Chapter Text
July, 1998
Shane had simply never been hotter in his life. His parents had promised that he would like Washington D.C., but Shane didn’t know how anyone could like a place where walking around outside in the summer felt like taking a dive in a swimming pool.
It wouldn’t be forever, his parents had promised. But the Prime Minister had asked his dad to come here, to work at some big important bank that didn’t have actual bank accounts but let other countries borrow money instead, and it was apparently a pretty big deal. Big enough that they had packed up their old house in Ottawa and moved to a house that didn’t even have a real yard, just a sad concrete plaza they shared with other houses that were also attached to theirs. At least it was pretty close to a big Cathedral that had a huge grassy field, but Shane had no desire to be outside in this humidity.
They had been here for the whole summer, and Shane had already seen a big museum full of fossils, one full of old planes strung up on the ceiling, and one full of Japanese art with his mom. At least the museums had air conditioning. He wouldn’t start school for weeks yet, and he wouldn’t start hockey again for weeks after that. Until then, Shane was just kind of stuck, alone, while his parents worked.
At night, Shane’s dad would come home from work in a sweaty suit, swearing up and down about the “fucking Soviets,” and rubies, which were apparently what the Soviets used to buy things, and a man whose name sounded like “Dublin.”
And he would say things like “Don’t get me started on Rozanov - I’ve never met a more unpleasant person. I don’t know if I feel worse for his wife or the entire nation of Russia, if that’s who they’re sending…”
It was very boring, Shane thought. Until tonight, at least, when he said something actually interesting.
“You know, Rozanov asked me about hockey of all things, today. He saw the picture of Shane on my desk when he came in to yell at me during one of our meetings, and asked if you were going to play here. Apparently, he has kids - I had no idea, the man is about as personable as a brick - and one of them played back home too.”
His mom had snorted into her spaghetti. “I wonder what he’ll think of the youth hockey offerings here. It’s pathetic, honestly.”
“I didn’t know what to do, so I just told him about the team we put Shane on. It sounds like a set up to a bad joke, like, a Russian and a Canadian walk into an ice rink…”
Shane didn’t meet Rozanov, or any of his dad’s coworkers, until they held a big party to celebrate giving someone a lot of money. Shane’s dad had exchanged his sweaty suit for a sweaty tuxedo, and they made Shane wear a tie, which he hated. They had sat through a fancy dinner, and then moved into a room where people just kind of stood around in their fancy outfits.
Shane didn’t really understand big parties. Who had fun just standing around?
But his Dad was shaking the hands of everyone there, and introducing his mom, and then introducing him. The women would usually say how nice he looked, and ask how old he was, and then go back to ignoring him, which suited Shane just fine, until –
“Mr. Rozanov, welcome and congratulations. This is my wife, Yuna, and my son, Shane.”
Shane snapped back to attention to look at the family before him.
Shaking his fathers hand was Mr. Rozanov, who was wearing a military uniform dotted in medals covered in characters that Shane couldn’t read. He had thin, greying hair that was receding from a sweating scalp on a round head that made Shane think of a bowling ball. He nodded politely at his mom, but looked Shane over like he smelled something bad.
“Mister Hollander,” the man said in a thick Russian accent, “My sons, Ilya and Alexei.”
The taller boy, Alexei, was thin and angry looking with a back even straighter than his fathers. He was wearing a tuxedo, like Shane’s dad, but the harsh black just brought out the redness around the burgeoning acne on his cheeks. He gave the group a nod as his father gestured at him.
“It is nice to meet you, Sir.” Alexei said, directly to Shane’s dad. He didn’t look at Shane or his mom.
The smaller boy, Ilya, looked like he was Shane’s age. Unlike his frustrated looking brother, Shane couldn’t tell what Ilya was thinking - his face was blank, like a Ken doll, and he was mostly looking at the pattern of the carpet beneath them. He had blonde hair that was combed back from his face, and a crooked nose.
“Ilya does not speak English yet,” Alexei sneered.
Ilya’s head snapped up to glare at his brother, “Yes I do!” and, turning to Shane and his family, said “is nice to meet you.”
“You just copied what I said,” Alexei sniped, and Ilya appeared to be turning over the English words in his head before Mr. Rozanov snapped at both of the boys in Russian.
