“To Russia. For the summer.”
Rozanov exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Yes.”
“Oh.”
They were silent a moment, then Shane couldn’t help but ask, “Why?”
Rozanov shrugged. “It is home.”
“But...do youlikegoing there?”
Rozanov didn’t answer. He took another drag of his cigarette and closed his eyes.
“I should sleep,” he said finally.
“Oh. Yeah. I should... I need to get going, anyway.”
“Yes.”
Ah. There was that shame Shane had been expecting. He got cleaned up in the bathroom, then went to the main room to retrieve his clothes. He put on the pants and the shirt and carried the rest of the tuxedo. Rozanov didn’t leave the bedroom.
“See you,” Shane called out.
“Goodbye, Hollander,” Rozanov replied from the other room.
And Shane left. He realized, when he was back in his room, that they hadn’t even kissed. He also realized, with horror, that he regretted that.
Part Three
Chapter Twelve
October 2016—Philadelphia
Ilya had a man pinned under the weight of his body.
The man was big, almost as tall as Ilya, and pressing back against him aggressively. Ilya wedged a knee between the man’s thighs, holding him firmly in place.
“Fuck off, asshole,” the man growled.
Ilya leaned on him harder.
“All right, let him go, Rozanov,” the referee said. “I’ll call holding if you don’t back off right now.”
Ilya released the other man’s jersey, raising his hands innocently.
“Fucker,” the other man growled. He shoved Ilya before he skated away from the boards where Ilya had trapped him.
“That wasn’t nice,” Ilya called after him.
Ilya could hear the boos and taunts from the crowd as he skated to the bench.
Fuck you, Rozanov!
You’re a fucking pussy, Rozanov!
Go back to Russia, you piece of shit!
Et cetera.
