Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(34)

They were already out of the running for a medal, and that was beyond humiliating. Ilya just wanted it all to be over so he could go...home.

When had he started thinking of Boston as home?

Tonight Ilya’s attendance was requested (required) at a ridiculous gala, which was just a chance for the government to show off to foreign dignitaries. It was exactly the sort of event he couldn’t stand.

And making it worse was the fact that his father would be there. His father, who had only spoken to him this week to let him know how badly he had let Russia down, would be parading his famous son around the ballroom as if he was proud of him.

But first, Ilya was expected to go to his father’s hotel room. He wished he was strong enough to refuse.

He wasn’t. So he knocked on the hotel room door five minutes before six o’clock, because anything past five minutes early was late, in his father’s eyes.

The door opened, and there was Grigori Rozanov, in all his intimidating glory. He was wearing his full dress police uniform, and Ilya could see his stern frown even through the gray beard that covered his face. He was almost fifty years older than Ilya.

He stepped aside to let Ilya into the room. He waited for Ilya to remove his wool overcoat, and then the inspection began. His father’s eyes raked over him while Ilya stood there, like a trembling child who was awaiting punishment. There was nothing—nothing—wrong with Ilya’s tuxedo. It was classic black, perfectly tailored, and his bowtie was impeccable. He had even given himself the closest shave he’d had in years. But his father would find something.

“You need a haircut,” was what Grigori finally settled on. Ilya had let his hair grow out this past season, but he’d slicked it back tonight.

“Yes, sir.”

His father frowned at his hair for another minute, as if he could scare it back into Ilya’s scalp, before he crossed the room to the bar. He poured vodka into two tumblers, and handed one to his son.

“The Minister wants to meet you tonight.”

The Minister of Internal Affairs was who he meant. His boss.

“I will be honored,” Ilya lied. He wanted to toss back the vodka and pour himself four or five more.

“You should be honored that he would want to meet you. After last night.”

Ilya bit down on the inside of his cheek.

“To lose to Latvia,” his father continued. “How could you have allowed that to happen? How are you not ashamed?”

“I am ashamed, Father.”

His father waved a hand. “Not nearly enough. They don’t teach you discipline in the American league. You are sloppy now. It’s a shame because you had such promise when you were young.”

I am only twenty-one. I am one of the best hockey players in the world.

“I am a better player now than I have ever been. The team just hasn’t been working well together.”

Wrong thing to say.

“You are the captain, are you not? Whose fault is it if the team isn’t working together?”

The coach?

Instead of saying anything, Ilya looked at the floor and waited for his father to change the subject.

Grigori stepped closer, setting his vodka on a table, and began to needlessly adjust Ilya’s bowtie. “Aagh. Who tied this for you? Your mother? She doesn’t know how to do this properly.”

Ilya froze. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard before saying, as evenly as possible, “No, Father. Mom is dead. Remember?”

And then Grigori froze, and Ilya could see the confusion in his eyes before he blinked and shook his head. “Yes, of course. I know that. I was thinking of your stepmother.”

“And where is Polina tonight?” Ilya asked, ignoring his father’s obvious lie.

“Home.” No further explanation. Fine. Ilya didn’t care anyway.

His father released Ilya’s bowtie and smoothed a hand over his lapels.

“We should go,” Ilya said.

Grigori’s brow furrowed. “Yes...”

“To the gala,” Ilya supplied. “For the Olympics. You are going to introduce me to the Minister.”

Grigori’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. “I know that!” He turned away from his son and threw open the closet door. He pulled his overcoat off the hanger and put it on.

Ilya didn’t like his father, but he hated watching him deteriorate. He wondered if it would be easier when Grigori’s brain was fully gone and he no longer had to suffer the embarrassment of drifting in and out of himself.

“With me, Ilya. And behave tonight. Try to make up for the shame you have already brought your country.”

He made it hard to feel sorry for him.

“Of course. I will.”

As Ilya followed his father down the hallway to the elevators, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He quickly glanced at the screen.

Jane: Having a good time?
He really did not need Shane stupid Hollander to be trying to make contact. Not here. Not now.

He ignored the message, and stuffed his phone back into his pocket.

Shane saw Rozanov standing at the top of the lower bowl of seating during the Sweden versus Finland game. He was alone, wearing a long, black wool coat instead of his team jacket. His collar was turned up. His hands were in his pockets.

Shane was wearing his Team Canada jacket and knit hat. At the next break in play, he left his seat and walked around the perimeter of the seating until he was standing next to Rozanov.