Page 90 of One Last Shot

“You must be Jolene,” I hold my hand out and when she places her hand in mine, I worry for a moment that she’s going to pull me in for a hug, but she steps back, keeping it professional.

“Indeed. Here,” she says as she reaches into the bag slung over her shoulder, “would you mind signing this before we go in?” She hands me a New York jersey and a Sharpie.

“Where’d you find this on such short notice?” I ask. I mean, I only called her yesterday.

She looks up at me with a distinct eye roll. “I already owned it.”

Ah, that’s right, president of my fan club and all that. I flip the jersey over and find my name and number on the back, scrawl my signature across the number, and hand it back to her, along with her pen. Then she’s leading me and my suitcase through the door.

“So, how long have you and Petra known each other?” Jolene asks casually as she leads me down a long hallway.

“We’re childhood friends.” I keep my response brief, so I don’t say anything Petra might not want people to know. I’m not in the business of sharing my personal life with strangers anyway—too easy for something to be taken out of context.

“Are you in town for long?” she asks, clearly attempting to make polite conversation as we take a left and head down another hallway.

“Just a couple days.” Luckily we arrive at a door labeled with Petra’s name, and my stomach flips because holy shit, I wasn’t quite ready to see her yet.

“She’s on set,” Jolene says, “but you can leave your suitcase here.”

“Okay,” I say, opening the door. The room is tiny, lit mostly by the twenty or so bulbs that frame the large mirror above a counter on one wall. There’s a chair in front of it, and a couch on the opposite wall. The third wall, across from the doorway, is taken up by a rack stuffed full of clothes.

I set my suitcase to the side of the door and tell my body to calm the hell down. The realization that I’m going to see her shortly has the adrenaline running through my system. I don’t even get this nervous when I’m on the ice, facing five 200-pound players who want to body-slam me into the wall or knock my ass over onto the ice. The potential damage from physical threats doesn’t hold a candle to the kind of damage Petra could do to my heart. But I’m tired of treading carefully, waiting for her to come around. Three weeks is too fucking long to go without seeing her. Even if she doesn’t know she needs to see me, I know it.

I shut the door behind me and follow Jolene down two more hallways. “Oh good,” she says when we come to the end. “They’re not filming yet.” She points to a light by the door that’s not illuminated. “Let’s slip in and watch from the back.”

I follow her through the door, which she only half opens, and we slink along the back wall. The lights are off in this back section of the studio, and there are cameras and about eight or nine people between us and the stage. But the first thing I see, as if all the equipment and people are invisible, is Petra. She’s sitting on the edge of a beige high-backed chair reviewing some flash cards. She’s wearing a black dress with a bustier top and spaghetti straps. The dress itself is fitted down past her thighs and the hem has a four-inch row of pleats that comes just to the bottom of her knees, revealing the curve of her muscular calves.

“What’s your role in all this?” I whisper to Jolene as people continue moving around us, checking equipment, moving things into place, nodding to Jolene as they pass.

“I’m her stylist,” she whispers back. “I decide what her aesthetic will be for each show: what she wears, and what her hair and makeup will be. Today she’s interviewing one of the first female billionaires, a rocket scientist who funded the development of a life-saving technology for kids with heart problems. So we’re going for high-powered sexy today. Like they’re meeting for drinks.”

“Nailed it,” I mutter under my breath, and out of the corner of my eye I see a slow smile spread across Jolene’s face.

“Man, you’ve got it bad.” Her laugh is a low chuckle, quiet enough to not attract attention to us.

My eyes swing over to her, and I’m sure the look of alarm is written all over my face.

“Don’t worry,” she says, and pats my arm. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Is it, though?”

“I signed the same NDA that everyone else here did. We can’t talk about anything that happens on set, or about anyone who works on this show, to anyone outside of the show. In fact, I will probably get my ass canned if you don’t sign one too. I’ll have legal bring the paperwork down when filming is done, okay?”

“Sure.”

She looks down at her phone, shooting off a quick text. “All set.”

I’m about to respond when the action starts. I’ve been a guest on late-night shows in New York before, but the format of this show is so different. Instead of the host interviewing several guests, playing some silly games, and interacting with the live audience, the entire show is just one interview. And all the pressure is on Petra to lead this dance. Watching her onstage is a next-level turn-on. I

As the cameras roll, she takes on a variety of different personas: she’s curious and hard-hitting with her questions, but also comes across as an understanding friend you can share anything with. The questions she asks are so far below the surface-level fluff that TV shows tend to ask celebrities and athletes, like Petra wants to not only get to know the person she’s interviewing, but wants to drill down to the essence of what makes that woman who she is. It’s like she’s trying to draw out all the life lessons that could be learned and she manages to cast her guest as sympathetic without leaving you feeling sympathy, makes her guest relatable even though her life is so completely unlike anyone else’s, and fashions the woman as an inspiration for other women.

An hour and a half later, as Petra is thanking her guest and shaking her hand, my feet are rooted to the spot. I’ve been utterly transfixed the entire time. So much so that I didn’t even notice that Jolene wasn’t next to me anymore. I glance around and see that she’s hovering by the door we came in. When the lights come back up, Jolene opens the door, grabs a piece of paper and pen, and is heading back toward me.

I don’t even read the NDA, just sign it and ask that she have legal send me a copy of it. Then I’m looking back up, hoping Petra’s still onstage. She is. She’s reaching down to her chair, collecting her flash cards as she chats with the woman she just interviewed, and when she stands and turns toward the back of the room, we lock eyes.

I know she sees me because the look of recognition is there—the way her eyes widen and her lips part for a split second before she turns her attention back to the woman she’s speaking with. They exchange a few more words and a hug, and then Petra is making a beeline toward me. Other people around the studio are starting to notice me too. There’s a low murmur as people look at me and then at Petra as she walks toward me.

Her face is stony as she approaches. Knowing how much she hates surprises, I didn’t expect her to jump into my arms, but I also didn’t expect her to look like she’s on a warpath. She walks right by me and shoots a “follow me” over her shoulder. Jolene looks at me and shrugs, and I take off after Petra.

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