had been happening. Even if they weren’t half-dressed and LOCKED TOGETHER, and had just—oh, like started a fire or something and needed to call the fire department—the firefighters would find it just a bit odd that Shane Hollander was hanging out with Ilya Rozanov at his house, hours before a game. But if that had happened, Shane would have slipped out and left Ilya to deal with things. Which would have been terribly cowardly and certainly would have revealed something weak about his moral character, but … shit, he needed to get back in the game here.
“I don’t suppose you have another key,” Shane stammered. “Or another pair with a key?”
“How kinky do you think I am?” Ilya asked. “Only one pair. Was just one experiment. It was …”
“I really don’t want to know,” Shane groaned.
“… really exciting, though,” Ilya said dreamily. “Would have been fun. We could still …”
“Absolutely not,” Shane said. “Um, let me google.” He rolled to where his phone was, pulling Ilya across him.
“No use,” Ilya said. “My family … is police … knows some about these. Only thing that can open is another key or, what you call, cutters …”
“Bolt cutters?” Shane asked.
Ilya shrugged, “… and, like snake, I do not have bolt cutters here. Even if I did, I’m not sure how we could cut these ourselves. Hard to get … I don’t know … angle, I guess.”
Shane felt heat rising in his chest. The alarm on his phone chimed, reminding him to call a car to take him back to the hotel. He pulled Ilya up to a sitting position. “Rozanov, stick with me, we have to get these off. What can we do?”
“We are going to have to call someone,” Ilya said calmly.
Shane’s heart sank. But he knew Ilya was right. But who could they call? Probably not the person who these cuffs had belonged to. Though he was still very curious about that.
“Emergency services?” he asked. He could see photos secretly taken by the rescue person splashed all over the internet. This was how their relationship was going to come crashing down, before they had even had a chance to really get things started. Not to mention their careers. But maybe there were privacy laws, or maybe he could call his mom and get her to figure out an NDA or threaten the fire department or whatever. That sounded very American. He shook his head, trying to regain focus.
“No, I think, there is really only one option,” Ilya said, craning his neck to try to see his phone where it was lying on the floor. “Svetlana.”
Svetlana. Elusive and mysterious Svetlana. Daughter of legendary goalie, seller of fantastic cars, beautiful (according to Ilya), and his best, most loyal friend, sometimes-lover. Shane knew a tiny bit about her. Kinda despised her from what he knew. He had no idea if or what she knew about him. Was it better to risk someone they knew learning about their relationship, or would it be better to chance an emergency call?
No, Ilya was right. Here in Boston, everyone would recognize Ilya Rozanov—if not from the Raiders ads then from the Dunkin ones—and any hockey fan would recognize Shane Hollander, and there was absolutely no excuse he could think of that would come close to explaining their predicament in a chaste way. Svetlana was the right answer. He just hoped she was truly a friend and not a jealous hater. Because she would immediately clock the situation.
Shane swallowed hard and looked down. He was wearing sweats at least. Ilya was wearing Adidas track pants. Neither of them wore shirts. They wouldn’t be able to get shirts on with their wrists latched together. The bed was a mess. Their bodies were a mess. Ilya was staring straight up at the lofted ceiling, lips pressed together tightly. He looked like he might be praying. He started to mutter in Russian, playing with his cross.
“Rozanov. Ilya. That’s OK. I trust you—and her. I mean, I think it’s our only option,” Shane said, trying to stem the panic rising in his chest. He knew he was the more anxious of them, but what if Ilya also was freaking out? One of them had to keep a level head. And Shane was the one who got them into this mess, he had to hold it together and not spiral. “Do you want me to call her? Do you know her number?”
Ilya squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his forehead. Shane realized he could only count a few times where he had seen Ilya even slightly stressed. Tampa, when he talked about his family a bit. The last time Shane was here and Ilya had been on the phone with his dad. Maybe, thinking way back, that one time on the rooftop after the Rookie of the Year debacle. Ilya was assholey, yes. Chirpy, of course. Intimidating, obviously. But usually Shane was locked in his own head. He thought again about how little time they had spent together doing things that weren’t sex. Shane always felt deeply uncool with Ilya, other than when they were fucking. And Ilya didn’t do a lot, other than when they were screwing around, to disabuse the notion, what with all the “boring” and “pretty” and “no shit, Hollander.” What if he was so angry at Shane, he would think he wasn’t worth the trouble? Or he was just now seeing that Shane was an actual moron? All of Shane’s social anxieties started percolating in his mind.