“They will be attending St. Albans in the fall. Alexei is looking forward to wrestling. Ilya plays hockey. He was very grateful to learn there was a team here.”
Ilya didn’t look very grateful, at the moment, but that could be because he didn’t know what was going on.
“Well,” Shane’s dad said, jovially, “happy to share. Shane is excited to get back on the ice. Yuna couldn’t believe how few rinks there were in such a big area, but that’s the U.S., I guess. All about football, and soccer. Is your wife here?”
Mr. Rozanov seemed to have exhausted his goodwill thanking Shane’s dad for the hockey team, and was not at all interested in small talk.
“No. She is sick, at home. She does not like parties, anyways.”
“Who doesn’t love a party?” Yuna joked uncomfortably. “Well, we’re living by the Cathedral, right next to St. Alban’s, so maybe we can get the boys together before school starts. I’d love to meet her.”
“Maybe,” Mr. Rozanov said, in a tone Shane could tell meant no. “We must move on. Boys, say goodbye.”
Shane finally met Ilya’s eyes. “Bye.”
Ilya looked at him blankly before saying, “bye” back, and his father led him away.
Shane's mom wanted Shane to get out of the house more. Except he wasn’t old enough to go anywhere by himself except the park by the Cathedral, because it was right across the street, so he just ended up going there a lot. Other parents seemed to understand that July in this city was a crime against weather, so he usually was there alone. Sometimes he brought a soccer ball and tried to kick it around, but he didn’t really know how to play soccer and there wasn’t much he could do by himself anyways.
Which is why it felt noteworthy when he arrived at the park and saw another kid standing there, also alone, kicking at a clod of grass.
When he got closer, he realized it was Ilya Rozanov, his father’s coworker’s son. He could tell from far away because of the way the sun glinted off the back of his blonde hair.
“You’re Ilya!” He said, maybe a bit too enthusiastically because Ilya jumped and turned around.
“Uh…” he said, “Yes.”
“We met at that party, with your dad. I’m Shane.” Shane offered, in case Ilya didn’t remember him.
“Yes,” Ilya said again.
The pair stared at each other.
“Um, do you play soccer? I brought a ball.” Shane offered.
Ilya offered a noncommittal head nod, but moved about fifteen feet away so Shane could kick the ball to him.
“Is that your babysitter?” Shane asked, for lack of a better thing to say, nodding at the blonde girl sitting on the bench, watching them.
Ilya looked at him strangely. “No. Is my mama.”
“She looks young,” Shane said. It was true. His mom didn’t have wrinkles or anything, but she looked older than Ilya’s mom.
Ilya just shrugged.
They kicked the ball back and forth in silence some more.
“Do you like it here?” Shane tried again.
Ilya shrugged again. “Is too hot. But I like the food. And the cars are cool.”
Shane wrinkled his nose. “The food isn’t that good. It’s all fast food.”
“I like McDonalds,” he grinned, before kicking the ball to Shane a little harder.
“My dad said your dad said you played hockey at home.”
Ilya’s face lit up. “Yes. I love hockey.”
“Are you going to play here?” Shane asked.
His face dimmed. “If he lets me. I am very good, but he does not like Americans.”
Shane laughed before realizing Ilya wasn’t joking.
“Oh.” He kicked the ball, but missed Ilya’s feet and he had to run to get it. “I like hockey a lot.”
That seemed to have exhausted all their possible conversation topics, but they kicked the ball back and forth until Ilya’s mother called him away.
“See you,” Shane said, confused about whether he had been having fun.
“Bye,” Ilya said, barely looking at him.
After that, Shane saw Ilya in the park a lot. His English was getting better, or maybe he was just more willing to use it in front of Shane. Unfortunately, the more Ilya talked, the more Shane realized he was very, very annoying.
“Where’s your brother?” Shane asked, once again kicking Ilya a ball.
“Wrestling, or maybe smoking.” Ilya said, before punting it back.
Shane’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Smoking? How old is he? Those are horrible for you?”
“He’s twelve.” Ilya grinned, “but the wrestling means nobody can take the cigarettes away. He could probably beat you up.”
Shane thought most twelve year olds could probably beat him up, but didn’t say so to Ilya.
“We aren’t allowed to fight in hockey yet. It’s unsportsmanlike.” Was what he said instead.
“I know - is stupid rule.” Ilya said.
“Stupid is a bad word,” Shane responded.
