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The first thing Svetlana notices as she’s being introduced to the First Couple of North America is that Rose Landry has great style. She’s wearing a sheer white mini-dress over a pink bra with matching high-waisted bottoms, almost certainly inspired by the newest Jeremy Scott collection, and she’s added white boots. Not easy to make white boots look tasteful. Svetlana read on the gossip blogs that Rose fired three stylists in quick succession at the start of her career, and has kept the one that's with her now for close to a decade. Discerning woman.
The second thing Svetlana notices is that Shane Hollander does not like her. She knows this because her date for the night, Sabrina, a restless Gujarati-Canadian socialite who Svetlana met while selling Sabrina’s husband a Bugatti, is close friends with one of Rose’s people, a beautiful dark-skinned man named Miles who is sexually unavailable, sadly, going by his immaculately-threaded eyebrows. When Sabrina introduces herself to Shane, Shane gulpingly smiles and offers his hand, something that surely no one has done at a nightclub like this except to pass a baggie. Gorgeous. A little clueless. Maybe that’s how Rose likes them. Still, he seems a willing signatory to the social contract of smiling when meeting friends-of-friends, until Svetlana steps forward.
Sabrina, somewhat thrown by the hand-shake, is trying to recover. “And this is Svetlana! You guys have a fun hockey connection. She’s BFFs with—ooh. What’s his name again, babe?”
“Ilya Rozanov,” says Svetlana. Feeling virtuous about it, she offers her hand first. “Don’t tell him I said you have the best hands in the league.”
Shane’s face is rigid. “Um. I won’t?”
“Thank you,” she says gravely. “You have saved a life.” Rose laughs, stroking Shane’s arm, and he suddenly remembers Svetlana’s hand is hanging. He takes it limply and disposes of it quick. His eyes look a little wild.
Interesting, Svetlana thinks, as they make their way to the cordoned-off VIP section, Rose leading the way, people coming over to pay their respects like she’s some kind of mob boss. They settle in a private booth, Sabrina squeezing in first, then Miles, Rose, and Shane, with Svetlana making up the tail.
The booth is small. She can’t help but notice that Shane angles his body away from her as much as he can, and twitches every time she speaks.
The rivalry is a public relations stunt: this, she knows. Ilya bitches and moans all the time about stupid perfect boring Hollander, but she would know if there had been any real disrespect there. But maybe the stunt is real to Shane. He is rarely seen without that beautiful, severe-looking mother-manager shadowing him. Maybe she has trained him to believe in the narrative, and maybe he’s taking it out on Svetlana. But no: Svetlana’s instincts say Shane is not that stupid. A Russophobe, then? But roughly a fifth of the Montreal team was born in Chelyabinsk. She starts to entertain the idea that Shane is a homophobe, but he seems to withstand Miles’ flirtation fine, and even asks a follow-up about Miles’ latest underwear modelling gig. Frankly, it doesn’t appear as though he possesses the kind of gaydar to anticipate that Sabrina and Svetlana will, in about an hour or so, be using the bathroom to snort coke off each others’ tits.
Luckily, there is much to distract Svetlana from this unforeseen unpleasantness, such as Sabrina’s foot caressing her calf under the table. Then Rose Landry reveals she comes from a hockey family. Delightful. Hollywood is usually not good at making interesting people famous.
“Oh my god, a goalie?” Rose’s expression would go in the picturebook definition of the word wow!, but it somehow looks like the most sincere thing in the world. Her mouth is at least as expressive as her eyes, Svetlana thinks. It twists and telegraphs in all directions. A shame that she too, is sexually unavailable. “What is his name?”
Rose is leaning over her boyfriend to hear Svetlana’s answer. They both startle when Shane, who has been silent thus far for the conversation, mutters, “Sergei Vetrov.” He reddens. “Sorry.”
“That’s right,” says Svetlana, coolly, after a moment. So Shane knew of her before they met. Curious and curiouser.
Mechanically, he recites, “Backstopped the Soviets during the ‘72 Summit Series when he was just nineteen. Canada won, but if he hadn’t gotten injured in Game 6…” He gives Svetlana a quick glance at that. Worried that the CSIS is listening in, maybe, and evaluating his patriotism. “Retired with a 2.3 GAA, unheard of at the time. One of the best to ever do it.”
Against her will, Svetlana is charmed.
“That’s amazing,” says Rose. She thuds against the booth back.
Sabrina sighs. She smooths a manicured hand over the top of her sleekly-ponytailed hair. “I wish hockey made sense to me. I almost went to a game once, but my crystals conveyed strongly that it would be a bad idea. Lo and behold, there was a mugging that very night. Just two miles from the stadium.”
