“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—”