“No,” Ilya argued back, “bad words are like, blyad and pizda and na khui!”
“Well, I don’t know what any of those words mean, but stupid is a bad word too.” Shane kicked the ball but it hit his toe and went completely sideways.
“I think you are maybe very stupid.” Ilya said back, “and you are not very good at kicking.”
“I don’t need to be good at kicking, because I’m good at skating.” Shane retorted, but he didn’t really like being called stupid.
“I am better skater than you,” Ilya said back, which was even more rude than calling him stupid because he hadn’t ever even seen Shane skate.
“Fine,” Shane said instead, stomping his foot on top of the ball as Ilya passed it back, halting its momentum completely. “Then I guess I should leave.”
Shane thought that Ilya might apologize, or tell Shane to stay, but he just shrugged. So, he stomped away in silence, seething at the idea that some nobody kid could call him stupid, a bad kicker, and a bad skater and not feel bad at all.
Fall, 1998.
It was easy to stomp away from Ilya in the park. But then, Ilya was in the same class as him at school. And then, Ilya was on the same hockey team as Shane. And then, his mom asked about setting up a car pool because the ice rink was so far away and so Shane had to drive to and from practice with him too.
Ilya hadn’t been lying. He was a very good skater, which made it even worse that Shane was somehow stuck around him for what felt like twelve hours a day. And once Ilya realized that any time he got Shane flustered, he could steal the puck from him, it felt like he never shut up.
“Shaney,” Shane hated being called Shaney, “did you forget how to hold stick? Did stupid heat wave melt your brain?” Then Shane missed a pass that should have gone right into his stick and Ilya laughed before dashing away with it.
“You look very pretty today, Hollander, did you go to makeup store before practice?” Which didn’t even make sense, since they had come to practice together, but made Shane nearly trip anyways.
“Shanya, you are supposed to put the puck in the net, not tap it like baby,” Another time, which made Shane shoot another shot wide. It made the other boys snicker at him too.
No matter how many times Shane’s coach gave them speeches about teamwork and being nice and good sportsmanship, Ilya’s taunts persisted - Shane suspected that Russian must not have equivalent words to translate them to. And as the only two players on their peewee team who could consistently stand up in their skates, they always got paired together.
But the tables turned in Shane’s favor at school - a fact he relished. It was a little unfair, since Ilya had to do school in a second language, but Shane had to take school in English and French back home and he had managed that better than Ilya was.
The best was reading. Every day, they had to read by themselves for twenty minutes and then they would sit on the floor and everyone would read a sentence out loud. Most of the books were ones Shane had at home, like The Magic Treehouse and Charlotte’s Web, so they were pretty easy.
When Ilya read, he stumbled over the smallest words, like Wilbur and piglet and when he got to words like radiant or slaughter he wouldn’t even try. Their teacher would try to quietly sound the words out together, but when Ilya rhymed “slaughter” with “laughter” and everyone laughed at him, he turned a bright red color and clammed up until the teacher took over again.
Then, at recess, he sat against the wall with his arms crossed.
“Sorry,” Shane told him, but he couldn’t help smiling at Ilya’s misery, “maybe they should try giving you books for babies.”
“Nobody cares about some stupid pig, Hollander,” Ilya snapped back.
“Wilbur is a really smart pig. That’s the whole story.” Shane retorted, but it didn’t feel like a good comeback so much as it felt like giving classified intel to a mortal enemy.
The only time Ilya seemed content to be in a truce with Shane was when his mom, whose name was Irina, drove them in the carpool.
The first time she had driven Shane to practice, she had given him a radiant smile and said, in very slow stilted English. “Hello Shane, my name is Irina. Thank you for being Ilyusha’s friend.”
Shane was not Ilya’s friend, but he didn’t correct her. Watching Ilya’s face turn deep red was reward enough.
Irina hardly spoke English at all, Shane realized in the car, even less than Ilya. So even though Ilya could have spent the time calling Shane all sorts of mean things in English while his mom was totally unaware, instead he spent it rattling off in fast Russian. His mom laughed at whatever Ilya was saying, and beamed at him in the rearview mirror, and Ilya’s face lit up like the sun.
About halfway through the drive to the rink, Irina jolted and made an “oh!” sound before she rustled around the front seat and passed back a warm tupperware to Ilya. He opened the top to a burst of steam before beaming at its contents.
