Chapter Fourteen
“Hollander. What the fuck are you doing right now?”
Shane frowned into his phone. It was his teammate, J.J. Boiziau, calling. J.J. who always called and never texted.
“Nothing. Why?”
“Fuck that. Get your ass downtown. My buddy Francois, you know, the chef? He’s having a little after hours party at his restaurant, and get this, the cast of the fucking X-Squad movie they’re filming here is gonna be there!”
“All of them?”
“I don’t fucking know! Enough of them! There are some fucking hot chicks in that movie, man! Get the fuck in your car. You know the restaurant, right? Djon-Djon?”
“Uh. Sure. You took me there once, right?”
Shane’s first instinct was to thank J.J. for the invitation, but to tell him that he was going to stay in. But he knew from past experience that saying no to J.J. would result in hourly calls for the rest of the evening to let him know what he was missing.
Besides. It wasn’t like Shane had anything better to do. Nothing besides watching the end of a Boston hockey game on television and quietly panicking about the freshly unearthed feelings he was harboring for Ilya Rozanov. He could definitely use a distraction.
He put on some nicer clothes and drove himself to Mile End. It was late on a Tuesday night, and the streets were quiet. He found a parking spot near the restaurant and stepped out of his SUV into the cold.
Most things on the street were closed or closing, but he could see the lights on in the hip, Haitian-inspired restaurant on the corner. The sign on the door said the restaurant was closed, but the door opened for him before Shane even reached it.
Inside there was music and laughter and warmth. The small space was crowded, and something smelled delicious.
“Hollander! Yes, bitch! Get over here!”
J.J. towered over everyone in the room. He was six feet, seven inches and over two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle.
He had very dark skin and a thick French accent.
The contrast between J.J. and Shane, physically, was almost comical.
Shane stood a full ten inches shorter than him, and weighed about seventy pounds less.
J.J. was also loud. And he loved to talk. He held court no matter what room he was in. He was French and fashionable and loved food and wine—the perfect Montreal celebrity. Everyone loved him.
Aside from a couple of his teammates, Shane didn’t know anyone at the party, but he certainly recognized a few movie stars in the crowd. Shane was pretty famous—extremely so, on the hockey scale—but even he was a little star struck in this company.
He made his way to the bar, where the bartender seemed to have no problem serving people well after closing. The slim, attractive, dark-skinned man was making elaborate cocktails for the all-star guests.
“Can I get a beer?” Shane asked him, in French. “Whatever you have on tap is fine.”
“Shane Hollander can have whatever he wants here,” the man said with a sexy little smile. He poured Shane a beer and rested it on a coaster in front of him.
“Thanks,” Shane said. He slid a ten-dollar bill across the bar.
The bartender held up his hands and said, “On the house.”
“Oh. Well, you keep it then.”
The man shook his head, smiling. “It’s an honor.”
Shane smiled back and stuck out his hand. “Shane,” he said. “Please.”
“Maxime,” the man said, shaking his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Maxime. Are you having a good night?”
“This crowd? Are you kidding? Rose Landry is here, man!”
“Seriously?” Shane asked. He looked over his shoulder, almost involuntarily, searching the crowd for the famous actress. He quickly turned back to Maxime when he realized what he was doing.
Maxime was grinning. Shane shrugged and grinned back. He’d love to catch a glimpse of Rose Landry, but he was sort of enjoying looking at Maxime. He decided to put some space between them before that fact became obvious.
He spent the night mingling, letting J.J. pull him around the room. He stood in small circles of people and laughed at their jokes; he didn’t make many of his own. He avoided the bar and eventually found an empty table in one corner. He was ready to leave, but he just wanted to sit for a moment.
“Please tell me you’re hungry,” a woman’s voice said. Shane looked up and saw a slim woman with dark, glossy hair and a very expensive-looking top draped over equally expensive-looking jeans.
Rose Landry.
“The chef just handed me these fritters and they look delicious, but I can’t possibly eat them all,” she said, sliding into the booth next to Shane.
She set a plate on the table that was piled high with Haitian salt cod fritters.
She smiled at him, took one, and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes went wide with surprise.
“Oh my god! These are so good! You have to eat some.” She belatedly raised her hand to cover her mouth as she spoke. Then she laughed at herself.
“Sorry,” she said, after she swallowed. “I’m a pig. I’m Rose, by the way,” she said, holding out her perfectly manicured hand.
