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Yuna Hollander had always been fiercely protective of her son. Shane had always had a gentle heart, and kids had noticed and bullied him mercilessly. By nine, he stood out from the other kids because he was so much better at hockey.
As the other boys discovered girls, Shane discovered new moves on the ice. Yuna was the team mom. She heard the boys whispering about girls and about first kisses. She would see Shane hear them and watch as he quickly laced his skates and skated away. He never joined in the talk.
Jessica had come and gone in less than a season, and Shane had always looked uncomfortable holding her hand. When she had brought it up with David, he had sighed and said, “When he’s ready, he’ll find a very nice young man.” She teared up, and he said, “Honey.”
“He wants to go into the MHL, David. They won’t be kind to our boy.”
He nodded but said, “We’ll be there for him. It will be okay.”
Then along came Ilya Fucking Rozanov.
Yuna knew all about him before the Prospect Cup. She listened to all the podcasts and read all the predictions. The podcasters didn’t come right out and call him a monster, but they hinted at it. As a mother, she didn’t want Shane playing against a boy like that. But she knew that his career was hanging in the balance. She thought it was crazy that all the seventeen-year-olds were fighting for their dream job. Rozanov wasn’t as violent as she had feared, but she hated that the Russian team won. When they lined up to shake hands, she saw him say something to Shane.
Later, when she asked Shane, he said Rozanov had called the draft the next competition. “That asshole will not be the first draft pick. You are amazing. They would be insane to pass you over for him.”
Then Rozanov was picked first. But the Raiders had the first pick, and Yuna was thrilled Shane wasn’t going to the cockiest, most vulgar team in the league. Rozanov would be a good fit; Shane wouldn’t. And the Metros were her favorite team and would keep him relatively close to home.
Ilya Fucking Rozanov just refused to go away. Shane was supposed to have a commercial for CCM Hockey, and Rozanov turned up for it. It was a Canadian brand. Yuna had no idea why they wanted him there. He refused to take it seriously and kept giggling, making Shane giggle too. And then, partway through their rookie season, when Shane was winning the scoring race, Rozanov announced he was going to get fifty goals by the end of the season. It was a complete asshole move to grab the spotlight while he was losing.
Over lunch, she made a huge mistake. She was pissed at Rozanov, and as she expressed her anger about his cockiness, she said, “Fuck him. Right up the butt.”
“Yuna,” David reprimanded her, eyes wide. She realized what had come out of her mouth. She hadn’t been thinking about how homophobic it sounded.
She thought about how to fix it and said, “You’re right, David, I have no idea what he’s into. Thank you for pointing that out. I don’t want him to enjoy this. So, fuck him and he doesn’t get to climax.”
Shane laughed, “Jesus, Mom.”
She turned the conversation back to Rolex.
It didn’t end after Shane won Rookie of the Year. Rozanov hounded his every step. Sometimes she wanted to step in and slap him. Even now, five years later, he was always there. She watched Scott Hunter play incredibly mediocre hockey against Shane. He was mic’d, making all of his conversations part of the color commentary of the night. Then Shane chirped harmlessly that Scott Hunter hadn’t turned up.
In response, Scott Hunter said, “You’re starting to sound like him.” It took Yuna a second to realize what he had said as Shane demanded clarification and Scott said, “You fucking heard me, Hollander.”
Shane, her sweet, quiet boy, was dropping his gloves and landed one punch on Scott Hunter before his teammates grabbed him and held him back as he shouted.
David said, “What the hell is going on?”
Yuna stared at the screen. “I think he compared Shane to Rozanov. But I don’t know why that made Shane so angry.”
They watched as Shane and Scott Hunter were dragged off the ice. “What the hell?” muttered David.
“We’ll give him time to shower, eat and calm down a little. Then we’ll call,” said Yuna. David nodded.
She waited, feeling anxious, wishing they lived close. Then Scott Hunter posted a video. The video supposedly explained the fight. But… it was bullshit. Yuna and David watched Scott Hunter say that it was a miscommunication and that Shane thought he was being a homophobic asshole. The video ended, and she and David just looked at each other.
“If he thought Scott was being homophobic, he would ruminate on it for weeks and call him,” said David. “He thinks. He always thinks.” She nodded. “He never gets that angry about Rozanov.” She nodded again. “Scott said that they’re friends, that they’ve hung out. Has Shane ever once mentioned hanging out with Rozanov?” She shook her head. “He said Shane sounds like Rozanov and Shane got pissed.”
