A PR officer from the Commonwealth delegation led Shane up to the hotel’s ballroom for a brief meeting with sponsors.
Shane wore his team jacket open over his suit so that he could pass for a walking billboard at any moment for sponsor photos. It was perhaps a bit too sporty for the ballroom, too conspicuous for any semblance of discretion, but exactly what the PR people wanted from him, even after a defeat. He looked like a man who had learnt to stand in unfamiliar rooms as if he belonged there, even though deep down he wanted nothing more than to be back on the ice. The PR officer spoke as they walked.
“Just two minutes. A photo with the Danish State Secretary, a friendly thank-you to the Stromberg Foundation, a brief comment on international cooperation for the protection of the oceans. Nothing political, nothing about energy, nothing about the Soviet Union, nothing about…”
Shane growled irritably: “So basically just my face?” Shane nodded nonetheless, with the ease of a man who had been going through this routine in varying forms for years. At the bottom of the stairs separating the main ballroom from the raised platform for guests of honour, the PR officer paused briefly because a photographer and a sponsor were blocking the way. This minor hold-up was enough.
Anya stepped out from a side aisle of the ballroom into Shane’s path. The dark green of her dress, which looked almost black under the cold light of the ballroom, contrasted with Shane’s red, blue and white sportswear. Anya relied on precisely that controlled allure with which women like her had been underestimated for years by all the men who believed they were simply lucky.
Shane looked at her, friendly enough, but too shy for her liking.
Anya greeted him with an outstretched hand: “Mr Hollander?”
Shane was somewhat taken aback: “You know me? And who are you? The Danish State Secretary?”
“You’re the captain of the British team. Everyone here knows you! I’m just a neighbour.”
He glanced briefly at her emerald necklace, which involuntarily drew his gaze down to her cleavage. Anya knew the effect and smiled invitingly. Shane hastily turned his gaze towards the ballroom. Then back to her.
After clearing his throat, he said: “For that, you have a rather large front garden.”
A subtle line played around Anya’s mouth, a discreet smile.
“Copenhagen is small. It’s easier to bump into people if you have a large front garden.”
She moved closer, close enough for it to be interpreted as flirting.
“I wanted to congratulate you. You look as though you’re bored by this part of the evening. Perhaps, once you’ve taken your obligatory photos, I could show you something a bit more relaxing in the neighbourhood?”
Shane was taken aback: “That’s… very kind, but…”
Anya cut him off gracefully: “And I thought the British enjoyed being celebrated.”
“Probably the British Brits; I was born in the Viceroyalty of Canada, so I’m not really…”
The PR representative was still two steps away, caught in a crowd of people chatting, and was pointedly pretending not to see this encounter. Anya opted for the softer approach.
“Then let me put it another way: is Denmark more bearable when you look like you do?”
Shane replied without a trace of vanity.
 
“How should I know what Denmark is like if you look different from me?”
That wasn’t meant to be flirtatious. More of a matter-of-fact observation. Anya realised it. He wasn’t the sort of man who could be charmed by his own reflection. She tried a little further nonetheless. His physical presence stood in stark contrast to his emotional shyness. But her training had exposed Anya to many different types of men.
“So you’re not just a ice hockey player, but also a transhumanist philosopher? That surprises me. Usually, I’m found more interesting in rooms like this. But if it’s better for you, we can also go to my suite to discuss Jean Baudrillard or Stefan Lorenz Sorgner there. I’ve also got a few books up there that we could read together?”
Shane shrugged and glanced for help at the PR man, who was still standing with his back to him, discussing matters with the security guards.
“You’re interesting, but I’m not interested. It was a gruelling match and my coach always says, after a match…”
A brief, awkward silence followed. Anya noticed it and analysed the situation. She’d pulled the wrong lever. She switched tactics in the same instant, without her tone visibly changing. She avoided anything that might pressure him or make him feel uncomfortable.
“Do you always carry gifts from strange men in your trousers, or was that just Danish hospitality?”
She gestured gently towards his trouser pocket. Shane’s expression changed only slightly—too little to cause panic, but enough to catch Anya’s attention.
“Strangers? I don’t know any strangers!”
That was a crack in the ice that Anya wanted to pry open: “So the man who gave you the puck wasn’t a stranger to you? Or did you mean it more philosophically: as soon as you’ve met a man, he’s an acquaintance, no longer a stranger?”
Shane felt his cheeks flush. He searched for a way out that wouldn’t remind him of the panic at Chestnut Mountains. He leaned one shoulder lightly against the glass wall of the side barrier. A stance meant to look casual but which, in truth, was buying him time. And it hurt briefly, because it aggravated the shoulder injury he’d sustained in Illinois. He pulled away from the wall in irritation.
