Page 40 of One Last Shot

Relieved, I head back to the locker room, past the couple of reporters who are milling around in there, and take a shower. When we board the bus back to the hotel, a bunch of the younger guys are making plans to go out and celebrate.

“You coming, old man?” Ramirez asks me.

“Clearly, you took nothing from our conversation,” I remark, then look back down at my phone. I just want to get back to the hotel and call home. I want to hear Petra’s voice, see how she and Stella are doing. I never called Natasha when I was on the road. I texted with her occasionally to see how things were going, and I generally sent Stella a video each day to tell her I hoped she had a good day and I couldn’t wait to see her when I got home. But looking forward to talking to Petra feels different and a little dangerous.

“Ivanov never comes out,” our goalie tells him. “Just stop asking already.”

“You always been this serious?” Ramirez asks. “Or is this like a thing that happens once you pass thirty?”

“You getting bored warming that bench yet, rookie?” The look I give him has the rest of our teammates cracking up.

“Fair.” Ramirez frowns. He played tonight, but not nearly as much as some of us.

“Then focus on the right game,” I remind him.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Tomorrow I’ll focus on hockey. Tonight, it’s all about the ladies. Join us, it’ll be fun. You could use a release, you know?”

You have no fucking idea, I think to myself. But the only release I want is from this obsession with Petra that I can’t seem to let go of, no matter how hard I try. It makes me feel weak and out of control, two feelings I absolutely loathe.

CHAPTER12

PETRA

“I’m so sorry,” I say to my team on our video call before glancing back down at my phone where it flashes the name and number of Stella’s school across the screen, “I have to take this call.”

I mute my microphone and my speakers on the laptop before answering. I haven’t told them anything, just that I’m staying in New York “with a friend.”

“Is this Petra Volkova?” a woman’s voice asks when I answer my phone.

Momentary panic grips my digestive system and I feel like I’m going to throw up. “Yes. Is everything okay with Stella?”

“Stella is fine. But the boy she knocked down on purpose is not. We need you to come in and meet with the principal. She’s being sent home for the day.”

Oh shit. Just the other night, Stella had complained about Jason being mean to her again. He’d started pulling her hair when he was behind her, and flipping her skirt any time she walked by him. I’d told her she needed to defend herself if he put his hands on her, which means this is probably my fault.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I explain to my team that an emergency has come up and I have to go. I haven’t told them about Aleksandr and Stella or why I’m still in New York. The less they know, the better—for now.

But as much as my life has changed over the past few days of Aleksandr being gone, my work days have been fairly normal because Stella has been in school. I didn’t anticipate that there might be interruptions like this.

The school is only a few blocks from the apartment, so I’m walking through the doors less than ten minutes later. The secretary ushers me toward the door marked “Principal” and I feel like I’m about to get in trouble.

The man sitting behind the desk has on a pink collared shirt and a patterned bow tie. He’s on the phone, but gestures for me to come sit in the chair next to Stella facing his desk. She grabs my hand the minute I sit down, and I give it three little squeezes which has her face lighting up. She gives me three little squeezes back.I. Love. You.She just taught me that last night—it was something she used to do with her mother, and I’m hoping that I can handle this situation in a way that would make Colette and Nikolai proud if they were still here.

While the principal finishes his conversation, I mouthJason?at Stella and she nods, then looks down at the ground. “Hey,” I whisper, “chin up.” In my eyes, she’s done nothing wrong here.

But as the seconds tick by, I realize I’m so wildly out of my element, and my panic grows like it’s a seed in my stomach sending roots throughout my body. My intestines make such a loud rumbling sound that Stella laughs quietly, and the principal looks like he’s holding in a smile. He hangs up a moment later and turns toward us.

“Ms. Volkova,” he starts. “We have a zero tolerance policy for violence at our school. We teach the children to work out their differences with their words, rather than their actions.”

Stella’s grip on my hand tightens. “And what do you do when words don’t stop certain behaviors?” I interrupt.

“When children can’t work out their differences on their own, our faculty members are trained to help them,” he tells me. He strokes his goatee and then tilts his chin, and I’m afraid he’s about to start a long diatribe on the benefits of mediation.

“Did you ever ask for help?” I ask Stella.

“I told my teacher the things Jason was doing, lots of times, but he never does them when she’s looking, so he never gets in trouble.”

---