“I—I—I am such an idiot. I know I fucked this up,” Shane babbled. “I am not worried about Svetlana. I wanted to meet her anyway, get a good look at my competition.”
Ilya looked over at Shane, his eyes now open and bright. Ilya drew in a breath, and Shane saw the edges of his mouth start to turn up. “No competition,” he said. “Don’t have a panic attack, Hollander. But yes, you are an idiot. Maybe, cute trying to play together, also. And yes, Svetlana is a safe person. I just need … a moment. To think what to say to her.”
Shane felt the weight lift from his chest. He drew in a shaky breath, and blew it out slowly. Before he could do or say anything else, Ilya leaned over the edge of the bed and picked up his phone. “Hey Siri, call Sveta,” he said into it.
“Calling Svetlana Vetrova,” the phone parroted back obediently and much, much too quickly.
* * *
Shane hadn’t understood most of what Ilya said on the phone It was rapid-fire, machine gun Russian from Ilya’s end. Demanding, low-pitched and firm. Shane understood “bolt cutters” and got the impression that Svetlana was in the middle of something, like work probably, and Ilya was trying to coach her through making some kind of excuse to escape from wherever she was as soon as she could. He watched as Ilya twirled his right hand in the air, grasping in the air for words. He was an expressive talker. They had maneuvered onto their backs again, not looking at one another, and Ilya kept jolting Shane’s right hand as he used his left to drive points home. Shane could hear a feminine voice through the speaker, the Russian accelerating as Ilya’s urgency began to take hold.
“Goddammit, Ilyusha!” she hissed as she disconnected the call.
He sighed, briefly closing his eyes. “She’s on her way,” he said. “Hopefully 20 minutes.”
Shane calculated the time again. He was well past the time he planned to call a car, at least 30 minutes back to the hotel. He might need to go right to the arena. He’d make a call on whether to call Hayden to tell him—oh God, what would he tell Hayden, Hayden knew he was with Boston Lily—when Svetlana got there. Or didn’t get there and they went with Plan B, which he assumed would be the fire department.
Shane sat up, and Ilya had to follow. “Let’s clean up a bit, yeah?” Shane suggested, starting to move into pre-game mode. This was so far from his normal pre-game routine that he found it difficult to believe he actually had to play a game tonight, against Boston no less. But he had to start getting in the right frame of mind at some point and it might as well be now.
Ilya sighed, but nodded once, head down. “Give me orders, Captain Hollander,” he said, only half-joking.
“Okay, let’s, um, make the bed.” He scooted off the side of the bed, pulling Ilya with him. He yanked up the duvet with his left hand, and whacked the pillows up in some sense of order against the headboard. He led Ilya around to the other side of the bed, and did the same. He surveyed the room, swiping evidence of their day from the top of the nightstand into a trash can, and then throwing some tissues on top for good measure.
“Come ‘ere,” he said, tapping Ilya on the chest. He pulled him into the bathroom, where he took a washcloth, ran warm water over it, and dabbed it first on Ilya’s face, then his neck, then his chest, then his stomach, then his …
“Stop, Hollander,” Ilya said. “Don’t make me hard before we have a guest.” Shane bit his lip, realizing he was turning himself on too. He nodded curtly, ran the washcloth under the water again, cooler this time, and roughly did the same to himself, swiping quickly under his waistband.
“How’s the rest of the house look?” Shane asked.
“Fine, fine,” Ilya said, grabbing the washcloth and catching spots on himself that Shane missed. He looked at himself and Shane in the mirror, a grin beginning to form. “I mean, I think it’s going to be pretty obvious to Sveta what was going on.”
“Does she know about us?” Shane asked. He’d never asked before.
“I don’t think so,” Ilya said. “She knows there is a Jane. I don’t think she knows it’s you.”
“Same,” Shane said.
Ilya frowned. “What?” he asked, confused.
