Page 48 of Heated Rivalry 1
Shane nodded, but he was still thinking about Dev.
And about Rozanov.
Rozanov could take care of himself. This was his home turf. He would know how to keep safe.
“You still with us, Hollander?”
Shane blinked and looked at Carter and Scott. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“We were going to check out the McDonald’s in the athlete’s village. Thought it might be fun. Want to join us?”
“Um, I think I’m going to...” Text Rozanov? Try to lay eyes on him? Make sure he’d not been arrested for blowing a ski jumper or something? “Relax a bit in my room. Still jet lagged, y’know?”
“You can relax in that room?” Carter laughed. “Good luck, then. You have my number?”
“Yeah, I have it. I’ll see you guys later.”
Shane tried not to walk too quickly as he left, but he was suddenly desperate to make contact with Rozanov. The only problem was he had no idea where to find him.
He sent a text.Having a good time?
There. That was cool and casual. Just a friendly “Hey, we’re both at the Olympics! Fun, right? Also, are you in jail?”
He waited all night for a reply, but none came.
The Olympics were bullshit.
Ilya had been on edge all week. It had been days of smiling for the Russian media and mingling with government officials who made his skin crawl. Men and women who supported their country’s leader without question, and who expected Ilya to do the same. Ilya hadn’t had any time to enjoy himself; he’d barely had time to focus on his game.
And it showed.
The Russian men’s hockey team was a mess. These sorts of international tournaments were always awkward, with players being tossed together to form a “dream team” of superstars who had no idea how to play with each other, but this team was especially hopeless. Too many egos. Too much pressure, here in their home country, making tempers run high in the dressing room and on the ice. Too many stupid penalties being taken, too few goals being scored.
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.