Smiling, Irina said, “Share, Ilyusha.”
Which wiped the smile right off Ilya’s face.
Scowling, he grabbed what looked like a stuffed bread roll out of the container before shoving it at Shane.
“Thank you?” said Shane hesitantly, examining the contents like it might be poisoned but wanting to be polite.
Irina laughed again before telling Ilya something again in Russia.
“Is pirozkhi. I don’t know the English. Is meat and bread?” Ilya said through a full mouth, before leveling a glare at Shane that didn’t need to be translated. It practically screamed eat my mothers food and love it or I will take my skate to your throat.
Shane didn’t need to pretend to love it - it was delicious.
“How do you say thank you in Russian?” He asked, after they had stuffed the pirozkhi summarily down their throats.
“Spasibo,” Ilya said, grudging but approving.
“Spasibo, Mrs. Rozanov,” Shane said.
Irina beamed back at him.
After that, every time Irina took them to practice she had a tupperware full of something. Crispy turnovers full of minced meat Ilya called chebureki, something that looked like tiny hamburger patties called katleti, thin pancakes that were kind of like crepes but stuffed full of sweet cheese called blintz Ilya was very resentful to have to share.
Once, she had passed the tupperware and when Shane opened it he had laughed, delighted, and said “Pigs in a Blanket!”
Ilya, who looked treasonous at Shane’s laughter and then even worse when he said pigs scowled and grabbed the box from him before sharply correcting, “Sosiska v teste, Shane, you’re the only pig in car.”
But that was the only time Ilya said anything even borderline teasing to Shane in front of Irina.
Shane knew that something was happening that was why it was so important they move here. He knew that if Ilya’s dad was working on it, it must affect Russia too. But he didn’t really realize that it must be bad until he asked Ilya if they would be going back to Russia for Christmas.
His mouth had turned down in a frown, but Shane could tell that it was because he was thinking about what to say, not because he didn’t understand the question.
“No,” he settled on. “Things will not be very happy there. People are angry, and Mama wants us to stay.”
And then, as if he had revealed too much, “Besides, Russian Christmas is not until January. And is not a big deal. I wish we could be back for New Years, though.”
“Maybe next year,” Shane said, before launching into a tirade about all the things he was going to do with his grandparents when they went back to Canada for the holidays.
Winter, 1999.
Shane had nearly forgotten that Ilya had a brother, because he had not seen Alexei except for the single time at the party over the summer. Technically, they all went to the same school, but Alexei was in the upper school section which was separate from the lower school he and Ilya attended.
On the first day back after the holidays, Ilya came into the classroom late, wearing a shiny black eye.
Their teacher had gasped when she saw it, and during their first independent working time, she had called Ilya to her desk, which was right by Shane’s table.
“Ilya,” she said softly, “What happened?”
Shane couldn’t see Ilya’s face, but his voice was even. “My brother. We were, uh, horsing around.”
That seemed to satisfy the teacher, who sent Ilya back to his seat adjacent to Shane’s.
“Sorry about your brother,” he said, “that looks like it hurt.”
“Do not worry,” Ilya had said, with a grim smile, “my Dad hit him twice as hard, after.”
Shane’s eyes had nearly bugged out of his head. His parents had never hit him, or even spanked him, even when he did something really bad like skate on a pond by himself.
Hockey had picked up, by then. His team wasn’t very good, except for Ilya, but the teams they played against were even worse. Their coach was still trying to get the other kids to learn how to skate forwards, and backwards, and brake. So, even more than during the fall, he and Ilya were pretty much in charge of their own practice.
“Why did your brother hit you?” Shane asked, as they set up lines of cones in weird shapes to try skating around.
“He got suspended from wrestling,” Ilya said, like that explained anything.
“So? What does that have to do with you?”
Ilya was quiet for a moment before saying, “Well, he still likes to wrestle, I guess.”
“Isn’t he twelve?”
“Thirteen,” Ilya corrected.
“Doesn’t seem very fair,” Shane said, very reasonably.
“Is ok,” Ilya said again, and then sharper, “when I play in KHL, he will wish he was me.”
It wasn’t the first time Ilya had mentioned the KHL.
All Shane could think to say back was, “well, he’d better not, because when I’m in the NHL we’re going to kick your butt.”
“Dream on. KHL could eat NHL for breakfast.”