“Oh, I mean, Hayden, you know, he’s my closest friend. He knows about Lily. But obviously not that it’s you.”
They had wandered back out of the bathroom and Ilya led them to the kitchen, where he began putting food into the fridge one-handed while Shane trailed behind. Shane thought he would take the opportunity to diss Hayden like he normally did, but was surprised when Ilya firmly shut the refrigerator and turned to face him.
“Does he know Lily is not a woman?” Ilya asked, suddenly serious.
“Um, no,” Shane said. “Does Svetlana know Jane is a man?”
“I think so, yes,” Ilya said. “But I never told her. She knows, about me, my types, though. I mean, that I’m bi.”
“Oh,” Shane said. “I mean, I guess if you and she have … or were … you know, together for awhile, she would know about your types.” At least that part would not be a complete shock to her then.
“She likes you. She will probably be excited to meet you,” Ilya said, choosing not to elaborate on what they had or hadn’t done, or had or hadn’t been, in the past. But he looked sidelong at Shane from where he had been checking something on his phone to gauge his reaction.
“Yeah, uh, you told me something like that the last time we were here,” Shane said, uncomfortable, remembering how that conversation had been part of a very strange and sad afternoon for him.
“You still have not told anyone else you’re gay,” Ilya said, pushing Shane lightly over to the couch in the living room.
Shane had not even said the word “gay” since Ilya’s Tampa hotel room. “Well, Rose knows,” he said. “But not about you.” They hadn’t talked about this, how Rose was the springboard that Shane had landed on after he had run out on Ilya, and the one that launched Shane back to Ilya. It still seemed too vulnerable to discuss.
Ilya studied his face. “It’s nice for someone to know. You know, someone more, um, neutral than me. But she is busy and far away, yes? Would you like to tell Hayden?”
“Do, like, your teammates know you’re bi?” Shane asked, too defensively for the spirit in which Ilya had gently asked. “Hayden and I are friends, but we also work together.”
Ilya ducked his head. “Touché,” he said lightly. “I don’t think they would care, though.”
Shane huffed out a heavy breath. “Unfortunately I don’t think that’s the case for me. And you … you …” he faltered, feeling sorry for the way he answered the question, when he could tell Ilya was testing future scenarios, ones where they could actually start becoming a couple, start sharing their feelings about each other with others. They sat down on the couch. Shane traced a figure eight over the top of the handcuffs, then against Ilya’s skin underneath.
“What?” Ilya said, knocking his forehead against Shane’s. Shane was rather surprised, considering Ilya’s penchant for changing the subject, that he wasn’t letting this go.
“You … have, like, a presence. I don’t—” Shane shook his head miserably.
Ilya waved his hand and snorted dismissively. “Hollander, you have been captain for how many years, led your team to two cups, MVP, Olympics, rookie of the year …”
Shane smiled in spite of himself as Ilya tallied Shane’s credentials, but shook his head. “No, I mean, people respect you, even if you are an asshole. You are confident. Off the ice, not just on it. With the press, with your teammates. I know what to do on the ice, I know that’s what I can do. But off the ice, you know, in life—I’m just not … like you. And every year it gets worse with the pressure and expectations, I just kind of feel like there is just this growing gap in who people think I am and who I actually am.”
Ilya looked thoughtful. “I see what you say,” he said, “but, I do not agree.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “Look, I appreciate it, but at least let’s be honest. You could pretty much tell people you’ve committed murder and they’d just throw up their hands and say, ‘That crazy Rozanov.’ Plus, you can be fucking scary and I don’t think anyone would mess with you if you came out. Your teammates would probably toast you and try to copy you.”
“You know phrase, ‘fake it til you make it’ right?” Ilya said, pulling Shane to his chest. “It’s true I have that kind of image. But, I think you know better than anyone, that I am not good about talking about what’s in my heart.”
Shane gulped, and nodded.
“And my team, yes, I think they would be OK, because they are good guys. Not because of how I said it, or how I answer questions at a press conference, or what you say, presence. Or how many awards or cups I win. And if your team, or just Hayden, are good guys, they will be OK too. And don’t say you are not a leader, maybe different from me, but your guys respect you, and that’s what’s important. Even my guys respect you. The whole league respects you, Captain Hollander. If you don’t believe me, I will have to make you do daily affirmations.”