Yuna went to the replay of the game and replayed the moment when Scott and Shane were fighting, and she shook her head, “That’s not anger, David.”
David had cocked his head, obviously listening, “No, no, you’re right. He’s scared. He’s scared to sound like Rozanov.”
“You don’t want to sound like someone if you’re supposed to not like them,” said Yuna.
“Scott Hunter is a homophobe,” said David.
“And our son is sleeping with Ilya fucking Rozanov,” said Yuna. David nodded. “God, he’s such an asshole, David.”
“Well, we’re going to have to be nice for Shane’s sake.”
“You said he would find a nice young man,” she reminded him.
“Well, you dated some losers before me,” David said, “maybe he’s in the ‘date a loser’ phase.”
“You think they’re dating?” she asked. “It’s not just sex?”
He shrugged, “He’s hanging around with him enough to noticeably change how he talks on the ice.”
“But he’s such an asshole,” she said.
David nodded, “Yeah, but he’s an asshole who is probably sleeping with our son.” She made a gagging noise, and he laughed, “Yuna, we have to be nice.”
“I’m texting him to ask him to call,” she said, pulling out her phone.
“What are we going to say? We need a plan.”
“The same thing we were always going to say, David. We love him; we like him; we support him. And we’re still not going to force him to say it if he doesn’t want to.”
Shane didn’t reply to the texts. He didn’t answer her calls. She was half a step away from just getting in the car and driving the two hours to his apartment when her phone rang. Shane apologized for taking too long to shower and eat. She was just glad he wasn’t rocking in a corner.
The conversation followed a script David and she had planned out years ago: reminding Shane they loved him, reminding him that they were proud of who he was, telling him he could always be honest,
Shane sounded defeated and young as he said, “Hunter got angry and threatened to out Ilya and me on live TV, so I went to fight him.”
The soft way he said Rozanov’s name spoke volumes. He pronounced his name differently from everyone else. All the commentators said it, “Eel-e-a.” He said it, “Il-ya.” She assumed his pronunciation was correct. He wasn’t just sleeping with the asshole; there were feelings. Then he said they’d been together for years. As he spoke about his fears of being outed, he didn’t talk about his career or sponsors. Instead, he talked about Rozanov going to a Russian prison.
Over the phone, she could hear the telltale signs of a panic attack as he started to have problems breathing. She exchanged a glance with David, who nodded, and she suggested that they drive to his place to help him calm down. But then Shane said Rozanov was there, had flown in just because he was having panic attacks.
It usually took a lot of coaxing to get Shane to calm down when he panicked. But she heard a few murmurs, and Shane’s breath became regular much more quickly than usual. With all of her years of practice, she had never been able to resolve his panic attacks that fast. They agreed to have dinner all together at Shane’s place after the game, and then Ilya fucking Rozanov called a greeting into the phone before they hung up.
David looked at her, and she looked back. “Well,” he said, “They’ve been together for years, and the asshole Russian got on a plane ‘cause our son couldn’t breathe and can stop a panic attack in under a minute. I’m not sure Shane’s going through the ‘date a loser’ phase.” She laughed, but then burst into tears. “Oh, honey.” He put an arm around her.
“I always worried about him getting traded, or sponsors pulling out, players being mean, violence. Now I’m going to have to worry about Russian prisons? I don’t want to have to worry about Ilya Rozanov.”
He nodded and stroked her back, “It’s very late. That’s tomorrow’s problem. Let’s go to bed.”
Yuna knew she couldn’t sleep a wink. But David had work in the morning. As a momager, Shane’s well-being was her whole job. She loved her husband and wanted him to get some rest, so she went with him to bed, put on PJs, brushed her teeth, curled up with him, and stroked his hair until he fell asleep. It took a while. She knew he was worried, that the night was heavy on his mind.
But David was better at letting things go than she was. Shane got his stress levels from her. Problems niggled at her mind until she solved them. While Shane had panic attacks, she just got obsessively focused.
David liked to say, “There is no point in borrowing worries from tomorrow. You can’t control the stuff that hasn’t happened yet.”
But Yuna disagreed. With careful planning, you could control the outcome.
After he fell asleep, she carefully detangled herself from David and set her phone’s screen to the lowest brightness. In the next few hours, she became an expert on Russia’s laws about homosexuality. She also learned that the death rate in their penal system was almost three times higher than the rest of Europe. Over half of the deaths came from tuberculosis, then suicide, then AIDS, then torture. No young man Shane’s age was going there if she had any say, even if she had always thought he was an asshole.
