Chapter Text
The lights of SportChek hummed overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of commercial white that made Shane Hollander's eyes ache if he stared too long at any one thing. He'd been in the hockey section for forty-seven minutes now—he'd checked his phone twice—and he was no closer to a decision than when he'd walked in.
The stick in his hands was a beauty. A TRUE Catalyst 9X, the same model that half the NHL used. Carbon fiber, mid-kick point, perfect for his shooting style. He'd watched approximately thirty-seven YouTube reviews of this exact stick over the past two months, had memorized the specs, could recite the flex ratings in his sleep.
Three hundred and forty-nine dollars.
Shane set it back in the rack with the others, the soft click of composite against composite somehow final. Disappointing.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from his mom.
Mom: Have you found everything you need, sweetie? Dad says don't forget skate guards if you need them.
Shane typed back quickly: Still looking.
The truth was more complicated than three words could convey, but Shane had learned that sometimes simple was better. People didn't always want the full explanation—that he'd been standing in this store for nearly an hour, that he'd picked up and put down the same stick four times, that the $1000 his parents had given him this morning (his mom had tucked the envelope into his hands at breakfast, his dad squeezing his shoulder and saying "For your debut, son. Make it count.") wasn't going to be enough.
Not for good gear. Not for the kind of gear everyone else would have.
Shane moved down the aisle, trailing his fingers along the price tags. Skates: $800 for the Bauer Vapor 3X Pros. Gloves: $280 for the CCM Jetspeed FT4s. Shin guards, shoulder pads, pants—it all added up so fast his chest got tight just calculating it.
He'd done the math seventeen times already. No matter how he arranged it, $1000 wasn't enough.
His current gear was fine. Technically. It was three years old, bought when he was fifteen and still playing AAA, before anyone thought he'd actually make it to professional hockey. Before the Montreal Metros had called him two weeks after his eighteenth birthday and told him they wanted him for their rookie camp. Before his entire life had shifted into something both thrilling and terrifying.
The gear was fine. It worked. It kept him safe.
But everyone else would have the best. The newest models, the top-of-the-line equipment. Shane had seen it at development camp last month—guys showing up with gear so new it still had that factory smell, skates that probably cost more than Shane's entire setup.
He could just use his old stuff. That would be the smart thing. The practical thing.
Shane picked up a roll of stick tape. $8.99. He could afford that. And maybe the stick—if he got the stick, he'd have about $650 left, which wasn't enough for skates but maybe he could get new gloves, his current ones were starting to smell no matter how much he aired them out, and—
No. That was stupid. He should just get tape. Save the money. His old stick was fine too.
But his old stick had a crack forming near the blade. He'd reinforced it with tape, but he could feel it flexing wrong when he took slapshots.
Shane set the tape down and picked up the TRUE Catalyst again.
The weight of it was perfect in his hands. He'd grown up playing with hand-me-down sticks, whatever his parents could afford or whatever his coaches passed along. This was the first time he'd have the chance to choose his own gear, to walk into his debut with equipment that was his, that he'd selected.
If he could afford it.
He put the stick back. Picked up the tape again.
His phone buzzed. His dad this time.
Dad: Your mom is worrying. You okay?
Shane: Yeah. Just deciding.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Dad: Take your time. We're going to go to dinner, we'll pick you up something, don't rush because of us.
Shane's throat felt tight. His parents had already given him so much—had driven him to practices at 5 AM for years, had paid for hockey camps and tournament fees and equipment upgrades whenever they could scrape together the money. $1000 was a lot for them. It was probably more than they should have given him.
And it wasn't enough.
Shane closed his eyes, trying to organize his thoughts. The store sounds filtered in—the hum of the lights, the distant conversation of other customers, the squeak of someone's shoes on the polished floor. He could smell the rubber of hockey pucks, the leather of gloves, that particular synthetic scent of new equipment.
When he opened his eyes, he'd made a decision. Just the stick. And tape. That was reasonable. That was—
The feeling hit him suddenly: the prickling awareness of being watched.
Shane's shoulders tensed. He didn't turn around immediately—he'd learned that sometimes if you acknowledged it, it made things worse. Sometimes people were just looking, just passing by, and if you made eye contact it became a whole thing where you had to smile or nod or figure out if they wanted something from you.
But the feeling didn't go away.