“Oh my God,” Shane laughed, “Do you do them?”
“What do you think, do I need them?” Ilya smiled, smoothing Shane’s hair back from his forehead.
“Definitely not.”
They were smiling at each other when they heard a sharp rap at the door and looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows to see Svetlana Vetrova standing on the doorstep.
She was, objectively, beautiful, Shane thought. Definitely Ilya’s type. Or more like an Ilya in female form. Very Euro, very sleek, very intimidating, very formidable. She wore a black trench coat and very high red stilettos. And she was carrying a large set of bolt cutters.
She punched the code into the lock, clearly having done it many times before. Then she pushed open the door like she was making a theatrical entrance and slowly lowered her Pucci sunglasses with one bright red, extremely long fingernail. Her eyes narrowed—more like zeroed—first on Ilya, who had an inscrutable, slightly bemused, slightly embarrassed expression on his face as he sunk farther back into the sofa cushions. Her ice-blue eyes then skittered over to Shane. She arched one plucked brow.
“Hello, Jane Hollander,” she said, her voice low and sultry.
“Um, you can call me Shane,” he said.
“All right, Shane,” she said, winking. Ilya shrugged as if to say, he is who he is. “But habits die hard after all these years of catching little glimpses of ‘Jane’ while Ilyusha is texting you.”
Unlike Ilya, she did not have much of an accent. She had grown up in Boston, after all, but she didn’t have a Boston accent either.
“Sveta,” Ilya said, sitting forward and holding up the wrist chained to Shane’s. “I wish we had more time for introductions and for you to get to know Hollander, but we are running a bit, uh, behind. Can we do this later?”
“Is that a promise,” Svetlana stated rather than asked, pointing the bolt cutters at Ilya’s chest.
“Of course,” Ilya said softly and seriously.
Svetlana glided over to the couch. “Stand up, boys, and hold out your hands,” she ordered. They did. She put the bolt cutters down on the coffee table, and then picked through her designer bag. She pulled out her phone.
“Oh hey, hey,” both Shane and Ilya immediately stammered.
“Oh Jesus,” Svetlana rolled her eyes, looking at Ilya with a disappointed expression. “Relax. I am not going to photograph you.” She set the phone down on the coffee table next to the bolt cutters and then pulled out a keyring. “I am going to try to unlock you before I ruin my manicure using those—” she jutted her pointed chin at the bolt cutters “—things.”
She flicked to the smallest key on the ring. “Hands, give,” she said.
They stuck their hands out obediently, glancing at each other.
She leaned over and inserted the key into the lock. The cuffs fell open.
“And someday you will promise to tell me why you have handcuff key on key ring,” Ilya said, rubbing his wrist.
“Ah, no, no deal,” she said, dropping her keyring back into her bag, followed by her phone.
Shane actually did not want to know why she might have had a key to Ilya’s handcuffs. It was getting very late, and he needed to be much closer to TD Garden than he currently was.
After a beat, Ilya took command. “Sveta, can you drive Hollander to … wherever he needs to go? I need to dress and we cannot, you know, be seen together.”
Svetlana looked Shane up and down. “I will take care of Hollander,” she said smoothly.
Shane was already pulling on a shirt, shoes and his hoodie, stuffing his wallet into the pocket of his sweats. He was not going to make it back to the hotel in time to put on his suit.
“I’m going to need to go straight to the ice,” Shane said, a panic starting to rumble in his stomach. He never had to figure out where to go to get to an away game before. His team always had some kind of transportation that took them right through security to an entrance.
“Here,” Ilya said, flinging a pass at Svetlana. “Is pass for the garage. Just show to security, go in, drop him off.”
Svetlana looked annoyed. “I’m familiar with the process,” she said. “Hollander, let’s go. Boston traffic is not friendly this time of day.”
Shane nodded and looked for Ilya, but he had already disappeared back into his bedroom.
