Page 115 of One Last Shot

“Why would I do that?” he asks and behind him there’s another big groan from the crowd. “Oh good, Anaheim just scored a goal because we’re playing with five players on the ice for the next ... three and a half minutes, thanks to Alex’s penalty.”

“That’s why, Tom. That’s why you need to give me his agent’s info—because I’m the only one who can keep him out of the penalty box. If you don’t let me help him now, he’s going to wreck his career, and it’s going to be onbothour consciences.”

“Fine,” Tom bites out. “I’ll text you his info.”

“Thank you, Tom. Really.”

He disconnects the call with no response, and I’m not even sure if he heard me. More fences to mend later.

The contact comes through via text immediately.

“Excuse me,” I say to the driver. “I’m going to need you to drop me off at the Honda Center on your way back to LA.”

He glances at me quickly in the rearview mirror before his eyes shift back to the road. “You want me to ... drop you off?” Is that skepticism or confusion making his question come out so slowly?

“Um,” I say as I glance down at the contact info on my phone.

“You don’t want me to wait for you?”

“No, but thank you. You get back to LA and go on with your night.”

“But ...” He glances at me in the rearview mirror again, the lines at the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he tries to make sense of my request. “I was told to bring you back to LA.”

“Change of plans.” I shrug as I call Jameson Flynn, who, according to the contact info Tom sent me, is apparently Aleksandr’s agent. The phone rings four times, then goes to voice mail. I don’t leave a message. He’s probably screening his calls and doesn’t recognize my number. Instead, I send him a text message.

Petra:Hi Jameson, my name is Petra Volkova. Tom Sheppard, Alex Ivanov’s lawyer, gave me your number.

I pause for a moment to think of what I can say to get Jameson to help me get into that game. Is he even there? It’s the Stanley Cup finals—of course he’s there. I glance at the clock. It’s after 8:00 p.m. so I’m sure I’ve just missed the first intermission. I have to make it there in time for the second intermission, or this is all for naught.

“Can you go just a bit faster?” I ask the driver. “I really need to make it to this game before the end of the second period.”

“There’s no traffic. We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” he says as we cruise along the highway. Around us, the hills boast the green grass that’s only present in the winter and spring.

Petra:I know the way he’s playing tonight is ... less than desirable. I need to talk to him before the next period begins. Can you please get me in to see him? It’s an emergency.

The bubbles pop up on the screen and at least I know he’s seen my text. I hold my breath while I wait for his response.

Jameson:I’m sorry, I don’t know you or how you know Alex ... and you believe I would “get you in to see him” because ...?

Suddenly, our relationship is not only a risk I want to take, it’s something I want to celebrate. But I don’t know how he’d feel about me telling his agent. I just have to hope that he’ll forgive me once I explain why I shared this information.

Petra:I’m his wife.

Jameson:Bullshit.

Petra:I’m not sure what I can tell you that will make you believe me. But I’m the only person who might be able to turn his game around. I assume you work on commission and want him to sign a new contract when this one is up?

I glance out the window as we head into Anaheim, and there’s nothing but sprawl. The sameness is killing me slowly. The same weather every day, the same low buildings everywhere I look, the same golden hillsides, the same clogged freeways, the same people drinking their green juice on their way home from yoga. We’re an hour out of LA and the sprawl just keeps going on and on, different cities and it all feels the same.

An hour outside of New York, I could be lounging on the beaches of Long Island, or visiting farms in quaint small towns upstate. I could be watching horse racing, or exploring outdoor gardens and art installations in the Hudson Valley. I miss the variety of landscape and people, as well as the fast-paced life of New York City—almost as much as I miss Sasha and Stella.

My phone buzzes in my hand, the repeated vibrations signaling an incoming phone call. It’s Jameson.

“Who’s the most important person in his life?”

Without even a moment of hesitation, I respond. “Stella.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you at the main entrance. How soon will you be here?”

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