“I’m mostly there for the sweaty men,” says Miles. “But, bang for the buck? Tennis gives me a lot more skin than hockey.” He shoots Shane an accusatory look at this, as if Shane is personally responsible for evolutions in protective gear.
“I grew up with hockey and it still doesn’t make sense to me.” Rose puts her hand on Shane’s. “Babe, did I tell you about that betting league I joined?”
“Yes, you did.”
“I joined this group chat with other actors, it’s percentage betting rules. No money on the line, only prestige. Kathryn Hahn’s a beast, by the way. She’s very intense about it. So I’m trying to catch up. Detroit is near the top of the league, they’ve beaten Buffalo thrice, who just beat Florida. Florida’s almost dead-last at this point. But when Detroit and Florida meet, Florida beats Detroit 3-1! Like, how!”
“It’s the match-up,” Svetlana and Shane say, at the exact same time. They look at each other.
“No, please,” says Shane, with a graciousness Svetlana finds funny, coming from the player with the highest hockey IQ in the league.
Well, if he insists. Svetlana begins to explain. “Detroit is a very good team, but they win by limiting shots. Their goaltending is mid-tier at best.” Shane closes his eyes and gives his head a little shake, as if the Detroit goaltending makes him very sad. “They’re always going to win against a team like Buffalo, whose first line struggles with taking high-risk shots and exposing that kind of goaltending. Now, Buffalo’s first line doesn’t struggle as much against Florida. As we know, playing defense in Florida is religiously prohibited. But when Florida meets Detroit…”
Svetlana trails off, and decides: what the hell. She smiles at Shane, and passes the puck.
He blinks, gives her a hesitant smile back. Catches the pass. “Detroit can’t handle Florida’s shot-making. It’s an ugly, high-volume game. They’ll throw the puck from anywhere.”
“From the stands. From the ceiling. From the parking lot.”
“Like rock-paper-scissors.” Shane turns to Rose, who’s looking at him with open lust. Incredibly, this seems to fly right over his head. “Rock beats scissors, scissors beat paper, but rock doesn’t beat paper.”
“I’m going to beat myself with a rock,” says Miles, languidly, “if we keep talking about hockey. Please, let’s all get drunk now.”
Svetlana watches Shane negotiate the writhing dance floor to bring Rose a glass of water. “You dehydrate very quickly,” he yells in Rose’s ear. Svetlana fucking loves this guy.
She wishes Ilya were here, and texts him to say so. He’s a good dancer, and he would appreciate the slapstick unfolding before her of Rose raising the glass into the air, clearly believing it to be more alcohol, as Miles latches onto Shane’s ass.
“Svetaaaaa,” says Sabrina, sidling up, crossing her arms around Svetlana’s neck. “I scored. Let me know whenever you wanna hit the ladies’ room.” Svetlana nods, pulls Sabrina in, and inhales deeply at her neck. They grind against each other for some time, the strobing lights illuminating Sabrina’s face in glimpses.
More and more, Svetlana is understanding the ways in which she and Ilya are not compatible. In a man, she needs someone willing to play the daddy, just a little bit. Soothe the six-year old who kept herself awake in bed late into the night for her father’s vodka-breath forehead kisses. Ilya hates being daddy. They tried, it didn’t work. Happens. At least Svetlana was open enough to ask him. The problem with Ilya is that he has a mommy kink so enormous it could be photographed by the fucking Sputnik, but he’s in complete denial about it. She resents him for that, how he never owns up to what he asks from her. Still, she’s tried giving him what he needs. She’s tried, but can’t help her recoiling instinct on the days when Ilya wants to have sex, and cry, and suck on her nipple, all three at once. She needs her space. The best sex they have feels like a distillation of their friendship, the play-wrestling, needling, teasing. It’s great, but not what Ilya needs. He needs someone to bring him a glass of water. Svetlana isn’t that person.
She goes up to the bar and asks for a vodka shot. To her surprise, Shane appears beside her. He’s noticeably not sweaty. Svetlana wonders what he does while everyone else dances. Maybe he’s found a way to meditate to house music.
“So, are you liking Montreal?” What a question. He seems nervous. “You’re not based out of here, are you?”
“No, I switch between Boston and Moscow. Work is in Boston, but my clients are all over. I’ll fly out to meet them, sometimes. If it’s a really expensive car.” Or if the client's wife is super hot.
“That’s how you met—” He makes a heroic effort to remember the name. “Sabrina.” Brava. “So she was a client?”
“Uh.” Svetlana smiles; but no, it would only melt his brain. “Basically, yes.”
The bartender puts two shots down in front of them.
“Ah, no, thank you—you don’t drink during the season, right?” Svetlana pushes one of the shot glasses back towards the bartender; Shane quickly grabs it.
“I do,” he says, with an air of meeting a challenge. “On occasion.”
“Okay. To this occasion, then.”