Svetlana sold luxury cars, and she drove one, too. A red Ferrari 488GTB with heavily tinted windows. At least no one could see in, but no one would miss seeing him get out at the stadium. He bent to get in the passenger side, slightly pleased to find the inside as pristine as the exterior. He had never driven anywhere with Ilya, but he had a feeling that Ilya’s cars had detritus like Dunkin cups, crumbs and maybe even cigarette butts in them.
But after just a few minutes riding shotgun with Svetlana, he decided that he might still rather be riding with Ilya because Svetlana was an absolute terror of a driver. She did not speak, but turned on some kind of heart-thumping EDM and tapped her index fingers with their pointy red nails to the beat on the steering wheel. He wanted her to hurry, but she was driving like she was a Formula 1 racer on amphetamines. At least, she tried to do that until they hit traffic. Shane glanced at the navigation on the console, and saw the estimated time to destination creeping up from 22 minutes to 25 minutes to 28 minutes.
A text alert broke through Shane’s anxiety.
HAYDEN: Hollander WTF r u
Shane realized there were several other missed texts, and braced himself against the dash as Svetlana tried and failed to swerve around a car that was inexplicably stopped in the right lane.
“Fucker,” she said, and muttered some additional invectives in Russian as she gave the finger out her window to a lobster delivery van driver who refused to let her merge.
SHANE: Sorry. Got held up. Meeting you at TD. Can u bring my game bag.
The equipment managers handled the real equipment, but all the players brought a bag with their personal items to the rink. He watched the typing bubbles start and stop. Hayden knew about Boston Lily, but Boston Lily had never interfered with hockey commitments, so Hayden never really pressed Shane on who she was or what they were to each other. But then again, Shane had never been so reckless to hang out with Boston Lily on the afternoon of a game. And until recently, Shane would have still called it casual. Hayden would certainly want to know a whole lot more now.
HAYDEN: OK.
Shane frowned, the answer not being what he expected. Maybe Hayden was just rushed now having to worry about Shane’s gear in addition to his own. Maybe he should offer something up to keep him from guessing. He was so bad at lying.
“Everything OK over there?” Svetlana asked, side-eyeing him. Time to arrival still 28 minutes, even though a couple had gone by.
“Oh uh, sure,” Shane said unconvincingly. He shifted in his seat, feeling like he was riding in a go-cart. A very expensive go-cart that should be able to go very fast but wasn’t right now because it was already rush hour in Boston.
“Are you texting a teammate? What are you going to tell him? I definitely want to hear this excuse,” Svetlana asked, smiling widely. The smile made her look younger, and not so imposing.
“Yeah, I’m texting Pike,” Shane said. “I need him to bring my stuff for after the game, and to tell him I won’t be on the bus to the Garden. But I’m pretty bad at lying, so I’m not sure what to tell him.”
“I don’t think you’re so bad at lying,” Svetlana said. “I mean, you and Ilyusha … it’s been quite a long time, no? And you’ve never told anyone?”
“I guess I’m better at not saying anything at all than making things up.”
“Who does Pike think you are with, Jaaaane?” Svetlana drew out the name teasingly.
Shane snuffed a laugh. “He thinks I’m with Lily,” he admitted.
Svetlana clapped her hands delightedly, making Shane reach for the wheel to steady it. But she quickly slipped her hands back to 10 and 2, waving him off.
“Why don’t you tell him you and Lily accidentally handcuffed yourselves together?” she suggested. She found a gap in traffic and veered into the left lane, overtaking three cars before coming to a stop behind the damn lobster van.
“Don’t think so,” Shane said. “Pretty out of character for me.”
A text alert interrupted them. Shane released the breath he had been holding, because this was more like the Hayden he knew.
HAYDEN: Asshole I have your stuff wtf is going on, you’ve never missed the bus. What should I tell coach.
Shane gripped his forehead and raked his hand through his hair.
“What’d he say,” Svetlana demanded. Shane told her.
“Just tell him you had an emergency.”
Shane nodded. It sounded like a reasonably vague statement, like one he would use with the press when they asked something he really did not want to talk about.
SHANE: Had to deal with an emergency, all is fine, please tell coach I’ll meet you at arena.
