Page 8 of One Last Shot

I’m relieved she still trusts me enough to ask this question. “Of course not.”

“Even if we signed a marriage contract, that doesn’t mean we’re actually married,” she insists. “I went back to Austria for my cousin Natasha’s wedding a few years ago. And I distinctly remember her and Mathéo having to go to the vital statistics officein personto apply for their marriage license, and then return there for the civil ceremony. And since we didn’t appear in person to apply for a marriage license, nor did we return to get married there, we can’t be married.”

My lips turn down at the corners before I say, “I consulted with a lawyer in Austria to try to get this annulled or overturned, but the paper trail is airtight. Every single thing points to us having applied for a marriage license and taken part in a civil ceremony, both in person. And even thoughwe knowthat we didn’t, the lawyer insisted that no judge is going to believe us fourteen years after the fact.”

“You did all of that before even telling me?” Is that hurt I see in the way she narrows her eyes at me? “How long have you known?” She sets her bag on the chair and rests both her hands on the back of it. She’s not sitting, and with the way she’s braced herself on those nude stilettos with the gold studs along the straps, she seems poised to leave if she decides she doesn’t like my answer.

“That’s hardly relevant to the issue—” Tom starts.

“Like hell it’s not,” Petra interrupts him, never taking her eyes off me. “How long have you known, Sasha?”

“Who the hell is Sasha?” Tom mumbles, more to himself than to either of us. I’ll have to explain how Russian nicknames work later.

“I found out about three months ago when my father died.”

I see her expression change when I mention his death, like she’s internally at war with what she wants to say next. “I hope it was a good death?”

“It was,” I tell her, but it’s a lie. My father died of a heart attack, alone in his mansion after he’d ostracized everyone who ever cared about him. In Russian culture, we’d call that a ‘bad death.’ But I don’t want her to feel sorry for the man who gave her father money in exchange for wedding vows, especially since that wasn’t even the worst thing he did to her or her family.

“Good.” Her face softens a bit as she looks at me like she’s trying to determine how I feel about my father’s passing. It was no secret that we had a contentious relationship at best.

“I went through the same thought processes you’re going through when I found the marriage license and the marriage certificate among my father’s papers,” I say before she can ask any more questions about my father. “So whoever our fathers had to pay off to make this happen, they did.”

An acerbic laugh breaks through her pursed lips. “As if my father had enough money to pay someone off to fake marry me to his employer’s son.”

“Petra—”

She hears the pity in my voice and interrupts me before I can say more. “So why?Whywould they do this?”

I shrug. I have no answer I can share with her.

“So if you found out about this months ago, why are you just telling me now?”

“I was hoping I could figure a way out of this for us.”

“Oh, you were going to figure a way out forus?” Her voice is rising—no longer low and raspy—she doesn’t even sound like herself. “You can’t just go around making decisions on my behalf without consulting me! Especially not after all these years.”

“Petra.” Her name rolls off my tongue like a caress. “Of course I was going to consult you—once I had more details. Which isnow.”

We look at each other in silence for a moment before Tom clears his throat, trying to move this conversation along. We haven’t even gotten to the reason we’re here. We both look at him, which he seems to take as an indication that he should take over from here.

Now that I’ve seen her again, I really wish I’d set this up differently. It should be just the two of us having this conversation.

“Given this new information, my client would like to propose a solution that we think will be amenable to both parties.”

“Oh, I’mallears.” That raspy voice of hers escapes through tight lips, sarcasm dripping from each word.

“My client needs US citizenship. You have your Austrian citizenship via your birth, but given that your mother was a US citizen, you’ve also retained your citizenship here.”

Petra raises her eyebrows. “Yes, I understand my own citizenship status.”

“And given that you have legally been married to my client for the past fourteen years,” Tom continues, “and you have both resided here in the United States for at least the past three years, that would qualify him to apply for citizenship.”

“What does any of this have to do with me, then?” she asks.

“Well, there is a hiccup. US Immigration requires that you must have been living inmarital unionwith your spouse for at least three years before the application for naturalization is submitted.”

“We obviously haven’t done that,” Petra says. “And besides, what makes you think I’d want to helpAlexhere?” She spits out my name like it’s a lie, and I guess in her world it is. Never in my life was I called Alex until I made the NHL and my agent decided a more Americanized name would be easier for fans to remember. Before that, I was always Sasha. And whywouldshe want to help me after the way we left things?

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