“Yeah,” Shane said softly. “Yeah. It was better.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is... I kind of prefer to be the hole. Than the peg.”
“Ha!” Rose threw her head back in delight. Shane laughed too. He felt lighter, suddenly.
Later, before they left the bar, Rose gave him a mischievous look over the rim of her wineglass and said, “So...should I give Miles your number?”
“No. Thank you, but no. I need to...figure some stuff out.”
“I know. I was just joking. Mostly.”
They waited outside for her driver and she said, “Let’s be friends. And I don’t mean in an ‘I hope we can still be friends’ bullshit way. I mean it. Let’s be friends. Let’s bebestfriends. Because I really do care about you a lot, Shane. And I feel like you might not have anyone else to talk to about...certain things.”
“I’d like that. You’re right. I don’t. And I care about you too. We’ll be friends. You have my number. Text me. Text me all the time. Please.”
“Whenever we’re in the same city, we’ll hang out. I promise.”
She hugged him as her driver pulled up. He hugged her back and kissed the top of her head. He was surprised to feel tears in his eyes.
The same night—Boston
Svetlana was his favorite.
Ilya watched her now, perched on the end of his bed, naked, flipping through channels searching for the Vancouver vs. Colorado hockey game. When she found it, she slapped the remote down on the mattress and shimmied back until she was beside Ilya, against the headboard. She pulled the cigarette from between his lips and took a drag.
“I thought you quit,” she teased.
She had vivid blue eyes, and long, straight hair that was so blonde it almost had no color at all. She couldn’t have looked less like...
“Why is Matheson still on the power play line?” she complained at the television, in Russian. “It’s bullshit. He’s been horrible all season. They should put Bogrov in.”
“Why don’t you coach Colorado then?” Ilya asked, snatching back his cigarette.
“They would be lucky to have me.”
Ilya laughed. He had first met Svetlana three years ago, when she’d worked for the Lamborghini dealership in Boston. He had been surprised to learn, after he had slept with her the first time, that she was the daughter of a retired Russian Boston Bears star player. She possibly knew more about hockey than Ilya did.
“What wasthatshot?” she asked the television. “He should have gone high!”
“Mm. It is a little harder when you are the one who is actually doing it.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “What would you know?” she said. Then she smiled, and they both laughed.
Despite her fierce love of hockey, she never treated Ilya with any reverence. Maybe it was being the daughter of a former superstar that made her unable to put Ilya on a pedestal. She seemed to want exactly what Ilya wanted: a no-expectations hookup from time to time. They had fun together, and she was incredibly beautiful. The fact that Ilya could speak to her in Russian was a bonus.
“Ugh. Matheson again. He’s terrible!”
“Why do you even care about Colorado?”
“I care about all teams. I don’t like good Russian players being put on the second line so a no-talent Canadian can hog the spotlight.”
“No talent?”
“No talent! None! You can tell him, next time you see him.”
“I will.”
“Good. You tell him Svetlana Vetrova says he is terrible.”
“I’ll see him next week at the All-Star Game.”
