“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?”