He shifted slightly, pretending to examine a different stick, and used the motion to glance toward the end of the aisle.
A man stood there. Tall—taller than Shane's, maybe six-two or six-three. Golden hair styled in that effortlessly expensive way that Shane had never managed to achieve with his own unruly curls. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, the kind of face that belonged in cologne advertisements. He wore a black wool coat that probably cost more than Shane's entire wardrobe, and he was looking directly at Shane.
Not just looking. Watching.
Shane's heart rate picked up. He didn't know this man. He was certain of that—Shane was good with faces, could remember people he'd met once years ago. This wasn't someone from hockey, wasn't someone from school, wasn't anyone he recognized.
So why was he staring?
Shane looked away quickly, back to the sticks. Maybe if he ignored it, the man would leave. That usually worked. People got bored and moved on.
He counted to thirty in his head, then risked another glance.
The man was closer now. Just a few feet away, standing with the kind of casual confidence that suggested he belonged everywhere he went. Up close, Shane could see he was older—maybe late twenties, early thirties. There was something sharp in his eyes, something assessing.
Shane's fingers tightened on the stick he was holding.
"That's a good choice," the man said. His voice was deep, accented—Russian, maybe? Shane wasn't great with accents. "The TRUE Catalyst. Excellent stick."
Shane blinked. "Um. Thanks?"
The man smiled, and it transformed his entire face from intimidating to something else. Something that made Shane's stomach do a weird flip. "You are debating," the man said. It wasn't a question. "I have been watching you pick up and put down the same stick for ten minutes."
Heat flooded Shane's cheeks. "I was just—I'm trying to decide what to get."
"Mm." The man's gaze traveled down Shane's frame, assessing in a way that made Shane want to fidget. "You are a player. What position?"
"Center," Shane said automatically. Then, because his mom had raised him to be polite even when confused: "How did you know I play?"
The man's smile widened. "The way you hold the stick. The way you stand. You have the posture of someone who has spent many hours on ice." He gestured toward Shane's hands. "And the calluses. You are not just recreational player."
Shane looked down at his hands, at the familiar rough patches on his palms. "Oh. Yeah. I'm—I just got called up. Rookie camp for the Montreal Metros."
"Ah." Something flickered in the man's expression. Interest, maybe. "Congratulations. That is impressive achievement."
"Thanks." Shane shifted his weight, still holding the stick. This was weird, right? This felt weird. Random men didn't usually approach him in stores to talk about hockey. "I should probably—"
"Get what you need," the man said, and suddenly he was pulling something from his coat pocket. A credit card, black and heavy-looking, the kind Shane had only seen in movies. "Please."
Shane stared at the card, then at the man, then back at the card. "What?"
"Get what you need," the man repeated, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "For your debut. You should have proper equipment."
"I—" Shane's brain felt like it was buffering, trying to process what was happening. "I don't understand. Do I know you?"
The man's smile turned into something else. Something that made Shane's stomach flip again, harder this time. He stepped closer—not threatening, but deliberate—and when he spoke, his voice was lower. Intimate.
"No," he said, and then he winked. Actually winked, like they were in some kind of movie. "But I would like to know you."
Shane's face went hot. That was—that sounded like—but that didn't make sense. Men didn't just approach other men in sporting goods stores and offer to buy them things and say stuff like that. Did they?
"I don't—" Shane started, but the man was already moving, already gesturing to a store employee who'd been restocking shin guards two aisles over.
The employee hurried over, clearly recognizing something in the man's posture that screamed money. "Yes, sir? How can I help you?"
The man handed him the black credit card without looking away from Shane. "Start a tab, please. My friend here will be selecting some equipment."
"Of course, sir. Right away." The employee took the card and disappeared toward the register.
Shane's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "Wait, I can't—you can't just—"
"I can," the man said simply. He turned back to Shane, and his expression was warm, amused. "And I am. So." He gestured toward the stick still in Shane's hands. "You want this one, yes? The TRUE Catalyst?"
"I—yes, but—"
"Good. What else?" The man's gaze traveled down Shane's body again, and Shane felt weirdly exposed, like the man could see through his clothes to catalog every piece of worn-out equipment underneath. "Skates? You need new skates?"
"How do you even—" Shane's thoughts were a jumbled mess. This didn't make sense. People didn't do this. "Why would you buy me hockey equipment? You don't even know me."