Spring, 1999.
Winter melted to Spring, and Spring came in a burst of pink cherry blossoms and tourists. Shane couldn’t go anywhere without sneezing.
He was done with hockey, for now - he and Ilya had played in the end of season tournament and scored nearly a dozen goals apiece over only a few games, mostly by virtue of being the only skaters who could stay upright the whole time. His mom had promised him that he could go to hockey camp over the summer in Ottawa when they went to stay with his grandparents, but only if he behaved at school.
He always behaved at school. It was Ilya who misbehaved at school.
Which was frustrating, because even though Shane behaved and was still way better at reading and math, everyone loved Ilya. They laughed when he made jokes, and when he came across words in books he didn’t know he had started just making up stories or words instead - which usually made his classmates laugh so loud they would roll around on the floor, and then their teacher would forget to make him read at all.
Ilya had friends. Tons of friends. Shane kind of had friends, in that he would play kickball and basketball with the other boys at recess and they wouldn’t tell him to go away, but he didn’t really get invited over for playdates.
His parents had started asking him if he wanted to have people over now that he didn’t have hockey games on Saturday. Specifically, they kept asking if he wanted to invite Ilya over, which he didn’t want. Now that they didn’t have to carpool or play together, he mercifully had cut his Ilya exposure time nearly in half.
Shane wouldn’t have considered his lack of friends a problem, except that his birthday was coming up and his parents were bothering him about what he wanted to do and if he wanted a party.
Finally, he told them he would only have a party if it could be hockey themed, and he would invite his whole class. His mom had helped find sports themed invitations (they had tennis balls and soccer balls and footballs on them as well as the hockey stuff, but it was close enough) and gave him a whole stack to hand out at school.
Shane stood in the empty classroom early the next morning - he came early because he wanted to stuff all the invitations into his classmates cubbies without them seeing, so he wouldn’t have to hand them out individually, especially to the group of boys who always laughed at him. Plus, if he shoved them kind of in the back there was a chance that nobody saw them and then he wouldn’t have to have a party at all.
“What are you doing?” Came a voice from behind him.
Shane jumped.
It was Ilya, who Shane didn’t think had been early ever before. If he was, he usually played on the playground with the other kids who got here before the first bell.
“Nothing,” Shane said. He had a few invitations left but he held them behind his back.
Ilya narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“What are you putting in my cubby?”
“Nothing! No, don’t look at -” but Ilya had shoved him aside to look inside his box. He pulled out the envelope, labeled Ilya Rozanov in his mothers neat handwriting and tore it open.
“You… are… in-vi-ted… to…” he started reading out loud.
“Stop! You shouldn’t open it here. And my mom said I have to invite you anyways. You don’t have to come.”
Ilya was staring at the invitation, now silently sounding out the syllables to himself.
“What is R - S - V - P?” He asked.
“I don’t know,” Shane said, “but it’s what you say to ask people to tell you if they’ll come.”
Ilya shoved the card back at him. “Okay. Here is my R-S-V-P. I will come. You’re welcome.”
“Okay, well, don’t tell anyone else,” Shane had grumbled, but it was lost to the sudden influx of other kids from outside.
Ilya told everyone. Which meant about half the class had said they would go, but most of them were the group of boys that really liked Ilya and only kind of liked Shane, which might have been worse than nobody coming.
The day of the party was chaos. Shane wore a t-shirt for the Ottawa Centaurs, because they were currently in the playoffs. This was a mistake, because Shane forgot that the Centaurs were currently playing the Washington Monuments, so everyone showed up to his party in Monuments gear. Even the parents who stayed to watch were in red, white, and blue - except Ilya’s mom, but she wasn’t wearing anything from any team so she didn’t count.
The whole city was so excited that the Monuments had made the playoffs that Shane’s mom had only found Monuments themed cupcakes for the party - which she bought a dozen of, but then they had handmade a dozen more together with Centaurs colors piped on in frosting.
“Why are you wearing a stupid Centaurs shirt?” The biggest and stupidest of Ilya’s friends, Jared Grossman, asked Shane.
“I’m from Ottawa,” Shane said.
“But you live in D.C. now,” he argued, stupidly.
“Ilya’s in a Firebirds shirt. He’s never even been to Detroit.” Shane said back.