She went through old pictures on her phone and on Facebook, knowing exactly what she wanted, and located them quickly. One was of her and a very young Shane. He was in skates, smiling, missing his front teeth. She was in a t-shirt that read “Team Mom.” The other was from the first Prospect Cup. It was taken during warm-up. Shane was centered and smiling at her and the camera in the bleachers. Rozanov was behind him, smiling too, looking beyond her, but the camera angle made it look like she had meant to photograph them together. They were seventeen in the photo. And, even though it was only five years old, they both looked impossibly young.
She opened her notes app and started to write a statement she could put on social media, knowing she would edit it if the boys didn’t like it.
She thought as she wrote, making a narrative, something that would reinforce Scott Hunter’s video and distract people from what he had said on the ice. Let people think about the fake rivalry, not why Shane might be so upset that Hunter brought up Rozanov at all.
It was just two paragraphs, but she thought it sold a perfect fairytale.
“When Shane was little, he had a hard time speaking up for himself and getting what he needed. I always volunteered to be the team mom so that I knew someone was paying attention to his needs. And I loved being a team mom. I always wanted a gaggle of kids, but David and I just had one. Being team mom gave me a chance to look after a bunch of little boys. There were always kids who had two working parents, where things were harder. I never minded bringing their skates with Shane’s to get sharpened. I always brought extra snacks for the kids whose moms worked late and the kids who forgot them on their kitchen tables. I loved that responsibility. Then Shane got older, got onto teams without team moms. Then came the Prospect Cup.
“Shane and Ilya hit it off the minute they met because of skating and their sense of humor. Ilya was a kid in a foreign country where he didn’t speak the language very well, and he didn’t have any family and suddenly I felt like I was right back to being a team mom. And, yes, he got drafted to the worst possible team. But I can’t ever not root for Ilya. I don’t root for the Raiders, but I’m always rooting for Ilya (unless he and Shane are facing off, at which point I want them both to try their hardest, have a good time and not get injured). The rivalry makes for excellent hockey, but their friendship is great to watch as a team mom. I love you both, boys.”
She reread it several times, looking for typos. Then she sent it and the pictures to Shane with a note saying, “Shane, I was thinking about Scott Hunter saying that you’ve always been friendly in his video. I thought I could give you more coverage and post this note on my socials. It makes the story your friendship rather than Scott’s words. Tell me if you don’t want me to. Love, Mom.”
She didn’t want him to start his day off with a panic attack. So, she added a PS that she knew would distract him by either making him pissed or making him laugh, tacking on, “PS: You never threw a game, right?”
The thinnest light was coming through the window, and David’s alarm hadn’t gone off. It couldn’t be any later than 6:45. Shane wouldn’t reply to the email, but she sent it anyway. She switched over to social media, wanting to know what people were saying. A lot of people were talking about it still. People had put up gifs of kittens adorably hissing at each other. Homophobes were saying gay people shouldn’t be comfortable on the ice. People were telling them to fuck off. People were calling for the MHL to codify punishments for inappropriate chirps.
No one was calling Shane and Ilya gay.
Yuna switched over to Instagram, where the League hockey players put all their videos, where Hunter had posted his. She wanted to know how Shane’s colleagues were reacting. She put in earbuds and went to the Reels page. There was captain after captain pledging to throw down over homophobic comments. It was lip service. But at least it was positive lip service.
The sound of David’s alarm cut through her earbuds, and she removed them. He blinked slowly at her and asked, “Did you get any sleep?”
“I know all about Russia’s penal system and I prepared a social media post about how Rozanov is a beloved member of this family,” she replied. “I sent it to Shane for them to approve.” She showed the picture from the Prospect cup to David, “Look at how young they were.” He smiled and nodded. “And I looked at that kid and thought he was a little shit and a monster who would hurt our boy.”
“Well, there’s still time,” he joked.
Seriously, she said, “Who thinks that way about a child?”
“A protective mom. But we’ll go over there, we’ll meet our son’s boyfriend, and it will be a whole new start. Okay?” She nodded. “I gotta take a shower. Please try to at least dose until your alarm at eight?” She nodded as he kissed her cheek.
