“His name,” Ilya said calmly, “is Shane.” “Not Russian, then. Too bad. What does Shane do?” Ilya somehow managed to keep himself from laughing. “He’s an athlete.” Svetlana narrowed her eyes. “Which sport?” Ilya rolled the stem of his martini glass between his thumb and forefinger. “Hockey.” Svetlana huffed. “I don’t understand. Unless you’re in love with Shane Hollander, I can’t think of any—” She stopped, and then she lunged forward, practically resting her whole torso on the table. “Is it Shane Hollander?” she hissed. “I’m afraid so. Yes.”
