Page 52 of The Long Game (Game Changers #6)

“Does it seem likely that he’ll change his mind?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya said honestly. “He spooks easily, sometimes. Panics.”

“But he proposed to you. That probably wasn’t a decision he made lightly.”

Ilya happily remembered Shane going to one knee, surrounded by the candles that he’d bought and carefully decorated the living room with. “No. I think he was very serious about it.”

“Does the second scenario seem more likely? Where he resents you?”

Ilya grabbed one of the throw pillows next to him and hugged it against his stomach. “I don’t know. My brain tells me it’s likely, but my brain has lied to me before.”

“Brains can be jerks that way.”

Ilya gave a small smile. “Yes.” He curled his fingers into the pillow. “There’s another thing. One of my teammates just came out as gay. To the team, I mean. But he’s planning on coming out publicly on the day of our Pride Night game next week.”

“Wow. That’s exciting. How does that make you feel?”

“I’m very happy for him. He’s dating the team’s social media manager. A great guy. I’m happy for both of them. The team all supports them. It’s been nice.”

Galina didn’t say anything, just waited for Ilya to continue.

“But,” Ilya added, “I’m jealous, I guess. It’s made me think about how much harder it will be for me and Shane.”

“Do you remember,” Galina said slowly, “in one of our earlier sessions, I’d asked about your other friends?”

“Yes.”

“Have you told anyone yet, about Shane?”

“No,” Ilya admitted.

“You seem to be trapped in this cycle of wanting to be openly in a relationship with Shane, but also dreading it. I think it would help if you told a friend—someone you trust. Someone on your side.”

“Maybe,” Ilya said, though it also sounded like a good way to lose a friend.

“Try it,” she urged. “A teammate, or an old friend. Just one person, and see how you feel after.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll try.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov!”

It was probably the one millionth time Ilya had heard that phrase, or similar, during the afternoon game in Boston. This time it was from a charming middle-aged woman behind the penalty box he was currently serving a two-minute minor in.

Beside him, Dykstra, who was serving his own penalty, said, “You gotta love Boston.”

“She probably used to wear my jersey,” Ilya said. “Used to love me.”

“That was before you turned traitor, though.” Dykstra laughed. “Did you see the guy who actually added ‘fuck’ to the back of his Rozanov jersey? He’s sitting near that corner somewhere.” He gestured with his stick. “That’s a commitment to hate that you have to respect.”

Ilya squirted Gatorade in his mouth. If he offered to sign the “Fuck Rozanov” jersey he’d bet the guy wearing it would be thrilled. Deep down, this city probably still loved him.

“We were talking about getting dinner somewhere after the game,” Dykstra said. “We figured you’d know all the good Boston joints.”

“I can suggest something, but I cannot join you. I am meeting a friend.”

“Oh yeah? A friend, or a friend.”

Ilya only smiled.

“So you’re still alive.”

Ilya grinned at his old friend and hugged her. “Still alive.”

Svetlana swatted his shoulder. “Then why the fuck haven’t I seen you in three years?”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, meaning it. He switched to Russian. “It’s a long story, but it’s mostly because I’m a terrible friend.”

“You were always a terrible friend, but you were a fantastic lay and I miss you.”

“I missed you too.” Ilya offered her his arm.

He’d met her on the sidewalk near the Beacon Hill restaurant they were having dinner at.

She’d stepped out of the taxi looking like a movie star in a long black fur-trimmed coat, her white-blond hair swept into an elegant knot at the back of her head. “You look stunning.”

“Probably.”

“Are those boots practical for Boston winters?” Ilya asked, eying the tall, narrow heels on her knee-high leather boots.

“Of course. They’re like ice picks. And don’t change the subject. We’re still talking about how terrible you are.”

“I thought we were talking about how great I am in bed.”

“How great you were. It’s been years, Ilya. Years.”

“I know,” Ilya said seriously. He opened the door to the restaurant and held it for her. “Let’s order drinks. Then I’ll explain.”

Once they were seated at the most private table in the elegant Italian restaurant, and martinis had been ordered, Svetlana glared at him expectantly.

Ilya sighed. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one I lost touch with.”

“It does not,” she said sharply.

“I’ve been...a bit closed off, since I moved to Ottawa.”

“What does that mean? You’re not sleeping your way through North America anymore?”

Ilya huffed a laugh. “No. Not anymore.”

The server brought their martinis. Ilya had never been so happy to see a cocktail.

“What a loss to women everywhere,” Svetlana said dryly.

“Hopefully they can get over it.” Ilya sipped his martini, which was perfectly cold and crisp. “How have you been? Where are you working?”

“I finished my MBA.” She smiled. “I have been offered a job by the Boston Bears.”

“Perfect!” Svetlana knew more about hockey than anyone. More than Shane. Possibly more than Yuna. “You’re going to take it?”

“I think so. They’re excited to have Sergei Vetrov’s daughter working for them.” Vetrov had been a superstar for Boston in the ’90s.

“And what does Sergei think?”

“That I am a princess who should get whatever I want. We have that in common.”

Ilya laughed. “Were you at the game today?”

“Yes. You couldn’t hear me booing you?”

“Not over everyone else booing me. Boston hates me now.”

“Of course we do. You left.”

And that could be a segue into why he left, but he was struggling to make himself bring it up. Shane knew about and supported Ilya’s decision to tell Svetlana about their relationship, and Ilya knew he could trust her, but finding the words was difficult.

