Page 29 of The Long Game (Game Changers #6)

A few days later, Shane was sitting in a waiting area outside Crowell’s office.

He had never been to the NHL’s headquarters in Manhattan before, and the sleek lobby that had greeted him when he’d stepped off the elevators, with its fortieth-floor view of the Hudson River, was impressive. And intimidating.

“Commissioner Crowell can see you now, Mr. Hollander,” said the receptionist.

Shane nodded at her without quite making eye contact. He found her intimidating too.

When Shane walked in, he was greeted warmly by Crowell. “Shane! Come in. Thank you for meeting with me. Short notice, I know.”

Roger Crowell was a tall man, solidly built, with thick silver hair and heavy eyebrows over calculating, pale blue eyes.

He’d never been a hockey player, but he’d played football in college, back in the seventies, and he clearly still kept in shape.

If he weren’t so fucking scary, Shane would say he was handsome.

“No problem,” Shane said as he shook Crowell’s offered hand. “The offices are nice.”

“You’ve never been here before?”

“No.”

Crowell’s face shifted into a confused expression that seemed a bit theatrical to Shane. “Is that so? I’m surprised to hear it. Well, welcome.”

“Thank you.”

Crowell gestured to one of the leather chairs facing his desk, and Shane perched on the edge of the seat. Crowell sat in his own high-backed executive desk chair, leaning back in it comfortably. “Montreal’s had a great start to the season.”

“Yes. Not bad.”

“Always tough, defending a title,” Crowell said. As if he knew.

“It can be, yeah.”

“And how’s that charity doing? The one you started with Rozanov?”

“Good. We’ve been able to fund some very worthwhile organizations and initiatives.” Shane knew he sounded like he was reading directly from the Irina Foundation’s website, but he was too nervous to care. Where the hell was this conversation going?

“Glad to hear it. Your camps are doing good work too. Very...inclusive.”

“Yes. We try to make sure of that. It’s important to both of us.”

“That’s good. That’s good. We like to see that. Diversity is important.”

“It is,” Shane said cautiously.

“It can be hard sometimes to find a balance,” Crowell continued. “If you know what I mean.”

Shane definitely didn’t. “Balance?”

“Of course we, as a league and as a sport, want to talk about inclusion and diversity in hockey. We want to see things move in the right direction. But too much talk about that stuff can be...distracting.”

“Um.”

Crowell held out one hand. “Now I’ve heard, and you don’t have to confirm this, but I’ve heard that you are...homosexual.”

“I, uh—” Shane’s stomach clenched. He was a homosexual, but the way Crowell said it made it sound icky.

“Like I said, you don’t have to tell me. But let’s say the rumor is true.”

It wasn’t so much a rumor as something that Shane had told his teammates, and had willingly admitted to anyone who asked. He kept his mouth shut now.

“So maybe you’ve told your teammates, your friends, your family. Maybe you have a partner, I don’t know. The point is, I don’t need to know, and neither does anyone else.”

“Okay.”

“Nothing against Scott Hunter, of course. He’s a great player and a great ambassador for the game, but that approach can be a lot, y’know?”

“Approach? You mean his activism?”

“Activism, sure. Or just being loud about your personal business. What I’m saying is I appreciate the way you handle yourself, Shane. I know you put hockey first, and keep your private life private. That keeps everyone comfortable, and keeps the focus on hockey.”

Shane had no idea what the fuck they were talking about.

Was Crowell telling him not to come out publicly?

Was that what this meeting was truly about?

“I admire Scott Hunter,” Shane said. “What he’s done over the past few years has been important to LGBTQ hockey players and fans, especially young players. ”

“Of course. Like I said, the NHL absolutely supports Scott Hunter and the LGBTQ community one hundred percent.” Crowell said “LGBTQ” slowly and carefully, as if he were repeating a phone number he needed to memorize. “Did you know we sell Pride merchandise year-round on our website now?”

“Does the money go to LGBTQ charities?”

“And we’re expanding our Pride Nights,” Crowell said, ignoring Shane’s question. “Every team has them now, and we’re planning the first joint Pride Night game.”

“That’s a good first step, but—”

“I know that, historically, hockey hasn’t been the most inclusive sport, but obviously anyone can make it to the very top if they work hard enough. I mean, you’re proof of that.”

Shane wasn’t sure if Crowell was referring to his rumored homosexuality, his Japanese heritage, or both. He really wanted to get the fuck out of this office.

