Page 57 of One Last Shot

Her question stuns me. “I’veneverthought of you like a little sister, which is half the problem.”

“I don’t see why that’s a problem. But what’s the other half of the problem?”

I can’t tell her the truth about my dad and her mom, can’t tell her that her mom and brother’s blood is on his hands—or that I’ve known about it the whole time. I can’t tell her that I kept her in the friend zone out of guilt and a respect for my dead best friend, or so I don’t have to tell her the truth about her father’s role in this arranged marriage. So instead, I say, “It’s just an expression.”

I reach my fingers up and trail them along her face, noticing how her expression softens. It’s like watching someone let down their metaphorical guard.

“You really hurt me,” she says. “Back when you left.”

“I know.” I see the question in her eyes, but I can’t answer it. I want to tell her that I had to, but I won’t have an explanation if she asks “why.” So instead, I opt for another truth. “And I’ve never not been sorry about it.”

She stretches herself over to me and takes my lips in hers, kissing me slowly, lazily, like we have all the time in the world. But we don’t. Stella will be back midmorning tomorrow, and we have a lot of catching up to do before then. I deepen the kiss and run my hand up the side of her thigh, along her obliques, over her breast, and then down her abdomen to her center.

She pulls back and looks at me. “Already?”

“Don’t plan on sleeping tonight,” I tell her, then pull her against me to begin round two.

* * *

I know she’s in the stands, but I’ve managed not to look for her this entire game. I’ve never let my eyes track up to the eighth row where I know she’s sitting. I can’t let her presence here distract from my game. In the regular season, that wouldn’t be okay. In the playoffs, it would be unforgivable.

Head down, I take the puck up the outside, passing it to Thompson just before their left defenseman reaches me. Thompson stops the puck, spins, fakes a pass to me and instead slaps it to Ottowan, who acts like he’s taking a shot on goal but instead passes it across the ice right to where I’m waiting. I slap it into the top right corner of the net.

The horn signaling the goal echoes in my ears. I skid across the ice on my knees, then hop up to my feet, holding my stick in the air.

My eyes involuntarily turn up, searching for Petra exactly where I know she’ll be. She’s holding Stella up so she can see, while jumping up and down cheering. Her cheeks are pink, her smile is huge, and her straight hair is tucked behind one ear.

It feels like the muscles in my chest have tightened, so much so that it’s hard to breathe. That C on the jersey she’s wearing—without even seeing the sleeve, I know she’s wearing my number. I know my name is printed across her back, like I can see it printed across Stella’s, and the clarity of what I want is astounding: she should be, and in many ways already is, mine. As much as I’ve fought against that desire my whole life, I realize it’s fruitless. I will never be happy until we’re together. It’s the inevitable ending of our story.

She glances down at me, her eyes locking with mine, and I can no longer hear the thousands of cheering fans, I can only hear the thumping of my heartbeat, which sounds like it’s between my ears.

She holds my gaze, heat burning in that hungry look. I’m frozen in place until Stella points toward the roof and Petra looks up at the jumbotron above the rink. I follow her gaze to see myself reflected there. Every person in the rink was just watching me watch her.Shit.

The impact to my body when Ottowan crashes into me in celebration would be enough to knock me on my ass while I’m this distracted, but Thompson is behind me, cheering and holding me up and mumbling “keep your head in the fucking game” as his eyes follow my gaze and land on Petra. “No chick is worth getting this distracted.”

I shake my head to clear it. I need to be at the top of my game tonight, and he’s right that I can’t let her distract me. He’s wrong about her not being worth it, though.

We hold our one-point lead for the remaining three minutes of the final period, and when the buzzer sounds to end the game, my teammates on the ice pile together with our sticks in the air and the rest of the team hops over the boards and surrounds us. It’s a sweet victory because now we lead this series by one game, only two more to clench this round and move on. I have to remember not to get ahead of myself.

The minute we’re back in the locker room, I text Petra to ask her to wait for me after the game, letting her know how to get to the hallway that leads to the players’ indoor parking area. I check my phone after my shower, and again after I’m done with the invasive interviews the press insists on conducting in the locker rooms, but there’s no response. I try not to let that bother me. She was probably rushing to get Stella home and in bed because she has school tomorrow morning and it’s already after 10:00 p.m. Or maybe she didn’t want to be seen waiting for me, didn’t want the attention that might bring. Or maybe she didn’t even see the text. In my head, I run through a long list of reasons she might not have responded as I look at my text message and her lack of response while walking with a few teammates down to the parking garage. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I’m not sure why Thompson is elbowing me in the ribs until I hear Ramirez say “Damn, Ivanov” under his breath.

I glance up and Petra is leaning one shoulder against the cinderblock wall. Stella is wrapped around Petra, her head resting on Petra’s shoulder, her arms hanging limply by her sides, and her legs dangling from each of Petra’s hips. I focus on how supporting Stella’s dead weight like that must be killing her back, shoulders, and arms, rather than focusing on the way my heart seems to be twisting around itself at the sight of them together waiting for me after my game. It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted.

“Can I take her for you?” I ask as I approach them. Behind me, my teammates move on toward their cars.

“Please,” she groans.

Stella wakes up when I shift her to my arms. She looks up at me adoringly and says, “Dada,” before resting her head on my shoulder and closing her eyes. It’s only the second time I’ve heard her call me Dada instead ofDyadya, and it does funny things to my insides just like it did the first time.

She’s dead weight in my arms, and I can’t even imagine how Petra held her like this for any length of time. Petra bends to take my bag that I’d set down on the ground. “I can get that,” I tell her.

“Please, this is nothing compared to holding Stella for the last half hour.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” I say as we start walking. “I didn’t know you’d be waiting.”

“It’s fine. I was going to text you once we got down here, but Stella fell asleep in my arms right after security let us through, and I couldn’t get my phone out of my bag after that.”

“Thank you for waiting for me,” I say, glancing down at her as we move.

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