Page 116 of One Last Shot

I glance at my watch. Based on what the driver said about timing, I tell him, “Less than ten minutes.”

“How will I know who you are?”

“I’ll send you a picture,” I say, and he gives me a gruffOkaybefore he disconnects the call.

I open up the photos on my phone and pull up a photo I took of me and Aleksandr before the event last weekend. My smile is huge, my eyes are crinkling at the corners and you can barely see my baby blues through my lashes because I’m glancing sideways at the love of my life. I send the picture to Jameson but even after it’s been sent on its way, I can’t stop staring at the two of us. We were so happy. I almost told him I loved him that night, was just on my way to saying it when he dropped the bombshell about our parents and then all the other lies came tumbling out in its wake.

My heart aches, physically, when I consider how I’d walked out on him later that night. I just needed time and space to think about why he’d lied to me and if I could forgive him for it. And then I needed time and space to plan how I’d make my way back to him. I suppose I should have reached out sooner, let him know where my heart and mind were, but I wanted to be certain. I wanted to have my plan in place with no option to back down. I wanted to be one hundred percent committed so he’d know how serious I am, before saying anything.

After watching him self-destruct on the ice tonight, I pray I didn’t wait too long.

CHAPTER29

ALEKSANDR

My time in the penalty box is up with three minutes still left before the buzzer sounds to end the second period. To no one’s surprise, Coach doesn’t put me back on the ice. He also doesn’t even look at me when I get back to the bench, so I know how pissed off he is. I’m the steady one, the player he can always depend on, the one who’s a role model for the other players. Until these last two games.

After this last penalty, I can’t afford to let my temper get the best of me. With a new contract on the line, I also can’t afford to make these kinds of mistakes.

I keep my head down as we march through the hallway toward the locker room. No one speaks to me, and I don’t blame them. Anaheim scored two more goals during the power play, so we’re down three to one right now. I can’t even convince myself it isn’t my fault, and my own guilt and my teammates’ silent accusations hang heavy in the stale air outside the locker room.

There’s a holdup at the locker room entrance as we enter single file, each player’s shoulder pads taking up the full width of the doorway. At the end of the line, I’m a couple players away from the door when Thompson steps out of the way and Coach steps through the door. He’s followed by my agent, Jameson Flynn, who was apparently in the locker room.Shit, this is not good.

Jameson has never once come to see meduringa game. I can’t imagine why he’s even down here unless it’s to rip me a new asshole and remind me that I’m costing him a lot of money right now by not getting my shit together. At this moment, that’s the last thing I need.

“Ivanov,” Coach barks. “Go with Flynn.” My agent turns to head down the hallway.

“Wait, what?” I ask, glancing between my agent and my coach, and eyeing the locker room behind him. “I need to know what the plan of attack is, I need to come back into this game with my head on straight.”

Coach reaches up and puts his hand on my shoulder. “There’s a family emergency, son. Go with Jameson.”

My stomach roils and I feel like I could throw up on the spot. Stella. What’s wrong with Stella?

I turn toward Jameson, the question poised on my lips.

“It’s not Stella,” he says, his voice level and firm. “Let’s go.”

I dip my head toward his as we walk down the hall together. “What the hell is going on? I don’t have any family aside from Stella.”

He stops in front of a conference room. There’s a window, but the shades are down so I can’t see inside. “This is about you getting your shit together. You’ve got five minutes.” He opens the door and with a strength I wouldn’t have guessed he had, he pushes me inside.

I stumble as my skate slides along the carpeted floor, but I right myself with my hand on the back of an office chair that’s sitting at a table. I toss my helmet and gloves on the table and turn back toward the door to demand Jameson explain himself, and that’s when I catch sight of her.

Petra,my heart screams.

She fucking left you. Really left, with no intention of returning, my brain argues.

I’m so dumbfounded with the fight that’s happening inside me—the tangible need to grab her and hold her is at odds with the instinct to protect myself—that I just stare at her stupidly.

“What the actual hell do you think you’re doing out there?” she asks as she pushes her chair back and stands.

“If you’re here to lecture me about a crappy game, you have some nerve.” It’s a struggle to keep the emotions I’m feeling—the anger, the sadness, the hopelessness—out of my voice. But I’m good at being unreadable, so I school my face into the neutral mask I usually wear and make sure there’s a solid layer of armor around my heart.

“This is not acrappy game. This is a career ending performance when it should be the pinnacle of your year: another Stanley Cup championship and your choice of where you want to go when your contract’s up.” Why the fuck doesshesound mad? I’m the one who should be mad here! I open my mouth to say as much, but she powers on. “Instead, you’re showing all these clubs that you’re not serious about your game, that you can’t keep it together when the pressure’s on.”

“And why do you think that is? Why do you think I’m struggling to keep my shit together right now, Petra? Are you here to accept the blame?”

“Yes.” The word is so simple and small, and yet it carries a note of hope.

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