“Is it about the documentary, do you think?”
“Possible.”
Shane exhaled. “It’s probably nothing to worry about, right?”
“Probably not. But I like how worried you get.” Ilya bumped his shoulder against him affectionately.
“Whatever.”
Ilya leaned in for a kiss, and Shane dodged him. “No way. Not after you ate that.”
“Come on,” Ilya said, grinning as he leaned in again. “You can taste chocolate again.”
“No.”
In the end, Shane couldn’t resist kissing him. It was better than chocolate.
Chapter Sixteen
A few days later, Shane was sitting in a waiting area outside Crowell’s office. He had never been to the NHL’s headquarters in Manhattan before, and the sleek lobby that had greeted him when he’d stepped off the elevators, with its fortieth-floor view of the Hudson River, was impressive. And intimidating.
“Commissioner Crowell can see you now, Mr. Hollander,” said the receptionist.
Shane nodded at her without quite making eye contact. He found her intimidating too.
When Shane walked in, he was greeted warmly by Crowell. “Shane! Come in. Thank you for meeting with me. Short notice, I know.”
Roger Crowell was a tall man, solidly built, with thick silver hair and heavy eyebrows over calculating, pale blue eyes. He’d never been a hockey player, but he’d played football in college, back in the seventies, and he clearly still kept in shape. If he weren’t so fucking scary, Shane would say he was handsome.
“No problem,” Shane said as he shook Crowell’s offered hand. “The offices are nice.”
“You’ve never been here before?”
“No.”
Crowell’s face shifted into a confused expression that seemed a bit theatrical to Shane. “Is that so? I’m surprised to hear it. Well, welcome.”
“Thank you.”
Crowell gestured to one of the leather chairs facing his desk, and Shane perched on the edge of the seat. Crowell sat in his own high-backed executive desk chair, leaning back in it comfortably. “Montreal’s had a great start to the season.”
“Yes. Not bad.”
“Always tough, defending a title,” Crowell said. As if he knew.
“It can be, yeah.”
“And how’s that charity doing? The one you started with Rozanov?”
“Good. We’ve been able to fund some very worthwhile organizations and initiatives.” Shane knew he sounded like he was reading directly from the Irina Foundation’s website, but he was too nervous to care. Where the hell was this conversation going?
“Glad to hear it. Your camps are doing good work too. Very...inclusive.”
“Yes. We try to make sure of that. It’s important to both of us.”
“That’s good. That’s good. We like to see that. Diversity is important.”
“It is,” Shane said cautiously.
“It can be hard sometimes to find a balance,” Crowell continued. “If you know what I mean.”
Shane definitely didn’t. “Balance?”
“Of course we, as a league and as a sport, want to talk about inclusion and diversity in hockey. We want to see things move in the right direction. But too much talk about that stuff can be...distracting.”
“Um.”
Crowell held out one hand. “Now I’ve heard, and you don’t have to confirm this, but I’ve heard that you are...homosexual.”
“I, uh—” Shane’s stomach clenched. He was a homosexual, but the way Crowell said it made it sound icky.
“Like I said, you don’t have to tell me. But let’s say the rumor is true.”
It wasn’t so much a rumor as something that Shane had told his teammates, and had willingly admitted to anyone who asked. He kept his mouth shut now.
“So maybe you’ve told your teammates, your friends, your family. Maybe you have a partner, I don’t know. The point is, I don’t need to know, and neither does anyone else.”
“Okay.”
“Nothing against Scott Hunter, of course. He’s a great player and a great ambassador for the game, but that approach can be a lot, y’know?”
“Approach? You mean his activism?”
“Activism, sure. Or just being loud about your personal business. What I’m saying is I appreciate the way you handle yourself, Shane. I know you put hockey first, and keep your private life private. That keeps everyone comfortable, and keeps the focus on hockey.”
Shane had no idea what the fuck they were talking about. Was Crowell telling him not to come out publicly? Was that what this meeting was truly about? “I admire Scott Hunter,” Shane said. “What he’s done over the past few years has been important to LGBTQ hockey players and fans, especially young players.”
“Of course. Like I said, the NHL absolutely supports Scott Hunter and the LGBTQ community one hundred percent.” Crowell said “LGBTQ” slowly and carefully, as if he were repeating a phone number he needed to memorize. “Did you know we sell Pride merchandise year-round on our website now?”
“Does the money go to LGBTQ charities?”
“And we’re expanding our Pride Nights,” Crowell said, ignoring Shane’s question. “Every team has them now, and we’re planning the first joint Pride Night game.”
“That’s a good first step, but—”
“I know that, historically, hockey hasn’t been the most inclusive sport, but obviously anyone can make it to the very top if they work hard enough. I mean, you’re proof of that.”
Shane wasn’t sure if Crowell was referring to his rumored homosexuality, his Japanese heritage, or both. He really wanted to get the fuck out of this office.
“What I wanted to say, Shane, in person, is that the league is proud of what you’re doing with your charity. Mental health is so important. And you can tell Rozanov that too. Just great work, both of you.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“And, if you want to be more vocal about your...personal life, maybe the NHL can help you with that. We can plan something together. We’d be happy to do that with you. For you.”
“I’ll...think about it.”
Crowell smiled like a panther. “Fantastic.” He stood, so Shane stood as well. “Always a pleasure sitting down with one of the league’s best players, Shane. You know, you’re my nephew’s favorite.”