At some point, she fell asleep. Shane had emailed her back saying, “Mom, my God. Have you ever let Dad win at cards? I would rather cut my own arm off than let Ilya win a game. It’s fun because I’m beating the best there is. Or it’s okay to lose because at least I got my ass handed to me by someone I actually respect. No, we’ve never thrown a game. Jesus. As for the rest of it, it’s fine. You’re probably right. It’s better to have people thinking about us as friends and being shocked by that than thinking about what Hunter said on the ice. I think I am going to have to tell Hayden. I doubt he bought Hunter’s. He definitely isn’t going to buy this. After the game, I told him the girlfriend he’s always thought I had in Boston was coming for a visit. He probably knows Ilya’s here already. It’s a mess. But the post is fine. Ilya likes the picture from the Prospect Cup. We don’t have any pictures of us.”
Reading it made her tear up, but she wiped them away fast. Crying wouldn’t help them. She and David had so many photos of their early dating life and of Shane’s childhood. Shane had so many pictures of the Pike kids on his phone. They were a photo family. The idea of Shane and Ilya avoiding proof of their relationship, hiding who they were… all of those memories and moments had to be buried like evidence of a crime instead of something to be happily remembered.
She knew Shane preferred text to email; email was work, text was a chat. She texted him, “Hayden loves you. He is the father of your godson. It’s going to be okay. Also, Dad and I love you, just in case you’re forgotten in the last few hours.”
“I know,” he texted back. Then he texted, “Ilya posted his video saying homophobes get their teeth broken video. I think all the captains are doing it. It’s a trend. I think I made mine on the ice.”
She hearted the message, then opened Instagram and went to Rozanov’s page.
He was in an open shirt, hair unbrushed, in front of a white wall. He looked disheveled and like he had just woken up. There was a hickey on his shoulder. Her son had left that hickey. Her son, who had looked uncomfortable holding a girl’s hand at seventeen, had sucked a bruise onto that man’s body.
“I saw fight last night and went to bed. I wake up this morning to much, uh, hubbub. I heard Scott Hunter say Shane Hollander chirps like me. Just like Hollander, I thought he was being homophobic and I was pleased Hollander went to hit him. That’s not the way to act on ice. I didn’t know I would wake up and it would be a whole thing now.” He shrugged, looking bored. “Hunter, when Hollander was held back he old you a dinosaur. If you don’t like chirps telling you to skate better, be better. As is, maybe consider becoming fossil fuel.” He waggled his head side-to-side like he was considering the option. “You’ll help team be faster fueling team jet than skating slow on ice. Is very sad.” He shrugged, “Just suggestion.” Even off the ice, the man couldn’t stop running his mouth. But Hunter deserved whatever they wanted to dish out after what he had done.
“But we have to talk about other thing. No one chirps at Hollander enough. You all act like, ‘Oh, Hollander’s so nice. It’s like bullying.’ No, is chirping. If sounds like me is because I am only one who chirps at him. It’s like you all see baby and say, ‘Oh the baby can’t walk. It would be rude to walk in front of baby.’ So, the baby crawls its whole life. You should chirp at Hollander. He’s a grown-up. He can take. Sometimes, he even does well. I said I would do a hat trick to make night exciting. He said my eyes are spaced like prey on side of head, not predator, and it’s amazing I can follow the puck. Called me bunny. I lost the faceoff and spent twenty minutes after the game staring in mirror. They’re not that far apart. If you chirp more, he gets practice and sounds less like me. Chirp at Hollander and break homophobe’s teeth.” It ended with Ilya looking put out, like he was pissed that the video was taking up a moment of his day.
Yuna wondered if Shane had ever really told him his eyes were too far apart. His eyes were widely set but not in an unattractive or unnatural way. He certainly didn’t look like a prey animal.
She went to all her profiles and posted the pictures and her statement. Then she switched to her emails. As she had been up all night, she didn’t get out of bed. She could get coffee, but it seemed easier to just work from bed until she needed her computer for the spreadsheet of Shane’s upcoming brand shoots. She brushed her teeth and got dressed. Downstairs, she started to schedule things out to try to prevent Shane from being overwhelmed before the Olympics.
Some things still needed to be signed and approved. She emailed Shane with the thing he needed to approve and sign, asking him if he liked them, asking him if he wanted to commit. She also sent him the schedule and said, “These are the brands you committed to but the shoot dates can change. I don’t know if you want to be in Boston any of these days. If Ilya will be here. These have to get done before you go to Russia. I can work around your schedule. This is your life, honey, I don’t want you to be unhappy. This is all supposed to feel like winning, not stressful.”