HAYDEN: Is everything OK
SHANE: I just said all is fine
HAYDEN: What was emergency
SHANE: We can talk later
HAYDEN: Was the emergency that you and Lily were getting freaky
Shane paused a beat too long
HAYDEN: OMG Hollander u r whipped need to meet this girl, did Rose make u realize how much you liked her
Shane couldn’t keep up the pace.
HAYDEN: Will she be at game tonite
SHANE: [down thumb]
HAYDEN: Where r u coming from
SHANE: Not far, should arrive
He looked at the navigation
SHANE: in 22 min
HAYDEN: Good luck I’ll try to cover u dawg
Shane signed and turned his phone over on his knee. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, his forehead and then his temples. Then he shook his head and hands, as if trying to shake water off them or, perhaps, recalibrate his personality. He felt he had to hold up some kind of conversation. He was never good at this, especially not when he had other things looming in his mind LIKE A GAME AGAINST RIVAL BOSTON THAT HE WAS LATE FOR, but he had been raised to be polite and so he would try.
“This is a beautiful car,” he finally said, somewhat mechanically and without conviction. “Ilya said you are in the auto business?”
Svetlana ignored that. “You have a pre-game routine, right?” Svetlana asked, scanning the lanes from behind her designer sunglasses for any gaps in traffic.
“Yes. Well, usually. Didn’t follow it today,” Shane said miserably. “We’ve never, uh, met up before a game before. Always after. I normally never leave the hotel before a game for any reason, except to maybe eat lunch with the guys or my parents if they are in town for it. And even then we usually stay at or near the hotel, nowhere that requires a car ride. Some of the guys, especially the younger ones, like to sightsee when we have away games. Some have buddies on the other teams that they see, or maybe they have family in that city, or they go souvenir hunting for their kids or whatnot. But I like to prevent risk. I guess this is exactly what I was afraid would happen,” he said, trying to sound amused instead of forlorn.
“You were afraid you would get locked in handcuffs and lose the key?”
“No! Well, metaphorically I guess. That something would cause me to miss the rendezvous time, and the uh, rest of the routine.”
“Shane,” Svetlana said, sounding as if she were about to scold him.
“Yeah?” he responded.
“Shane, we do not need to talk right now. You have a game to prepare for. I know Ilyusha well enough to know he needs time to get his head right before the game. And my papa always did too. This is a big game for you. Must-win, right? I would like to meet you properly, and talk more about … many things …” she smiled and he rolled his eyes genially, “but maybe some other time. Soon, OK? Just put in your AirPods and relax, I am going as fast as I can, look, maps says 15 minutes?”
Shane could see why Ilya loved her.
“Thanks, Svetlana,” he said. “We will talk. I promise. Thank you.”
He felt awkward putting in his earbuds and turning his pre-game music on and doing his breathing exercises while being chauffeured in a Ferrari by Ilya’s childhood friend-lover-best friend, but it started to help him calm down. He would only be to the arena 20 minutes late, he wasn’t going to be late for the game — he was fine, no one was hurt, Hayden was covering for him, and he would even get to play a game against Ilya tonight, something he loved as a competitor.
By the time they were in the West End, he nearly had his mind right. He pulled the AirPods out of his ears as Svetlana expertly navigated the car onto the gated underground entrance to the player’s entrance, not bothering to use the pass that Ilya had given her with the guard. The guard seemed surprised at first and tried to peer in through the tinted windows, not recognizing the car, but when Svetlana rolled the window down a few inches he immediately waved her through. She rolled the window back up.
“Brian, that guard, is ancient, knew my papa,” she said, driving forward and rolled to a stop in front of the doors that led into the lower level of the arena.
“Vetrov was an incredible player, and clearly has an incredible daughter” Shane said, turning toward her as stuffed his phone back in his pocket. “I can’t thank you enough for all your help today.”
Svetlana’s pleased expression from the compliment turned to concern and it took Shane a few moments to see why. Then his nerve endings began firing indiscriminately again. First, there were several fans that had gathered at the entrance to the doors. They were not supposed to be there, but it looked like they had found their way in through other entrances. These were the true Raiders groupies, he knew, because the Metros had them too. These were the ones who ran websites, subReddits and podcasts about the team and hatched wild conspiracy theories about the players. They knew players’ cars, they knew players’ WAGs, and they definitely had opinions about the Metros and Hollander. Second, Hayden was standing at the doors in his suit, eyes wide, carrying Shane’s game bag and his own. Finally, as he was taking all this in, Ilya rocketed into the garage behind them in his can’t-miss-it orange Porsche, and screeched into its own Captain’s spot in the first row nearest the doors.
