Page 38 of One Last Shot

“Do you, though?” I ask. “Is that where you want to focus your energy right now? Or do you want to improve your game?”

“Oh, I’m improving my game,” he says with a low laugh.

“Wrong game,” I tell him. He doesn’t get it, and that’s fine. I’ve seen a dozen guys like him come and go in my near-decade in the NHL. Everyone here is used to being the best—until they go pro. It’s a fight to stay, to improve, and to play. Not everyone is willing to make the requisite sacrifices.

“You sayin’ you’re celibate, man?”

“No. I’m just saying that sometimes it’s good to save up some of that energy you spend on women and redirect it into your game. Think how much pissed-off frustration you’d be able to channel into your defense if you hadn’t been laid in a few days.”

“Hmm,” he says, like he’d never considered the idea before. Has he seriously never had a coach or mentor tell him this before? Could he not have figured this out on his own?

Daniel is parked in my space. “Just think about it,” I tell Ramirez as I head toward my car, “because I think you’re better than what you’ve shown us this year.”

He nods, but looks too lost in his thoughts to reply. I throw my gym bag into the trunk and slide into the back seat. “Did you get Petra’s stuff to my apartment earlier?” I ask as Daniel backs out of the spot.

“Sure did. Just a couple small suitcases.”

“Okay.” I glance out the window, wondering what it will be like to come home today and in the future and have Petra in my space. Will she be a distraction? Probably. But having her there may also fuel the kind of frustration I was telling Ramirez he needed. In fact, half the reason I had such stellar seasons in my junior and senior years of high school was because I was pissed off the entire time, missing my best friend and wanting his little sister, but knowing I could never have her.

As usual, Daniel and I don’t speak much on the way home. One of the things I like best about him as a driver is that he isn’t chatty. When I lived closer to the rink, I used to drive myself. I had a sweet sports car that I probably took too many risks in. But once an apartment became available in the building Niko and Colette lived in, I moved to the Upper East Side to be closer to my family. The drive to practice was horrendous, though, which is when Niko suggested getting a driver so I could just relax on my commute. I traded my sports car in for a more comfortable model and used the commutes to take calls from my agent or the brands I had endorsement deals with, or listen to podcasts and audiobooks. It ended up being a good move since only a few months later I was suddenly the guardian for my six-year-old niece.

“Just a reminder,” Daniel says as we turn onto Fifth Avenue, “that I won’t be available tonight. It’s my daughter’s birthday.”

“No problem. Enjoy the party,” I tell him.

“Thank you, sir.” I’m not sure that I’ll ever get used to how formal Daniel is with me. I hate him calling me ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Ivanov,’ but he continues to do it no matter how many times I tell him he can just call me ‘Alex’ like everyone else does.

He drops me at the front of the building and I’m out the door before the doorman can come open it for me. I grab my gym bag from the trunk as Martin holds the door to the building open for me. “Mr. Ivanov,” he says as I enter. “Ms. Volkova is all settled in your apartment. Is there anything else you need?”

My stomach flips over. It’s a feeling I’m unaccustomed to. “No, thank you,” I tell him as I head toward the elevator.What do I say to someone I spent my teenage years obsessing over now that she’s living in my home?Even after I left her the way I did, I continued to follow her every move. I watched every televised ski race she competed in; I may or may not have salivated over every photo and video of her during her modeling days; I fantasized about running into her when she lived in New York, even while I took every precaution to make sure it didn’t happen. Once she moved to Park City and wasn’t in the spotlight so much, it became easier to let her go. But she’s always been there, taking up residence in my brain.

She’s the one that got away, except I was the one who pushed her away the minute she tried to get close. I didn’t have a choice, or at least, I didn’t think I did. The irony—that I pushed her away to prevent a marriage she didn’t want, but we ended up married anyway—isn’t lost on me. My fucking father left the marriage certificate on the very top of the box labeled “Important Papers,” like he was getting in one last jab at me even from the grave.

The elevator doors open to a silent apartment. I don’t know what I expected, but there’s nothing to indicate that another human being is here. No music, no signs of movement. It’s disconcerting. I am setting my wallet and keys in the marble dish on the entryway table when the door between the dining room and butler’s pantry swings open. Petra glides through it with a plate in her hand, then gasps and almost drops it. “Holy shit,” she pants, “you scared the crap out of me.”

“Sorry. Should I announce myself when I come home or something?” I’m only half kidding.

She rolls her eyes. “I just didn’t realize you’d be home this early.”

“Practice normally ends a bit later, but we’re leaving in the morning, so we got out earlier today.”

“Can we go over this week’s schedule one more time before you leave?” she asks. I’d taken her with me to drop Stella off at school this morning so she’d know what to do for the rest of the week, and I’d made sure we updated the emergency contact paperwork while we were there. I’ll bring her with me to ballet this afternoon too, so she knows what to do later in the week.

“Sure. How about while Stella’s at ballet? The class is too short to make sense to come home during it, we can grab coffee or something nearby.”

“Okay.” She looks confident, but sounds nervous.

“It’s going to be fine,” I tell her.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re the one leaving. I have zero experience with kids. What if I fuck it up?”

“You’re not going to fuck it up. You’re a natural with her, which is the only reason I feel comfortable leaving.” I don’t admit to her how much I prefer this situation over the nanny I’d hired. She’d looked so good on paper and her references had been fantastic. Now I’m back to square one, waiting to hear back from the placement agency. And in the meantime, I’ve got Petra.

She pauses. “I need to get back to work, but let me know when it’s time to leave for ballet. Oh,” she says as if she’s just thought of something else, “and after dinner tonight I need to run out to the shops for some pajamas.”

Confused, I ask, “You can’t just wear whatever pajamas you brought?”

“Uhh.” She pauses, then stands a little straighter. “Normally I sleep naked.”

---