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“There’s no such thing as home stays for members of international, opposing teams, Mom,” Shane said flatly as he helped plump the pillows on the guest bed.
“Their team’s entire travel funding package for the Prospect Cup fell through, something about sponsors backing out after what Putin did in Georgia. Is still doing, according to Le Monde,” His mother chided as she tugged the edge of the Metros-red and blue quilt until it was taut.
“Oh.” Shane said. He narrowed his eyes. “What if he cheats?”
“Like, takes out your knees with a hammer?” She shook her head as she went to the hallway linen closet, voice rising as she walked away. “He’s as much of a professional as you are, with as much to lose — more, because this could be his one shot out of Russia and you already have a good passport.” She returned with a neat stack towels each with an embroidered gold fleur-de-lis facing up. “He’ll behave. Let’s focus on making him welcome, alright?”
Shane sighed and waved his hand. “Alright, it’s just a the last minute change thing --”
She plopped the pile of towels onto the oak desk in the corner of the room, pausing to line the corners up before turning to smile at him. “I know, it’s a shift. But everyone on the team with a spare room is chipping in, since we are the host city. It’s important you do too.”
Shane took a deep breath. “Ok, I can do it.”
“Great.” She said, frowning as she looked around the room. “I don’t know what kind of snacks he’d like. Shane, can you —“ the door bell rang. She wrinkled her nose. “Too late now, I guess.”
She strode towards the front door, Shane trailing behind.
She put her hand on the polished nickel handle. “Ready?”
“Ready.” He said, squaring his shoulders.
She swung it open, stepping back and ushering him forward with a firm palm on his spine in one clean motion.
On his doorstep, standing tall despite a glowering Russian coach‘s hand heavy on his shoulder, was the most beautiful boy Shane Hollander had ever seen.
“Ilya Rozanov?”