"Not yet," the man agreed. His smile was dangerous. "But I am Ilya. Ilya Rozanov. And you are?"
"Shane. Hollander." The words came out automatically, even though Shane's brain was screaming that he shouldn't be giving his name to strange men who approached him in malls.
"Shane," Ilya repeated, like he was tasting the name. "It is very nice to meet you, Shane Hollander." He gestured around them, at the racks of equipment, the sticks, the skates. "Now. Tell me what you need."
Shane's grip tightened on the stick. His heart was pounding, and he couldn't tell if it was anxiety or something else. "I don't understand why you're doing this."
"Because I want to," Ilya said simply. "Because you are standing here trying to decide between tape and a stick when you clearly need both. Because—" He paused, and something shifted in his expression.
Shane's thoughts were racing. This was crazy. This was absolutely insane. You didn't accept expensive gifts from strangers. That was like, rule number one of being an adult.
But Ilya was looking at him with those sharp eyes, and the stick was still in Shane's hands, and he could feel the weight of his phone in his pocket with his parents' proud texts, and—
"Skates," Shane heard himself say. "I need new skates. Mine are three years old and the boot is starting to separate."
Ilya's smile was brilliant. "Excellent. Show me."
Shane led him to the skate section, hyperaware of Ilya's presence behind him. The man moved with a kind of fluid confidence that made Shane feel clumsy in comparison, even though Shane spent most of his life on ice where grace was literally his job.
"These," Shane said, stopping in front of the Bauer Vapor 3X Pros. "These are what I was looking at. They're—" He picked one up, turning it over in his hands. "They're top of the line. Thermoformable boot, carbon composite, STEP steel runners. The weight distribution is supposed to be really good for acceleration."
"You have done your research," Ilya observed, standing close enough that Shane could feel the warmth radiating from him.
"I always research before I buy things," Shane said. It was just practical. Why would you spend money without knowing exactly what you were getting? "I've watched probably twenty-three reviews of these skates. Read all the specs. The only thing I haven't done is try them on, but my size is usually pretty consistent across brands."
"So try them on now," Ilya said, gesturing to a nearby bench.
Shane hesitated. "They're eight hundred dollars."
"Yes. And?"
"That's... a lot of money."
Ilya's expression softened into something that might have been amusement or fondness—Shane couldn't quite tell. "Shane. Sit. Try on the skates."
It felt weird to argue with someone who was offering to buy him things, so Shane sat. He unlaced his sneakers—Nike, two years old, starting to wear through at the toe—and reached for the skates. His hands were shaking slightly. He wasn't sure why.
Ilya crouched down in front of him as Shane pulled on the first skate, and that was—that was a lot. Having this expensive-looking stranger kneeling at his feet while Shane tried on hockey equipment. Shane's face felt hot again.
"How does it feel?" Ilya asked.
Shane flexed his foot, testing the boot. "Good. Really good, actually. The ankle support is—" He stood up, balancing on one skate and one socked foot. "Yeah. These are perfect."
"Both feet," Ilya instructed. "Make sure."
Shane put on the second skate, laced them both properly—not too tight, not too loose, the way he'd been doing since he was four years old. He stood, shifted his weight, bent his knees. The skates felt like they'd been made for him.
"These are the ones," he said.
"Good." Ilya stood as well, and he was close again, looking down at Shane with those sharp eyes. "What else?"
What followed was possibly the strangest shopping experience of Shane's life.
He started with the essentials—the things he actually needed. Stick tape, because his current roll was down to the last few wraps. He grabbed three rolls, which should last him through the season if he was careful.
Ilya added six more rolls to the pile the employee was accumulating. "You will need extras," he said, like it was obvious.
Shane moved to shin guards next. His current ones had a crack in the left guard that he'd been reinforcing with tape, but it was getting worse. He found the CCM Jetspeed FT4s, pulled them down to check the sizing.
"These," he said. "My old ones are damaged."
Ilya nodded, and the employee added them to the pile.
Gloves. He found the Bauer Vapor 3X gloves—they matched the skates, which wasn't necessary but appealed to the part of Shane's brain that liked things to be coordinated.
"These," he said, and they went on the pile.
He was mentally calculating costs as he went. Skates: $800. Shin guards: $220. Gloves: $280. Stick: $349. Tape: $80 for nine rolls, which was excessive but apparently happening. That was already $1,729, which was more than his parents had given him, which meant this was really happening, Ilya was really buying him all this equipment, which was insane.