Usually, he would reply within a couple of minutes. She knew he was awake. Now it was about twenty minutes, and his response was a video call, which was unusual. He looked like he’d been in a heated conversation. His phone was angled oddly. She wasn’t supposed to be able to see the hand on the back of his neck squeezing rhythmically, so she didn’t call attention to it.
“Hi, honey, I’m sorry to be interrupting your day off, I just want to get this all nailed down.”
“No, yeah, totally, I get that.” He nodded, looking nervous. “Um, there’s uh, something… Mom, I love you and I never want to hurt your feelings.”
“I know that, Shane,” she nodded and didn’t go on, letting him say what he needed to.
“You work really hard on brand deals and dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s before I even know about them. And I really appreciate that. And you always say if I don’t like the deals, I can say no. But, I know how much work it takes, and I love you and I don’t think you take a big enough cut. So, I always say yes. It’s a lot of work and a lot of money and you only get five percent. But,” he looked away from the phone, taking a deep breath, looking to the owner of the hand — obviously Rozanov — because she was the source of his stress, because he needed assurance. She felt sick as she realized that she was causing this problem. “I hate Calvin Klein and City Seltzer. Calvin Klein is… way too many people know I have freckles on my hip. I hate that. And the seltzer sucks but when I’m under contract, I’m not supposed to drink any good soda in public. And they soaked me for their ad. My abs shouldn’t sell their awful seltzer. I mean, I know it’s a lot of money and I’m sorry I’ve dragged my feet about signing. But, I don’t want to. I’m going to have to give up ginger ale when I sign it.”
“Honey, it’s okay. I’m sorry I pushed you into things and didn’t give you space to speak up,” she spoke firmly, making it so he wouldn’t have to explain his feelings more, knowing that would only worsen his anxiety. “Which other ones don’t you like?”
“No, I like the others… I really want you to take at least fifteen percent.”
She had only ever taken five percent. He had the most expensive sponsorships in Canada. Five percent was a lot of money. She managed him because she was afraid of him getting exploited, not because she wanted to exploit him.
“Shane, I already make so much money off of your deals. Five percent is a lot.”
He rolled his eyes, “Mom, I know you worry that I need to gather rosebuds, or whatever, because hockey careers are short. I don’t buy yachts and drugs. But I could never spend the money I have. I would have a way easier time saying no if I knew that every time I said yes you got several million dollars.”
She nodded. His feelings were more important than hers. “Fifteen percent, okay, done deal. Are there any sponsorships you want that you haven’t asked for because you felt I was already working too hard?”
She saw a slightly guilty, telltale look cross over his face. It was the same look he had had as a kid when he fibbed about brushing his teeth. “I would love Canada Dry. It’s my favorite soda and maybe more restaurants would carry it if it had a big brand ambassador. And Fired Up Ginger Shots… I would love a free supply of them shipped to me, because I’m always running out and I would happily say they’re the best. They would probably want me on the ice for the ad, that could be fun. I do drink a lot of them during practice. I would do Arc’teryx, they’re cool. I like my fleece from them. It’s cozy. And it’s cool that they’re local.”
Off to the side, Rozanov said something, and Shane looked sort of embarrassed. “Ilya thinks I should try to get Land Rover. I love my car. It’s great when I am at home. Because it’s so good on back roads and in the snow. It’s practical and pretty. But it’s huge, and in the city, it’s not the best, and parking is a pain. I should go and get an Evoque. I want the Evoque. I should go to a dealership. But I have so little time off that a dealership is unappealing, and Ilya is certain that if I do a commercial, they’ll handle all the registration and getting it a plate and just hand me an Evoque. Plus, I like their commercials; they’re quiet.”
She wrote the four brands down. It was so typical of Shane to think of the secondary benefits rather than the money when picking sponsors. It made endorsing them easier for him. He didn’t have to gloss over the truth or embellish. Shane had never been good at embellishment.
“I can look into it. They won’t be before the Olympics. Don’t sign the paperwork I sent. I’ll talk to them and say we are changing direction and don’t think it’s a good fit anymore. You’re not doing teenage heartthrob content ‘cause you’re not a teen anymore. We’re done with wet shirts and bare thighs. Calvin may come back and ask if you’ll wear their jeans and a jacket for a campaign. Would you be interested?”
“Not if there is an exclusivity clause. I’ll wear them for an ad. But I have a lot of jeans. They’re not my favorite… I’d do it, but their shoots are really long.”