They take their shots. Shane grimaces.
“It’s so bad,” he says in a small voice.
Svetlana is sympathetic. “It’s not the good stuff.”
“That would be the Russian stuff.” He says it almost to himself, with a funny-looking expression. He glances at her, then away. “You’re Russian.”
“Russian-American. Russian on my father’s side, yes.”
“Do you speak Russian?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I wish I knew…more languages.” She thinks the vodka’s hitting his bloodstream already. “My dad played hockey too. College-level. It was nice growing up with a hockey dad.” The two-time Cup winner then slumps against the bar and confides to Svetlana, “I like hockey a lot.”
Svetlana hides a smile. “I also like hockey a lot.” Which is a true statement. But she thinks about the blood-boiling experience of watching this season. “I would like it more without all the nationalism.”
“Oh, yeah?”
She gives Shane a look. “Have you been watching the Colorado games?”
“I watch all the games.” He says it without a trace of self-consciousness. Respect.
“Have you noticed how their coach, Sanders, runs the power plays?” Shane draws his upper lip in. He nods. “Tell me. Would you put Matheson on the ice for a third-period power play? When Petrov is on the bench and has fresh legs?”
“Personally…no. I wouldn’t. But I’m sure Sanders has his reasons.”
“Yes, yes, his reasons. His patriotic grass-fed American reasons. It’s crass to still be sore about a war you won two decades ago.”
Shane glances again at her. He looks horribly sad, for some reason. Talking about how Sanders plays his players makes Svetlana sad too, but not this sad. “Must be nice. For you and Rozanov. To have each other in Boston. I bet the Russian-speaking diaspora is not all that large.”
“It’s tiny. And we’ve been friends since childhood, so, yes. I was very excited when the Raiders drafted him first. No offense,” she adds.
“Does…” His eyes are wide, fixed to a spot on the bar counter. He’s swaying slightly. “Does Rozanov know you think I have the best hands in the league?”
“Oh, of course. He knows all my opinions.”
“How did he take it? When you told him?”
“Went red in the face. Started spluttering. Threatened to call the cops on me.”
Shane laughs. It sounds wrenched from inside him.
Sabrina and Rose come by just then. Sabrina gives Svetlana a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss.
“You’re not dancing,” she complains, after drawing back. Svetlana pats her face. Poor puppy.
“I came by to say the same thing,” says Rose. She’s looking between Svetlana and Shane, and she seems curious. Then, to Shane: “See you on the floor, handsome?”
Shane nods. Rose and Sabrina head back.
Svetlana looks at Shane. “One more drink? We can carry it back with us.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“Doesn’t have to be a shot. Something chill. We’ll stick with vodka. Maybe a cocktail?” Svetlana slides one of the laminated menus towards them with a fingernail.
“Maybe.” Quietly, Shane asks, “Sabrina, is she—is she your girlfriend?”
“She’s more of a pet.” The vodka’s hitting Svetlana too.
“Wow.” Then, sounding hollowed-out, he says, “You’re perfect for each other.”
Weirdly intense. Svetlana is confused, but laughs anyway. “Do you like citrus? Look, this one's practically hydrating. Definitely Jane, for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Plain Jane.” She points to the menu. Vanilla vodka, orange juice, cranberry juice. Honestly, that sounds really good. She might get one for herself.
“Are you fucking with me?”
Shane’s eyes are large and dark and shining with tears. He looks like the crying cat meme. Svetlana has never been more baffled in her life.
“Sorry. Ignore me,” he mumbles. “I think I’m—I need to go to the restroom.”
Shane is still walking away when two gears click together in Svetlana’s head.
Surely not.
She takes the gears apart slowly, examines their teeth. Fits them together again.
Click.
The bartender slides over the Plain Jane. Svetlana runs the stirrer around the glass.
After the initial mingled wave of shock and pity subsides, her thoughts, in order, are:
- Only Ilya could reach this level of earth-shattering stupidity. She shouldn’t even be surprised.
- Shane Hollander is a jealous asshole. She likes him a lot.
- It doesn’t appear as though Shane utilized any of this to ask Ilya for tips on improving his backhand. Bit of a waste, if you ask her.
Svetlana is still lost in thought when she returns to the dance floor, until Rose smiles and draws her into the group by the hand. “You know,” Rose says, breathing hard against her ear, “you’re welcome to flirt with my boyfriend. But you could include me.”
Any further thoughts of the NHL’s most celebrated archrivals fucking nasty on the down-low vanish from Svetlana’s head.
Delighted, she yells, “I didn’t know that was on the table!” Rose is laughing. Svetlana moves to the beat. Starts plotting. Wonders if she could get Rose fucking Landry to do coke with them in the ladies’ room. To be honest, she doesn’t even have to do the coke.