Shane smiled and shook it. “Shane,” he said. “Nice to meet you. I’m a fan.”
“Well,” she said, leaning in a bit, “would you be surprised to know I’m a big fan of yours?”
“You like hockey?” Shane asked.
“I was born and raised in Michigan,” she said. “Damn right I like hockey!”
“Oh! Well...thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Eat a fritter, Shane Hollander.”
Shane lost track of time as they sat in the booth and talked over (delicious) cod fritters.
Rose was easy to talk to. Surprisingly so.
They bonded over descriptions of the lakeside cottages where they had each spent childhood summers.
She had an older brother who had played hockey in college, and then he became an engineer.
Her parents, like Shane’s, worked in government.
“Have you been to Montreal before?” Shane asked.
“Once. I was shooting a role in a super terrible FBI versus terrorist whatever movie. I can’t even remember what it was called.”
“Under Dark.”
“Oh my god. Shut up. You saw it?”
Shane shrugged, and grinned. It really had been terrible. “I fly a lot. Watch a lot of movies.”
“Thankfully it was only a small role. But I was only in Montreal for a week that time. And it was summer.”
“It’s a little different here in the winter.”
She leaned it and said, in a hushed tone that was playfully conspiratorial, “Michigan, remember? Winter can’t scare me.”
Something fluttery happened in his stomach. He felt his cheeks heat a bit, and then he asked, as smoothly as possible, “So, you gonna be in town for a while this time?”
Her smile let him know she knew exactly what he was really asking.
At the end of the night, they exchanged contact info, and made loose plans to meet for dinner whenever both of their schedules permitted.
Shane left the restaurant with a little spring in his step.
It had easily been the best connection he had made with a woman.
..ever. He liked Rose. He wanted to get to know her better.
He was excited by the idea of spending more time with her.
And she was very pretty. Obviously.
But mostly Shane just loved talking to her. She was funny and she asked a lot of questions, but none of them had made Shane uncomfortable.
Shane liked a girl!
In the car, driving home, he laughed at how ridiculously high his standards were.
December 2016—Detroit
Ilya woke alone in his hotel room in... Detroit? Yes. He was in Detroit.
He glanced over at his roommate’s abandoned bed, and then at the clock. Eight thirty.
He exhaled and scrubbed his eyes before he sat up. It was no surprise that Carmichael was already up and out of the room. That guy was such a morning person, it was gross.
Ilya threw on some sweats and made his way to the Starbucks in the hotel lobby for some coffee and a breakfast sandwich. Two of his teammates, Cliff Marlow and Victor St-Simon, were sitting at a table.
“Roz! You gotta see this. You’ll shit, man!” Cliff called out.
Ilya couldn’t imagine what the hell would be that interesting to him. He made his way over to the table and Victor held out his phone for him to see. There was a headline that read, Is Rose Landry dating NHL star Shane Hollander?
“No,” was Ilya’s immediate reaction. He hoped it sounded more dismissive to his teammates than shocked.
“Right?” Cliff laughed. “She’s, like, a super-giant movie star! How the fuck did he even meet her during the hockey season?”
“She’s been filming a movie in Montreal,” Victor read. “They met at a mutual friend’s party...according to unnamed sources.”
Ilya snorted.
“There are pictures,” Victor said. “Look.”
He held his phone out again, and Ilya grabbed it. He scrolled through four paparazzi photos of Shane having dinner with the gorgeous, dark-haired movie star. In one of them Shane was laughing.
Ilya scowled and handed the phone back to Victor.
“Probably nothing,” he said.
January 2017—Boston
It wasn’t nothing. As the weeks went on, more and more paparazzi photos of Shane and Rose Landry together were hitting the internet. Photos of the two of them walking together, smiling at each other, leaving restaurants together, kissing each other.
On the cheek. Just on the cheek. It could still be nothing.
Ilya turned up the resistance on his stationary bike. What did he care, anyway? Why shouldn’t Hollander be dating a beautiful woman? Rozanov had slept with a beautiful woman two nights ago. And another one the night before that.
The thing was... Hollander didn’t do that. Ilya assumed Hollander must have sex with people who weren’t him, but there was no evidence of it. He didn’t want to think about it too much either way.
He had definitely never known Hollander to go on consecutive dates with a woman. To be seen with a woman often enough for the press to notice.
Hollander had a girlfriend.
Maybe Hollander was in love.
Ilya pushed himself on the bike until his thighs screamed in protest. He stopped, and took a long haul from his water bottle.