The Long Game (Game Changers #6)(95)

Ilya pressed his fingers to the ring that lay hidden under his T-shirt. “I’m scared Shane will change his mind. Or that he won’t, and it will affect his career, and he will hate me for it. Maybe not for a while, but eventually.”

“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.”