Page 114 of One Last Shot

I glance up while I wait and am surprised to find New York playing Anaheim above my head. It’s not that I didn’t know the first two games of the Stanley Cup finals were this week, it’s that I forgot they were in Anaheim, a city I have to drive through to get back to my place in Los Angeles. The camera zooms in on Number 4, with Ivanov clearly written across his back. He approaches an Anaheim player from behind and checks him right into the boards. Several Anaheim players surround him and punches are thrown before his New York teammates show up to protect him. It’s a huge brawl and by the time the referees break it up, Aleksandr is sporting a bloody nose and the most pissed-off look I’ve ever seen.

When the penalty is called and he’s sent to the penalty box, he doesn’t even try to pretend like he didn’t start that. That complete lack of sportsmanship is not like him at all. The programming cuts over to the two sportscasters who each take up their third of the screen with a big picture of Aleksandr in between them. I glance at the bartender, ready to ask him to turn up the volume quickly, but he’s halfway down the bar and not even looking in my directions.Shit.I don’t want to miss whatever they’re saying.

The remote is sitting about a foot away, so without thinking, I grab it. The volume rises so quickly everyone looks at the TV as if it must be some sort of national emergency. I drop the remote in my pocketbook as the bartender starts looking around to find it and turn the volume down.

“After two major penalties two nights ago, I thought Ivanov would be a bit more controlled,” one of the sportscasters says.

“Ivanov’s on some sort of rampage in this series. It’s like he’s a totally different player,” the other announcer says.

“Yeah, he’s known for his emotional control, and as a steady presence on the ice for his teammates. The only other time we’ve seen anything even approaching this was in that first playoff series against Philadelphia.”

“That was child’s play compared to this,” the other announcer adds. “We’re still waiting on word for whether he’s going to sign with New York again or with Los Angeles. I wonder if either team is having second thoughts after seeing him play like this these past two games?”

Wait, he’s still considering Los Angeles?That can’t be right. I’m sure he’s already told them no, especially given how we left things between us. There’d be no reason for him to move here at this point.

“I expect we’ll learn very soon where Ivanov is landing for the next few years ... if this series and his poor sportsmanship don’t cost him his career.” The words carry out of the TV and circle around me, making my head spin.

“Yeah, depending on how this game and this series go, he could be looking at an early retirement.”

Above me, the camera zooms in on Aleksandr sitting in the penalty box. His helmet is on his knee, sweat drips off his hair and down his face. He’s looking down, but when the game starts again, he looks up to watch his team, and I’ve never seen a look like that on his beautiful, stoic face. It’s pure and utter rage. Whatever he’s this mad about—and I have a feeling I know what it is—he looks like he’s ready to kill someone out there on the ice.

Shit, what have I done?

I dash toward the front of the bar as quickly as I can, my phone to my ear, willing Avery to pick up. “Hey, Petra,” she half yells as I dig in my purse for the TV remote and half throw it to the host on my way out. “Are you at the game?”

“No,” I tell her, realizing that she’s probably at a bar in New York watching the game, “are you watching it?”

“Yeah, me and half of NYC.” A cheer goes up in the background, then a collective groan. A missed shot on goal, I suspect.

“Avery, I need your help. Is Tom with you?” I say as I burst onto the sidewalk and look around for the town car the studio sent me down here in. Perks of the president of the studio insisting I come down to meet with him in Laguna Beach where he lives. Apparently, his daughter has a violin recital tonight that he couldn’t miss. The exciting Friday nights of people married with kids.

“Yeah”—her voice gets serious and lower—“he’s right here. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me, but as you can see, Aleksandr is ... not doing well.”

“Yeah.” Her voice is grim.

“Can I talk to Tom, please?”

There’s a pause, then, “What?” The word is barked through the phone and it surprises me so much that I pull it away from my face and look at it for a second before I open the door to the town car that’s just pulled up to the curb in front of me.

“Tom, it’s Petra.” I settle into the back seat as the car pulls away from the curb.

“I know.”

Oh. Okay. “I need your help.”

“Why in the world would I help the woman who wrecked my best friend? Have you seen him out there these last two games? YOU DID THAT.” I don’t know if he’s yelling at me because he can’t hear himself over the crowd, or if he’s just yelling at me.

Maybe I deserve that. I left. I made Avery go get my stuff. I didn’t call. I didn’t come back. I didn’t reach out to him, even though he was right outside of LA for the first two games of the series.You had other important priorities, I tell myself.

I really can justify anything, can’t I?

“I need to make it right. Can you help me get in to see him?”

Tom’s laugh is bitter and hysterical at the same time. “Into the Honda Center? Oh, that’s funny. I’m his lawyer, not his agent.”

“Right,” I say, feeling less desperate as the pieces of a plan start to emerge in my mind. “Can you give me his agent’s info?”

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