“What I wanted to say, Shane, in person, is that the league is proud of what you’re doing with your charity. Mental health is so important. And you can tell Rozanov that too. Just great work, both of you.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“And, if you want to be more vocal about your...personal life, maybe the NHL can help you with that. We can plan something together. We’d be happy to do that with you. For you.”

“I’ll...think about it.”

Crowell smiled like a panther. “Fantastic.” He stood, so Shane stood as well. “Always a pleasure sitting down with one of the league’s best players, Shane. You know, you’re my nephew’s favorite.”

“Oh. That’s cool.”

“Good luck this season. Lydia can show you out.”

“Okay. Thank you. Um...thanks. Bye.”

Shane followed Lydia—the receptionist—to the elevators in a daze, his stomach clenching and his skin crawling with disgust. He wanted a shower, or a treadmill, or soundproof room he could scream into.

He stood in the elevator and miserably watched the doors close, blocking out the large glass NHL logo on the other side.

Ilya woke up from his pregame nap to find about a hundred texts from Shane on his phone. Most of them asking him to call as soon as possible. But also assuring him he was fine. But to call him. Soon. Now, if possible.

Ilya called him.

“Jesus. Finally,” Shane said.

“I was asleep. What is it?”

“I met with Crowell.”

Ilya propped himself up on an elbow. “Oh yes?”

“It was weird.”

“Weird how?”

“He basically said—I don’t even know what he said. He’s really intimidating.”

“Tell me one thing he said.”

Shane exhaled loudly. “First of all, he told me we were doing good work with the Irina Foundation. He asked me to tell you that.”

“Okay.”

“But he also, like, told me not to come out, maybe?”

Ilya sat all the way up. “I don’t understand.”

“He said he’s heard rumors about me being gay and basically that he’d like them to stay rumors.”

“He said this?”

“Not exactly. Like I said, it was weird. The way he talks, it’s friendly and scary at the same time. I hated it.”

Ilya was starting to get angry. Mostly at Crowell. A little bit at Shane. “What did he say?”

“I think he doesn’t want another Scott Hunter. He doesn’t seem to be a fan of activism in hockey. Or anything that isn’t hockey in hockey, really.”

“He is a fan of money in hockey,” Ilya said.

“He was talking about how great diversity is, and about the league’s LGBTQ initiatives, but also that he hates distractions from the game. The whole meeting felt like an indirect threat. Like, he wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to surprise anyone by coming out on social media or something.”

“Or kissing your boyfriend on TV.”

“Right. I mean, obviously I’m not going to do either of those things.”

“Obviously.” Ilya said it bitterly, but Shane didn’t seem to notice.

“But also it was like he was daring me to accuse the league of not being, like, queer-friendly or something. By listing all the stuff they do.”

“Gross.”

“It was, a bit. Yeah.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Nothing. I wasn’t going to do anything anyway, but I still feel slimy after that meeting.”

Ilya’s jaw clenched. He knew all too well Shane had no intention of going public about their relationship, but if there had even been a chance and Crowell had crushed it...

“Anyway,” Shane said, “I just needed to tell someone about it. So thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Good luck tonight, okay?”

“Sure. You too.”

“I love you.”

Ilya’s heart felt like lead. “I love you too.”

“Last time we met,” Dr. Galina Molchalina said, in Russian, “you told me quite a bit about your mother. Would you like to talk about your father today?”

“No,” Ilya said, without hesitation. Then, “I’m glad he’s dead.”

If Galina was shocked by this statement, her face didn’t show it. “He died a few years ago, right?”

“Yes. I’d been expecting it. He had Alzheimer’s, and had been deteriorating quickly. My brother pretended it wasn’t happening.”

“Are you and your brother close?”

Ilya barked out a surprised laugh at that. “Andrei? No. Not at all. I haven’t talked to him since I went home for the funeral. He’s a clone of Dad.”

Galina leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, waiting. Ilya sighed. He supposed he did need to talk about his goddamned father.

“Dad was a cop. Very highly decorated, very proud. He climbed the ranks all the way to an important job at the Ministry. He was about fifty when I was born. Andrei is four years older than me. And my mother was still only in her twenties when I was born, so.”

“Quite an age gap between your parents.”

“Yes.” Ilya hated to imagine what circumstances made his young, beautiful mother have to marry a joyless old man and bear his children. “My father hated her, I think. He always thought she was cheating on him, or planning to leave him. I wish she could have left.”

He didn’t want to get into some of his darker memories of his father terrorizing his mom, and Galina must have sensed it. She asked, “Was your father proud of your hockey career?”