"Shoulder pads," Ilya said, gesturing to another section. "You need?"
Shane looked down at himself, like Ilya could see through his jacket to the shoulder pads underneath. "Mine are okay. A little worn, but they still protect fine."
"But new ones would be better, yes?"
"I mean... yes, technically, but—"
Ilya was already walking toward the shoulder pads, and Shane followed because what else was he supposed to do? The man was buying him hockey equipment. The least Shane could do was follow him around the store.
"What do you use now?" Ilya asked.
"Uh, CCM Tacks. But they're from when I was sixteen, so they're a little small now. I've adjusted the straps as far as they go."
Ilya pulled down a pair of CCM Jetspeed FT4 shoulder pads—top of the line, matching the shin guards. "Try these."
"I don't need to try them, I can just check the size—"
"Try them," Ilya repeated, and there was something in his voice that made it not quite a command but close enough that Shane found himself taking off his jacket.
He pulled the shoulder pads on over his t-shirt, adjusting the straps. They fit perfectly—better than his old ones, with more mobility in the shoulders and better protection around the collarbone.
"Good?" Ilya asked.
"Yeah. Really good."
"We take them." Ilya handed them to the employee, who was starting to look slightly overwhelmed by the growing pile of equipment.
They moved through the store like that, Ilya asking questions and Shane answering honestly—too honestly, probably, because he kept admitting when his current gear was worn or damaged or too small, and every time he did, Ilya added something new to the pile.
Elbow pads. Hockey pants. A new helmet because Shane's current one was six years old and probably not up to current safety standards anymore, if he was being honest. A neck guard. Two pairs of hockey socks. A gear bag to carry everything because Shane's current bag was held together with duct tape and hope.
"This is too much," Shane said at one point, staring at the mountain of equipment the employee had assembled near the register. "This is way too much."
"It is what you need," Ilya said simply.
"Nobody needs this much stuff."
"You do. For your debut." Ilya's hand landed on Shane's shoulder, warm and solid through his t-shirt. "You should not worry about equipment. You should focus on playing your best."
Shane's throat felt tight. He didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to process the casual generosity, the way Ilya said it like it was nothing, like dropping several thousand dollars on a stranger's hockey equipment was just something people did.
"I also think," Ilya continued, his hand still on Shane's shoulder, "that you need base layers. For under the equipment. You have good ones?"
"I have some," Shane said. They were mostly old Under Armour shirts from high school, stretched out and faded, but they worked.
Ilya's expression suggested he knew exactly how old and stretched out Shane's base layers were. "We get new ones."
Twenty minutes later, Shane had four new compression shirts, three pairs of compression shorts, and enough hockey socks to last him two seasons. The pile of equipment had grown so large that the employee had to call for backup to help carry it all to the register.
"This is insane," Shane muttered, watching as they scanned item after item, the total climbing higher and higher on the register display. "This is absolutely insane."
"You keep saying this," Ilya observed. He was leaning against the counter, completely relaxed, like he bought strangers thousands of dollars worth of hockey equipment every day. "But you are not stopping me."
"I don't know how to stop you," Shane admitted. "You just keep... adding things."
"Because you need things." Ilya's smile was warm.
The total came to $4,847.32.
Shane felt lightheaded looking at the number. That was more money than Shane had ever spent on anything in his entire life.
"Charge it all to my tab," Ilya said to the employee, his voice casual and commanding at once. "We will need delivery as well. There is no way he can carry all this."
"Of course, sir. We can have it delivered tomorrow. What's the address?"
Ilya looked at Shane expectantly.
Shane rattled off his parents' address—the house where he still lived with his mom Yuna and his dad David in the suburbs just outside Montreal, where they had just moved last month—and watched as the employee wrote it down. This was really happening. This was actually, genuinely happening.
The employee handed Ilya a receipt that was probably longer than Shane's arm. "Thank you so much for your business, Mr. Rozanov. We'll have everything delivered by 2 PM tomorrow."
"Excellent." Ilya pocketed his credit card and turned to Shane. "Come. Let us go."
Shane followed him out of the store in a daze, his mind still trying to process what had just happened. The mall was busy—Saturday afternoon, families and teenagers and couples wandering between stores—but Shane barely noticed any of it. He was too busy trying to figure out what the hell he'd just agreed to.
