Page 72 of One Last Shot

I marvel at how his eyes have turned to a soft gray, how wrinkles appear at the corners when he looks at me like this. It’s not the look of desire I’ve seen so often recently, or the look of fond affection he gives Stella. If I had to describe it, I’d say it was pride. And for some reason, it makes me deeply uncomfortable.

“Hold on,” I say as I set the phone down and take my sweatshirt off. Heat is running through me again, this time from embarrassment.

When I pick up the phone again, his eyes slide up and down the phone screen. He takes in the spaghetti straps of my camisole. “Oh, are we at the taking-our-clothes-off part of the conversation?” His eyes crinkle in the corners as he holds in his smile.

“I mean, wecouldbe,” I tease, running a finger under one of the straps of my cami.

“I like that idea, a lot,” he says, as he reaches behind his neck and pulls his shirt over his head. The phone is jostled as he switches it to his other hand to get the shirt off his other arm. “So, how does this work?”

“How does what work?”

“Phone sex. I’ve never done this before.”

I love the combination of amusement and vulnerability in his voice.

“Me either.” By the look on his face, my response surprises him. “I guess we’ll figure it out together.”

* * *

“Holy crap, Petra,” Avery whispers when the kitchen door closes behind us. “A warning would have been nice. You know, something like ‘By the way, my friend Emily is asupermodel.’”

I glance up at her and there’s a bit of panic in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, it didn’t even occur to me,” I say as I hand her the tray with the wine glasses before grabbing the pitcher of margaritas off the counter.

“It’s already awkward enough to be in Alex Ivanov’s house watching him play hockey on TV. But hanging out with a supermodel too? That’s next-level.”

“First of all, Aleksandr’s just a normal guy whose job it is to play hockey. You’ve known him long enough that you shouldn’t feel awkward around him.”

“Petra, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of an awkward person.”

I take in her freckles and the big brown eyes behind her glasses, her light brown hair up in a bun, her black tank top front-tucked into ripped jeans with black leather slides, her wrist with gold bangles. She’s casual and elegant and adorable. “Screw that. You arenotawkward, and if you are, it obviously just adds to your charm. And also, Emily is a perfectly normal person too. She just happens to be more gorgeous than the rest of us.”

“I love that hanging out with supermodels and living in a famous hockey player’s apartment is all normal to you,” Avery laughs as she turns with the tray to head back to through the butler’s pantry.

“My life is a lot less glamorous than it seems right now,” I say as I follow behind her. Yes, I’m living in Sasha’s multimillion-dollar co-op, but this isn’t my life and I’m essentially his niece’s nanny. But guilt niggles at the back of my mind, because as soon as my show airs, she’s going to assume I was lying about the glamourless life. It’s going to be hard work, and that’s rarely glamorous no matter how it appears on TV.

“Uh huh,” she says as she leads the way back through the dining room. Her disbelief makes me wonder if Tom knows Sasha and I are sleeping together and told her? Heisone of Sasha’s best friends, not to mention his lawyer, so it would make sense if he’d told him.

We head through the living room and into the sitting room. There on the couch is the least glamorous version of Emily I’ve ever seen. She has about ten small ponytails coming off her head in different directions and each has been braided. Some have colored barrettes at the end, and some have small Stella-sized scrunchies. She looks like one of those Barbie hair salon dolls with the big head that a six-year-old got their hands on.

I laugh so hard I almost spill our drinks. How did Stella manage this in the few minutes we were in the kitchen? “I need a picture of you and Stella together,” I tell her. “This needs to be documented.”

Because she never takes herself too seriously, Emily happily poses for the photo. When I show it to Avery, I make sure to whisper, “See, totally normal.”

We settle in on the couch and chairs right as the pregame show ends and the players return to the bench from their on-ice warm-up.

Sasha isn’t on the ice for the face-off, but he’s jumping over the boards and into the play only a minute into the game. I watch as Avery explains the logistics of hockey line switches to Emily, telling her why they’re so frequent and how they know who is coming in and out of the game. She knows more than I do about the sport, and I grew up at the hockey rink watching my brother and Sasha play.

“How do you know so much about hockey?” I ask her.

“I used to play.”

I’m sure my eyes are as wide as Emily’s. “Really?”

“Yeah, I was on my high school team, and I played on our intramural team in college.”

“I’ve never known a female hockey player,” Emily says cautiously, “but I guess I envisioned them being bigger and tougher than you appear.”

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