“Shit,” Shane said, wishing he had a balaclava to put on, as if that would disguise him.
Ilya ran in front of the car, pretending he did not see who was in it. Shane couldn’t help but be wowed by him in his gameday navy suit and Raybans. He looked every part the dashing captain. The crowd of fans started cheering and calling for him, something he normally indulged, but he was late and merely waved half-heartedly to the crowd. He saw Hayden as he approached the doors and looked as if he were about to say something snarky to him, but then Hayden’s eyes turned back to the car and something on Pike’s expression made Ilya stop and wheel around to follow his gaze. And where the crowd of fans were now pointing cameras as well.
Shane had opened the door and was preparing to clamber out.
“Shane,” Svetlana said, eyeing the cameras. “I know you do not like distractions before games, but maybe there is something we can do to use a distraction to your advantage.”
“Why? What?” he asked.
She tugged him back toward her and pulled his head to hers and kissed him passionately. “Act like you liked that,” she said to him quietly, before releasing him. He stared at her for a second, closed his eyes briefly, and dipped his head.
“I think that might work,” he said, as he heard the small crowd of fans squealing behind him. He climbed out of the Ferrari as smoothly as he could and gently closed the door behind him. Ilya and Hayden stood at the doors with their mouths agape.
The passenger window rolled down. “Goodbye darling,” Svetlana called, leaning over toward the passenger door so that the fans could see her face. “Play hard and don’t let that—” she pointed her red nail at Ilya “dickhead win.”
She peeled away from the curb, great puffs of exhaust creating an aura of mystique to the scene.
Shane, still slightly numb, walked as gamely as he could to Hayden, where he grabbed his bag. Ignoring Ilya, who was still staring after him with incredulity, he strode through the player’s entrance with Hayden, who chanced one more backwards look at Ilya and then hurried to follow.
“Was that Lily? Did I hear her right calling Rozanov a dickhead?” Hayden asked excitedly. “Hollander! Shane! Give me something! Are we about to get our asses handed to us tonight because you are in some kind of situationship with Rozanov’s ex?”
“She knows Rozanov,” Shane said blandly. He was honestly surprised how much Hayden was piecing together about the fake drama Svetlana just seemingly created on the fly. He was also impressed at Svetlana, for her genius in creating an alternate narrative that could actually cover his and Ilya’s relationship, and at Ilya, for playing along. At least he hoped the look of surprise was him playing along. Shane had burned him before with Rose, he couldn’t possibly think he would seduce Svetlana on a 30-minute drive.
“I have. So. Many. Questions,” Hayden said. “She is super hot, the little I could see of her. And a Ferrari? I didn’t take you for a Ferrari guy.”
They ducked into the room where the pre-game meal was set out. “I’m not a Ferrari guy, it’s her car.” He muttered. “I will answer your questions if I can after the game.” He really needed to get the story straight in his own mind and make sure Ilya had the same one, as Svetlana had certainly made clear to everyone that Ilya-dickhead was part of the equation. He had things to do right now — apologize to Coach, eat, warmups, get the team psyched up to play. They had games to win, playoffs to get into.
“Okay, buddy, okay!” Hayden said excitedly, thumping him on the back. “You are full of surprises.”
Three hours later, while both teams were warming up, Ilya skated over to where Shane was stretching on the ice. His eyes were glittering with of warmth and mirth.
“Well, Sveta is something else,” Shane muttered, looking up at him through his visor.
“Ah yes, she is a handful. But smart, too,” Ilya said. “Guess I better put on a good show tonight or else the fans won’t think I’m mad enough for you stealing my lady.”
Shane just shook his head. “I am sorry for today,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I had fun. Now get ready to get beat, Dickhead.”
“Me too, me too,” Ilya laughed and skated away, taking off his glove and throwing Shane the finger.