They stopped just outside SportChek, near a bench by a fountain. Ilya turned to face him, and Shane realized he was still holding the receipt for the stick tape—the only thing small enough for him to carry out.
"So," Shane said, because someone had to say something. "How can I repay you?"
Ilya's smile turned into something else. Something that made Shane's stomach flip the way it had been flipping all afternoon. "Give me your number."
Shane blinked. "My... phone number?"
"Yes. Your phone number." Ilya pulled out his phone—sleek, expensive, probably the newest iPhone. "So I can make sure the delivery arrives safely. And so we can stay in touch."
That made sense. That was a logical reason to exchange numbers. Shane pulled out his own phone—two years old, screen slightly cracked—and rattled off his number. Ilya typed it in, then called it so Shane's phone buzzed in his hand.
"There," Ilya said. "Now you have mine as well."
Shane saved the contact—just "Ilya"—and looked up to find Ilya watching him with that same intense expression from earlier.
Ilya's eyes glinted with amusement. "You better give me some hockey tickets, Mr. Pro," he said, his voice playful and teasing.
Shane felt heat creep up his neck. "I—yeah, I mean, I'll try. I'm just a rookie though, so I don't know if I'll have that kind of access yet."
"Then you will have to work very hard to impress your coaches, yes?" Ilya's smile widened. "So they give you ticket privileges."
Shane felt himself smiling despite the weirdness of the entire situation, despite the way his heart was doing something strange in his chest. "I'll see what I can do."
"Good." Ilya glanced around the mall, then back at Shane. "Have you eaten? There is a restaurant here—Mexican food. We could talk more."
Shane's stomach chose that moment to growl, reminding him that he'd been too nervous to eat much breakfast and it was now almost 2 PM. But he also had—he pulled out his phone, checking the bus schedule app. The next bus home left at 2:47. It was currently 2:02.
"I have forty-five minutes," Shane said. "Before my bus comes."
"We can do that," Ilya said immediately. "Forty-five minutes is plenty of time."
Shane blinked. Most people would have made an excuse, would have said never mind, would have suggested another time. But Ilya just... adjusted. Like Shane's bus schedule was a perfectly normal constraint and not an inconvenience.
"Okay," Shane heard himself say. "Yeah. Okay."
The Mexican restaurant was on the second floor of the mall, one of those fast-casual places with bright colors and loud music. They ordered at the counter—Ilya insisted on paying, of course, waving away Shane's attempt to at least buy his own burrito—and found a table near the window.
Shane's burrito was enormous. He stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out the best angle of attack, then just picked it up and took a bite. Carnitas, rice, beans, cheese, salsa. It was really good.
Ilya ate his tacos with the same casual elegance he seemed to bring to everything else, and Shane tried not to stare.
"So," Ilya said after a few minutes. "You are eighteen. Just called up to the Metros. This is your first professional contract?"
"Yeah. Well, not a contract yet. I'm in rookie camp first. If I do well, they'll sign me." Shane took another bite of burrito, chewed, swallowed. "I just turned eighteen two weeks ago."
"Young," Ilya observed. "Most rookies are nineteen, twenty."
"I know. I'm young for my draft year. My birthday is May 10.." Shane had heard this his entire life—that he was young, that he was small for his age, that he'd probably grow into his potential later. Except he'd grown into it early, and now here he was. "But I'm ready. I've been training for this my whole life."
"I believe you," Ilya said, and something in his tone made Shane think he actually meant it. "You have the look of someone who is very dedicated."
"Hockey is..." Shane paused, trying to find the right words. "It's the only thing I've ever been really good at. Like, naturally good at. Everything else I have to work really hard to understand, but hockey just makes sense to me."
"That is a gift," Ilya said quietly. "Not everyone finds the thing that makes sense to them."
Shane took another bite of burrito, using the time to study Ilya. The man was watching him with that same intense focus, like Shane was the most interesting thing in the mall. It was flattering and uncomfortable in equal measure.
"What about you?" Shane asked. "Do you work around here? Is that why you were at the mall?"
"I have business in Montreal," Ilya said, which wasn't really an answer. "I split my time between here and New York."
"What kind of business?"
"Investments. Property. Various things." Ilya smiled. "Nothing as interesting as professional hockey."