Instead, he picked up the menu beside him. “What’s good here?”

Svetlana reached across the table and pushed his menu down with one beautifully manicured finger. “Why did you sign with Ottawa, Ilya?” she asked in her usual blunt way. “I have never understood it. No one does.”

Ilya took his time answering. “To be closer to someone.” Then, like a coward, he took another sip of his drink.

Svetlana’s vivid blue eyes widened. “Someone? Like, someone you are dating? Are you actually with someone? In a real relationship?”

“Yes.”

Her face lit up. “My god. She must be spectacular. Who is it? Where did you meet? In Ottawa? Is she Russian?”

The server returned to take their orders. “We need more time,” Svetlana said, not unkindly, but a bit impatiently.

The server left with a polite, “Of course.”

Svetlana rested one elbow on the table and tapped her red fingernails against her red lips. “Why have I never heard of you dating someone? Is it a secret?”

“You are asking a lot of questions.”

“Answer the last one first.”

“We should look at the menu—”

“Ilya.”

Under the table, Ilya’s fingers flexed against his dress pants. “Yes, it’s a secret.”

“This is intriguing. Are you having an affair? Is it a teammate’s wife?”

“No,” Ilya said quickly, slightly offended. “Nothing like that. Of course not.”

“Didn’t you tell me once you’d slept with your teammate’s girlfriend? Back in Moscow?”

“Yes, but he was an asshole to her, and also I was seventeen. I would never do that now.”

Svetlana hummed thoughtfully. “It’s a secret, but it’s not an affair. Maybe your coach’s daughter?”

“My coach’s daughter is eleven.”

“The owner’s daughter, then. Or is it the owner? Isn’t one of the owners of the Centaurs a woman?”

“It’s not the owner.”

She smiled over the rim of her martini glass. “This is a fun game. I like this.” Suddenly her eyes went wide. She leaned forward and whispered, “Is it a man?”

Well. That hadn’t taken long. Ilya answered with the slightest tip of his head as he brought his glass to his lips.

Svetlana covered her mouth with one hand, eyes still wide. He could tell she was smiling, though.

“Ilya,” she finally said. “Holy shit.”

“Yes.”

She grinned wickedly at him. “Did you fuck every woman in Canada and had to move on to men?”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “That’s not how it works.”

“So who is he?”

Ilya’s cheeks heated, which he hoped wasn’t noticeable in the dim lighting of the restaurant.

“You’re blushing,” Svetlana said, delighted. “Ilya Rozanov, are you in love?”

Ilya couldn’t stop the smile that crept across his face. “Extremely.”

The server came back then, so Ilya and Svetlana both hastily looked at the menu and ordered. Ilya wasn’t entirely sure what he’d chosen, but it had scallops, so it couldn’t be terrible.

“Anyway,” Ilya said casually, after the server had left, “how’s your father doing?”

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Svetlana said. “As if we’re not still talking about you falling in love with a man.”

“Is it that interesting?”

“Who is he?”

Ilya glanced sideways. “You don’t know him.”

“Of course not. I’ve never been to Ottawa. What’s his name?”

Okay. There was no dodging this question.

Not unless Ilya wanted to lie, which he didn’t.

What was the point, really? They were going to tell everyone soon enough, and Svetlana was a friend.

She may be shocked by what he was about to tell her, but Ilya didn’t think she’d go to the tabloids or anything.

“His name,” Ilya said calmly, “is Shane.”

“Not Russian, then. Too bad. What does Shane do?”

Ilya somehow managed to keep himself from laughing. “He’s an athlete.”

Svetlana narrowed her eyes. “Which sport?”

Ilya rolled the stem of his martini glass between his thumb and forefinger. “Hockey.”

Svetlana huffed. “I don’t understand. Unless you’re in love with Shane Hollander, I can’t think of any—” She stopped, and then she lunged forward, practically resting her whole torso on the table. “Is it Shane Hollander?” she hissed.

“I’m afraid so. Yes.”

“Can I bring you another drink?” asked the server, who’d suddenly reappeared.

Svetlana seemed to realize she was basically lying on the table, and slid back into her chair with as much grace as possible. “We’ll need several bottles of wine, I think.”

Ilya grinned. “Let’s start with one.”

Three hours later, Ilya and Svetlana were waiting arm in arm outside the restaurant for their separate cabs to arrive.

“I really am disappointed we aren’t going to have sex,” Svetlana sighed. She was slumped against him, head resting on his shoulder. They’d both had a lot to drink.

Ilya chuckled. “You can’t convince me that you’re hard up for sex.”

“I’m not,” she agreed. “But men are so boring. Why are you all so boring?”

“I thought I was exciting.”

“You were. Now you’re going to marry a Canadian. Boring.”

“I don’t know how many people would describe my secret relationship with my rival boring.”

She laughed. “I don’t suppose you have a cigarette.”

“I quit.”

“Of course you did. Boring.”

A car pulled up. “This one is yours,” Ilya said, and stepped forward to open the door for her.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, and stood face-to-face with him. “I’m glad we got to catch up. I’ve really missed you, and I want to be friends, even without fucking.”

“I would love that. Come to Ottawa sometime. Meet Shane.”

She smiled. “I will. Until then, text me. Keep in touch.”

“I promise.”

She kissed his cheek, and got into the car. Ilya smiled to himself, feeling like he’d gained back a piece of himself, as he waited for his own car.