Summary:

“I need to talk to you.” Ilya pretends to peer around, exaggerated, chin jutting, then points at himself. “Me?" “Who the fuck else, Ilya?” Shane hisses Ilya’s name, sees his pupils dilate. “Go to the bathroom. I’ll meet you there in five.” Ilya looks dazed, then shakes his hair out of his face and rights himself, reaches for another shot. “You do not tell me what to do, Hollander.” Shane is going to kill him. Or, Shane and Ilya, at the club, post-game. Ilya has let Boston’s victory get to his head and Shane brings him back down to earth.