Shane wasn't sure he believed that, but he also wasn't sure how to push for more information without being rude. "You said you played hockey? In Russia?"
"Yes. When I was younger." Ilya's expression turned nostalgic. "Nothing professional. Just for fun, with friends. But I loved it. The speed, the strategy, the teamwork. It is a beautiful sport."
"Why didn't you go professional?"
"Life took me in different directions," Ilya said. "And I was not as talented as you clearly are. I was good, but not great. There is a difference."
Shane thought about that. He'd played with a lot of guys who were good but not great—guys who loved hockey but didn't have that extra something that made scouts take notice. It was sad, in a way. Loving something that much and knowing you'd never be able to do it at the highest level.
"Do you still play?" Shane asked.
"Sometimes." Ilya leaned back in his chair. "But mostly I watch now. I appreciate the skill more as a spectator, I think. I can see the small things that make the difference between good players and great ones."
"Like what?"
"Like the way you were holding that stick earlier," Ilya said. "The way your hands positioned automatically, without thought. Muscle memory. That is not something you can teach—that comes from thousands of hours of practice."
Shane felt his face heat up again. "You got all that from watching me hold a stick in a store?"
"I got that from watching you for ten minutes trying to decide if you could afford it," Ilya corrected. "The way you touched it, the way you tested the flex, the way you put it back so carefully each time. You love the game. That is obvious."
Shane didn't know what to say to that. It felt too exposed, too seen. He took another bite of burrito to avoid having to respond.
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The restaurant was busy around them, families and teenagers and mall workers on break, but Shane found himself relaxing into the moment. This was weird—all of it was weird—but it was also kind of nice. When was the last time someone had bought him lunch and actually seemed interested in talking to him?
His phone buzzed. 2:34. Thirteen minutes until his bus.
"I should probably head to the bus stop soon," Shane said reluctantly. "It's a ten-minute walk."
"Of course." Ilya stood immediately, gathering their trash. "I will walk with you."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," Ilya said, and there was that phrase again. I want to. Like it was the simplest thing in the world.
They walked through the mall together, past stores and kiosks and groups of shoppers. Shane was hyperaware of Ilya beside him, tall and confident and expensive-looking. People looked at them as they passed—or maybe they were just looking at Ilya. Shane was used to being invisible in crowds.
The bus stop was outside the mall's main entrance, a covered shelter with a digital display showing arrival times. Shane's bus—the 47 toward Verdun—was listed as arriving in eight minutes.
"Thank you," Shane said, turning to face Ilya. "For everything. The equipment, lunch, just... all of it. I don't really understand why you did it, but thank you."
Ilya's smile was soft. "You are welcome, Shane Hollander." He reached out, and for a moment Shane thought he was going to touch him again, but instead he just adjusted the collar of Shane's jacket. "Play well at your debut. I will be watching for your name."
"I'll try not to disappoint you."
"You will not," Ilya said with absolute certainty. "I am very good at reading people. And you—you are going to be something special."
Shane's throat felt tight again. "How do you know?"
"Because," Ilya said, "you stood in that store for forty-seven minutes trying to decide between tape and a stick, and the entire time, all you could think about was playing your best. Not about looking good, not about impressing anyone. Just about playing. That is what makes great players great."
The bus was pulling up to the stop, brakes hissing.
"That is your bus," Ilya said. "Go. Text me when the equipment arrives tomorrow."
"I will," Shane promised. He started toward the bus, then turned back. "Ilya?"
"Yes?"
"Why did you really do all this?"
Ilya's smile turned mysterious. "Because I wanted to know you, Shane. And now I do. A little bit, at least." He waved. "Go. Do not miss your bus."
Shane climbed onto the bus, tapped his card, and found a seat by the window. As the bus pulled away, he looked back to see Ilya still standing there, hands in his coat pockets, watching the bus leave.
Shane pulled out his phone and looked at the contact: Ilya. Just a phone number and a first name and the memory of the strangest, most generous afternoon of his life.
His phone buzzed with a text.
Ilya: Do not forget about those front row tickets.
Shane smiled despite himself and typed back: I'll see what I can do.
The bus carried him toward home, toward his old life, but Shane couldn't stop thinking about sharp eyes and expensive cologne and the way Ilya had said I want to know you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He still didn't understand what had happened.
But he was pretty sure he wanted it to happen again.