Then she glanced briefly up at the VIP platform in the ballroom, where, on the opposite side, Ilya was standing with the representative of the World Energy Organisation having photos taken, whilst the cadets of the Bear cohort were being introduced to the princess one by one and, in turn, had a commemorative medal pinned to their uniform jackets by one of the ladies-in-waiting. Ilya stood looking bored, his gaze searching downwards—not irritable enough to seem tell-tale, but high enough not to be accidental. He was typing something into his phone. Anya noticed a slight vibration in Shane’s trouser pocket. Anya looked back at Shane.
“Are you negotiating with Rozanov in the meantime?”
Shane raised an eyebrow. His hand felt the vague urge to pick up the phone and see who had written, even though he knew deep down—or hoped—that it was Ilya. But how could this stranger know what had happened at the Hart chalet? Or was Shane merely imagining that she knew something?
“About what?”
Anya was pleased that the fish had taken the bait. She now knew the way forward. “Gifts? Loyalty? The usual between two men who behave worse on the ice than diplomats at the negotiating table.”
Shane let his gaze wander past her and across the ballroom for a moment, as if to check whether the evening had become any less conspicuous or how he might make a getaway without looking like a fool.
“Should I?” Sweat beaded on Shane’s forehead.
“Not with him. When it comes to the Soviet Union, I represent my country better than a hockey player.”
That was the first sentence in which the humour was overt enough to function as an offer. Shane looked at her in confusion. This time, almost genuinely intimidated.
“I’ll take your word for it. But I don’t know what’s for sale… So I can’t negotiate. You’d have to ask my mother. She handles all my advertising contracts and guest appearances.”
For a second, a smile flitted across Anya’s face. Was she talking to a sports star or a nursery school child? Was Canada really that overprotective?
“Is your mother here, then?”
Shane visibly startled. He tried hard to sound calm: “Why are too many people in Denmark being too friendly to me, giving me gifts or wanting to invite me into the ‘neighbourhood’?” ”
Anya looked at him searchingly for a moment too long. “You’re more naive than the camera in the marine conservation video claimed.”
The PR representative now had a clear path and approached Shane. “There you are. Mr Hollander, we really must go to the princess and Stromberg now.”
He saw Anya, recognising international capital, broad shoulders and potential risk in a single glance.
“Madame Amasova.” He nodded to her. “If you’d like, I can bring Captain Hollander to you later for an autograph or even a photo together.”
Anya had already turned away and replied over her shoulder: “Don’t worry. I didn’t want to buy your star player for the Soviet Union.”
The PR man laughed too politely, because he didn’t know if he was allowed to. Shane froze at the mention of “Soviet Union”.
“Are you Russian?”
Anya’s gaze remained calm. Shane tried not to think of Ilya, but instinctively reached for his mobile phone, where there was still an unread message, surely from above.
“You’ve already met Mr Rozanov, downstairs, on the ice. The Soviet Union has many facets. You don’t pay for some men. You just wait to see who they end up belonging to. And since I work for Rosatom, the nuclear energy agency of the Russian Soviet Republic, I can make offers quite different from those of Captain Rozanov.”
That was harsh enough to test whether he’d react reflexively. For the first time, Anya was genuinely, if only slightly, surprised—not offended, but rather amused—when Shane turned his gaze desperately upwards towards Ilya, as if he couldn’t withstand the pressure. Then he turned back to her with a helpless expression. She took half a step back and made way.
“Don’t try to shake Stromberg’s webbed hand; he doesn’t like that. There are men who are downright afraid of certain kinds of touch.”
The PR officer shuffled impatiently. “Mr Hollander…”
He turned and climbed the seven steps. “Yes, yes. International cooperation. I’m coming.”
Shane continued with the PR officer towards the princess’s throne in the ballroom, where the last cadets were just having their medals pinned on. He didn’t look back again, like someone who’d decided that this woman was more dangerous if one showed her any further courtesy. If the Soviet Union was as he feared, she might be a danger to Ilya, not an ally.
Anya watched him go. Then she stood alone in the side section of the ballroom, just long enough to extract three clear points from the conversation:
Shane hadn’t known what Lind had given him.
He now knew it was important.
And the direct route to him didn’t lie through feminine charms.
Her gaze shifted upwards to Ilya, who was now looking at his phone again, then briefly to the princess. That was where the more useful lever lay. Anya turned away and left. Behind her, the ballroom was already beginning to pretend once more that an evening of celebrities, ice ballet and technology presentations was a perfectly normal, energy-efficient social event.