It was true. Ilya was in a Detroit Firebirds shirt, but Shane could only surmise it was because of the famous Russian players who had won them the cup last year.
“So? They won last year.”
“And maybe the Centaurs will win this year!”
“Not against the ‘Ments!” Jared shouted, to the cheers of the other boys gathered around them.
They were in the big park across the street, where Shane’s parents had set up a bunch of games. First, they did a race where they had to carry an egg in a spoon in their mouth, which a boy named Nick won. Then, they did a race where they had to hop with both their legs in a rice sack, which Ilya won. Then, they just ran around for awhile while all the parents filled up water balloons. None of it had much to do with hockey, but it was hard to do any hockey games without ice.
When they were tired out, they gathered around the big metal picnic table where the cupcakes were, and all the gifts, so they could just stare at them while the parents finished.
“Why are half the cupcakes ugly?” Jared asked.
“They’re not ugly,” Shane said, offended.
“Are those horses?” Ilya asked.
“They’re Centaurs,” Shane grumbled.
“Not very good ones,” piped in Amir, another one of Ilya’s friends.
“Better than the Monuments,” Shane said, “which are just stupid buildings.”
This was the wrong thing to say. Because, moments later when the parents returned with huge buckets of water balloons, Jared shouted “get him!” and all the Monuments fans grabbed balloons and descended upon Shane. He was being pelted in the face, and gut, and with his back turned, and he became soaked immediately which made his cotton shirt stick uncomfortably to his skin. All the parents were laughing, because they probably thought Shane was having fun.
“More ammo!” Shouted Nick, before he grabbed one of the Centaurs cupcakes and threw one of those at Shane too.
This sparked another round of chaos where the parents tried to intervene, but by then Shane was wet and covered in frosting and smashed cake.
He was not having fun.
“You could just take shirt off,” Ilya said, “if you’re cold.”
Shane hadn’t realized he was shaking.
“No,” he said, because that was even more embarrassing than being the only one wet.
Ilya shrugged.
When Shane blew out candles on the Monuments cupcakes, which were the only ones left, he thought this might have been the worst birthday ever. He opened gifts and everyone had bought him Monuments toys, and that sucked too, but he thanked everyone to be polite.
At least Ilya’s gift, green pucks that glowed in the dark, would be useful, even though he wasn’t sure he would ever play hockey in the dark.
Finally, finally, the school year was over. Ever since the disaster that was his birthday party, Shane had been counting down the days until summer, and had begged his parents to move back to Canada. He had asked if he could live with his grandparents. He had asked if he could go alone, and just live by himself.
They didn’t agree to any of it, but they did agree to let him spend the whole summer there, which Shane took as half a win. The first half would be mostly hockey camps, but then his parents would come and they would go to the lake cottage together. At least it wouldn’t be so hot.
Of course, summer couldn’t start without Ilya freaking Rozanov finding a way to twist the knife one last time.
It was the last day of school. Freedom was so close. They weren’t even doing real school today, just playing games out in the yard and eating popsicles.
Ilya, for lack of a better word, swaggered up to him.
“Shaney,” he said. “My mother misses you. She is wondering if she will see you over the summer, to make you blinis.”
“Shut up, Rozanov,” Shane griped. Irina did not miss him. Irina couldn’t even speak to him.
“It is my birthday, in a few weeks,” Ilya continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “I am thinking I will have sports party.”
Shane launched to his feet, red-faced and furious before pushing Ilya’s chest, just a little bit, to make him take one step back.
“Shut, UP, Rozanov!” He said.
Ilya held two hands up, surrendering, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crumpled envelope that he dangled an envelope in front of Shane with two fingers. “So you do not want an invitation? I thought you loved birthdays.”
“I hate birthdays. And I hate you. Go away.”
“Come on, Shaney, will be fun. You can eat cake, instead of wear it.”
Shane took a deep breath, thought of the hockey camp he would have to miss if he murdered Ilya Rozanov, and exhaled.
“I’m going to be in Canada. The whole summer. Sorry.”
Ilya’s hand froze in midair, before shoving the envelope back in his pocket. “Okay. Your loss.”
But because Ilya was physically incapable of letting anything go, he mumbled before he walked away, “I hope you have good summer.”
Shane hoped his summer lasted forever. He hoped he could go to Canada and never come back. He hoped he would never have to see Ilya Rozanov ever again.
He walked away without another word.