Page 107 of One Last Shot

“Petra got it for me today. Isn’t it perfect for your party? I mean, I know I’m not going to be there when the party is going on, but if I were, this dress would be perfect.”

“It is.”

Stella could easily have worn her pajamas since she’s leaving before the party starts, but the fact that Petra wanted her to feel included and to have the opportunity to dress up too ... it’s so thoughtful. How did Petra find time today to go pick out a dress? Even if she sent her assistant out to find it, the fact that she prioritized that with everything else going on has a lump rising in my throat. “Can I help you get it over your head without messing up your hair?”

We’ve just gotten the dress on when I hear Petra’s voice behind me. “Wow, Stella, you look beautiful.”

I turn from where I’m kneeling next to Stella getting her dress straightened. Petra’s standing in the doorway with her hair slicked back, wearing a white formfitting dress that ends right at her knees. The dress skims across the tops of her breasts with nothing but thin spaghetti straps holding it up.

“Youlook beautiful,” Stella tells Petra. “Spin around, I want to see the back!”

Petra does as she’s instructed, spinning slowly in a circle. The spaghetti straps skim over her shoulders and meet the sides of the dress. The dress has no back, there’s nothing but skin from the low bun at the top of her neck to the curve of her lower back. Her feet are adorned with strappy gold sandals that wrap around her ankles and up her calves. She’s a Greek goddess come to enchant me with her beauty.Holy shit. Sixteen-year-old me would have had to excuse himself to the bathroom to take care of the erection that’s sprung up in my dress pants. I haveslightlymore control of my body and emotions now, especially with Stella standing right next to me.

Her eyes meet mine and the heat flares. I notice immediately how her nipples pucker beneath the fabric of her dress. I can’t imagine that she’s able to wear underwear with how low-cut that is in back, so I’m guessing she’s totally naked beneath the dress.

“I love that dress,” Stella says. “Can I wear it when I’m older?”

Petra laughs and says “Of course” at the same time I grind out “No way in hell” through my gritted teeth.

Petra ignores me and looks directly at Stella. “When you’re an adult, you can wear whatever you want. Your body, your choice. Don’t ever let anyone”—here she glances from Stella to me—“especially a man, tell you what you can and can’t wear.”

“Okay,” Stella says softly beside me.

I consider what Petra’s telling her. “Petra’s right,” I tell Stella, even though it pains me to think of my six-year-old ever being as grown-up and sexy as Petra.

“You guys ready to go?” Petra asks.

Stella springs forward to take Petra’s hand. “Yes, let’s go!” She looks over her shoulder at me, where I’m still on my knees on the floor. “Come on, Dada,” she says and drags Petra forward through the door. Petra glances over her shoulder at me as I stand and adjust myself, and the way her eyes are dark orbs of black pupil surrounded only by a thin ring of her blue irises, I know she’s forgiven me my earlier comment and is already thinking the same thoughts I am right about now.

* * *

The night is winding down, one player after another coming over to thank me for hosting this party. Some, like my coaches, are heading home because it’s late. Others, because they have a tipsy wife or girlfriend hanging on their arm and whispering too-loud dirty thoughts into their ear.

In a moment of quiet reprieve between goodbyes, I tip the beer bottle back, then take in the scene Petra has created for the party. It really is amazing. A big awning covers the outdoor roof deck, and rows of string lights hang from the highest part of the brick building down to the low point of the awning opposite it. The long length of the roof deck is a low glass wall, and beyond it are spectacular views of the river and the Brooklyn Bridge, with the Manhattan skyline lit up beyond them. A few people are still curled up, their drinks on the gold and glass coffee tables between several sets of velvet sofas facing each other. Along the glass wall, leather-backed barstools sit tucked under the glass countertops that adjoin the wall—those too are littered with drink glasses being left behind faster than the waitstaff can clean them up. There are plants everywhere, especially in the corners like the one I’m standing in, and around the bar at the opposite end of the deck.

My eyes land on Petra. She’s talking to her assistant, Morgan. In that tight white dress, she’s sexier than she has any right to be while working and I’ve been taking tonight to observe, so I know I’m not the only one who has noticed. The guys have all eyed her with interest, the wives and girlfriends with a little bit of jealousy. I want to slap a sign on her that reads “She’s mine,” but maybe a ring on that finger would be slightly less caveman and more socially acceptable.

“Is that the girl from the game?”

The question shocks me out of my stupor and I turn my head to find Thompson standing right next to me.

I don’t have to ask what girl, or which game. “Yep.”

“I’ve been trying all night to figure out why she looks so familiar. You couldn’t take your eyes off her then either, even while we were playing.”

I think about how he held my ass up when I almost got knocked over because I was so busy staring at her after I scored my goal. “We won, didn’t we?” I give him the side-eye when I say it.

“She’s got a kid?”

I furrow my brow at the question, wondering why he thinks she’s a mom until I realize that last time he saw her she was holding Stella. I don’t know how to respond to that, but I’m starting to feel like a bit more honesty might be beneficial to my teammates realizing I’m not a hockey-playing robot.

“That was my niece she was holding.”

Thompson makes a sound in the back of his throat like this clears something up, even though I imagine he still has some questions about that.

“You’re into her?” he asks.

“What gives you that idea?” My voice is so sarcastic he actually snorts.

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