She nodded, making a mental note that, no, he wasn’t doing anymore Calvin, even if they offered to keep him fully clothed. The shoots were too long. The money wasn’t good enough if he didn’t like doing it. “Okay, great. Take a look at the schedule, none of it is in stone. So let me know what needs to shift so you can enjoy your season, cool?”
“Sounds good, thanks, Mom.”
“I’m going to send you over a revised version of our contract that says I get fifteen percent, okay?”
He smiled; it was brighter, more relaxed than before. “Yes, that sounds great, thank you.”
“Okay, love you and talk to you later.”
Once they hung up, she took a deep breath. Shane had needed Ilya Fucking Rozanov to hold his hand through a conversation with her. Ilya Fucking Rozanov had obviously gotten him to open up about a problem she had created. Taking a breath, she wrote emails to Calvin Klein and City Seltzer to say that Shane was changing directions with his branding and was no longer interested in pursuing the brand deals as they didn’t fit with his vision of the future. She worded them to avoid negotiation. They were polite, warm, but final.
She went through her files and found her official contract with Shane, updated the numbers, and sent it to him. She saw he had sent back the schedule, asking her to change a couple of shoot days. He had never asked her to do that before. But he had written. “These are both on three-day breaks when I would like to be able to travel, if possible.” He had suggested days he could do.
She replied, “Thanks, Shane. Sometimes I could tell you weren’t happy about things. But I wasn’t sure if you were just nervous about the cameras or the pressure. I really appreciate you being honest and telling me what bothers you and what needed to change because I want you to have a happy life.”
She emailed his other sponsors, getting times set up, locked in. Finally, she mentally prepared herself and called the manager of the Admirals, happy that she always networked at award shows and events.
The woman picked up, and they chatted for a little while, catching up. After a few minutes, Yuna said, “I’m actually hoping you have Scott Hunter’s cell for me.”
The woman laughed, “Oh no, is he in trouble for last night?”
Yuna laughed, “No, of course not. I ordered six of the teddy bears wearing Shane’s jersey from the cancer fundraiser last month for various cousins’ kids. But, they shipped me Scott’s by accident. I’m not going to complain. It was for charity. But Shane’s little cousins don’t want Scott’s teddies. So I want to send them to people for Scott. Someone wants these, y’know? They’re adorable, just not for our kids.” It sounded like a real problem; it was incredibly believable. The fundraisers were always a shitshow.
The woman laughed, “Oh, so typical and so thoughtful of you.” She gave up Scott’s number easily.
Yuna thanked her, and they made their goodbyes before she called Hunter. She didn’t want to wait, to overthink it.
He picked up the phone, saying, “Hello?”
“Scott, this is Yuna Hollander.”
There was a noticeable pause before he said, “Hi, Mrs. Hollander.”
“I just told your team manager I got your charity teddies instead of Shane’s to get your number. You know why I’m calling.”
“Yeah,” he said. She didn’t respond, letting him sit with the uncomfortable silence. “Mrs. Hollander, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” she said. “Shane is my favorite person in the world and Ilya is a very sweet man.” She took a slow breath. “You have a tendency to get very drunk at events. Good for you. You guys rarely get a chance to let your hair down. I’m working at those events; I stay sober. The bartenders never guard their ice picks.”
“Holy shit,” he murmured.
“I don’t care if I go to prison. If you threaten them again, or harm them, it will be the last thing you do. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you believe me?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She thought over her words and said, “I always thought you were such a nice man, Scott. You jeopardized Shane’s career and endangered Ilya. A nice man doesn’t do that. David and I always knew. We were waiting for him to be ready to tell us. You took that away from him. That’s not what a nice man does.”
“I know; I’m really sorry.” He sounded like he might actually be crying.
“I hope you are,” she said. “I hope you mean that. Goodbye, Scott.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Hollander.”
She hung up and breathed out. She had done everything in her power to protect her son.
She wanted to protect him from the whole world. She always had. He’d always been such a quiet, gentle soul who had a hard time interacting with others. It had gotten harder as he grew older. She couldn’t protect him when he wasn’t by her side and didn’t share his thoughts with her.
It was shocking that Ilya Fucking Rozanov knew about a problem before her. But, she was grateful to him; it was a relief to know Shane was sharing his worries with someone, even if it wasn’t her.
She shook her head and muttered, “Okay, okay.” She refocused on work, looking into getting Canada Dry to sponsor Shane. She had to trust that Ilya Rozanov would handle his stress, and she would handle everything else.