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"Pass-pass-peredacha, ty idiota kusok—!" (pass the puck, you piece of idiot!)
Svetlana's voice heightens with Russian profanity.
In her next seat, Rose Landry beams and hugs Svetlana's arm as the crowd roars. "Oh my god. Babe, you're getting worked up."
"Dykstra should have gone higher!" Svetlana insists, her frown vanishing with the pair of lips on her cheek. Very expensive lipstick, non-smearable. She knows. They tested this before leaving Rose's penthouse suite, booked overnight, Svetlana's neck tingling from hot kisses.
Rose's eyes crinkle.
"Woooww," she teases, "I had NO idea you were so invested..."
"Liar," Svetlana says amused, freeing herself to hug Rose's shoulders. "I care about all teams."
They enjoy a moment, getting closer, before an Ottawa player noisily hits the boards. Right in front of them. Rose gasps and flinches. Svetlana watches, unnerved, as the rink door to the more private ground-seating—it breaks apart. Ilya Rozanov, wearing his red-and-black uniform, swears.
He peers up, noticing Svetlana yell—"Are hockey players giving lap dances now?"—and if Rose could understand Russian, she would have laughed.
Ilya doesn't laugh. (Even if it twitches at his mouth.)
Blushing under the helmet, he fails flipping her off with a glove.
Svetlana returns it two-handed, grinning widely.
Ilya's gorgeous husband, Shane Hollander, skates over. Probably to ask if Ilya's okay.
(Big bruised ego—if anything.)
He touches Ilya's back, gentler than Svetlana's seen someone touch Ilya, then he spots Rose who spots him and brightens. Shane tries to eagerly wave only to get his forearm hooked and Ilya's mouth briefly covering his. Shane's eyes widen. "What the hell," Rose finally laughs out.
After arguing, both Ottawa players skate off, arm-loosely-in-arm.
"Some people have no manners," Svetlana drawls, pulling her girlfriend's legs into her lap. Light brown fingers trace against expensive denim.
*