“You were looking a little slow out there today, old man,” Owen Ramirez says as he jumps up from the locker room bench like the nimble little fucker he is.
“Go to hell, Ramirez.”
“Dude, you’re the captain. You gotta build me up, not tear me down.”
“Your ego needs a readjustment,” I say as I turn to walk out of the locker room. He follows me into the hallway. “You’re never going to get more playing time if you’re not more serious.”
“I was a second-round draft pick,” he says, his chest puffing out like a rooster who’s damned pleased with himself.
“And how much have you played this year?”
He falls into step next to me as he considers the question we both know the answer to. His voice is substantially lower when he says, “Coach doesn’t like me.”
“No one likes a player with an ego they can’t back up. You want to play, you’d better bring it. Stop relying on your college career as evidence of your ability. That got you here, but it sure as shit won’t keep you in the NHL.”
“So what do I do?”
Ah, the real reason we’re having this conversation. In my “old age” I’ve become the team psychologist, the one the younger guys come to with all their problems. Either that, or it’s because of the big “C” I wear on my jersey.
“Same thing I told you on day one. Start by taking a lesson in humility.” We walk a few more steps and he doesn’t say anything, so I remind him, “Who you were before you got here, what you did, it doesn’t matter. It only matters how hard you work now. So work harder.”
“Not everyone can be as focused as you are one hundred percent of the time,” Ramirez says as we push open the doors to the parking lot.
“Yes, they can. It’s a choice. Notice how I go home after practices and games, not out chasing skirts?”
“But, dude, the girls,” he says the word on a long exhale. “When else in my life am I going to have chicks all over me, chasing me down like this? I gotta take advantage of that while I can!”
“Do you, though?” I ask. “Is that where you want to focus your energy right now? Or do you want to improve your game?”
“Oh, I’m improving my game,” he says with a low laugh.
“Wrong game,” I tell him. He doesn’t get it, and that’s fine. I’ve seen a dozen guys like him come and go in my near-decade in the NHL. Everyone here is used to being the best—until they go pro. It’s a fight to stay, to improve, and to play. Not everyone is willing to make the requisite sacrifices.
“You sayin’ you’re celibate, man?”
“No. I’m just saying that sometimes it’s good to save up some of that energy you spend on women and redirect it into your game. Think how much pissed-off frustration you’d be able to channel into your defense if you hadn’t been laid in a few days.”
“Hmm,” he says, like he’d never considered the idea before. Has he seriously never had a coach or mentor tell him this before? Could he not have figured this out on his own?
Daniel is parked in my space. “Just think about it,” I tell Ramirez as I head toward my car, “because I think you’re better than what you’ve shown us this year.”
He nods, but looks too lost in his thoughts to reply. I throw my gym bag into the trunk and slide into the back seat. “Did you get Petra’s stuff to my apartment earlier?” I ask as Daniel backs out of the spot.
“Sure did. Just a couple small suitcases.”
“Okay.” I glance out the window, wondering what it will be like to come home today and in the future and have Petra in my space. Will she be a distraction? Probably. But having her there may also fuel the kind of frustration I was telling Ramirez he needed. In fact, half the reason I had such stellar seasons in my junior and senior years of high school was because I was pissed off the entire time, missing my best friend and wanting his little sister, but knowing I could never have her.
As usual, Daniel and I don’t speak much on the way home. One of the things I like best about him as a driver is that he isn’t chatty. When I lived closer to the rink, I used to drive myself. I had a sweet sports car that I probably took too many risks in. But once an apartment became available in the building Niko and Colette lived in, I moved to the Upper East Side to be closer to my family. The drive to practice was horrendous, though, which is when Niko suggested getting a driver so I could just relax on my commute. I traded my sports car in for a more comfortable model and used the commutes to take calls from my agent or the brands I had endorsement deals with, or listen to podcasts and audiobooks. It ended up being a good move since only a few months later I was suddenly the guardian for my six-year-old niece.
“Just a reminder,” Daniel says as we turn onto Fifth Avenue, “that I won’t be available tonight. It’s my daughter’s birthday.”
“No problem. Enjoy the party,” I tell him.
“Thank you, sir.” I’m not sure that I’ll ever get used to how formal Daniel is with me. I hate him calling me ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Ivanov,’ but he continues to do it no matter how many times I tell him he can just call me ‘Alex’ like everyone else does.
He drops me at the front of the building and I’m out the door before the doorman can come open it for me. I grab my gym bag from the trunk as Martin holds the door to the building open for me. “Mr. Ivanov,” he says as I enter. “Ms. Volkova is all settled in your apartment. Is there anything else you need?”
My stomach flips over. It’s a feeling I’m unaccustomed to. “No, thank you,” I tell him as I head toward the elevator. What do I say to someone I spent my teenage years obsessing over now that she’s living in my home? Even after I left her the way I did, I continued to follow her every move. I watched every televised ski race she competed in; I may or may not have salivated over every photo and video of her during her modeling days; I fantasized about running into her when she lived in New York, even while I took every precaution to make sure it didn’t happen. Once she moved to Park City and wasn’t in the spotlight so much, it became easier to let her go. But she’s always been there, taking up residence in my brain.
She’s the one that got away, except I was the one who pushed her away the minute she tried to get close. I didn’t have a choice, or at least, I didn’t think I did. The irony—that I pushed her away to prevent a marriage she didn’t want, but we ended up married anyway—isn’t lost on me. My fucking father left the marriage certificate on the very top of the box labeled “Important Papers,” like he was getting in one last jab at me even from the grave.
The elevator doors open to a silent apartment. I don’t know what I expected, but there’s nothing to indicate that another human being is here. No music, no signs of movement. It’s disconcerting. I am setting my wallet and keys in the marble dish on the entryway table when the door between the dining room and butler’s pantry swings open. Petra glides through it with a plate in her hand, then gasps and almost drops it. “Holy shit,” she pants, “you scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry. Should I announce myself when I come home or something?” I’m only half kidding.
She rolls her eyes. “I just didn’t realize you’d be home this early.”
“Practice normally ends a bit later, but we’re leaving in the morning, so we got out earlier today.”
“Can we go over this week’s schedule one more time before you leave?” she asks. I’d taken her with me to drop Stella off at school this morning so she’d know what to do for the rest of the week, and I’d made sure we updated the emergency contact paperwork while we were there. I’ll bring her with me to ballet this afternoon too, so she knows what to do later in the week.
“Sure. How about while Stella’s at ballet? The class is too short to make sense to come home during it, we can grab coffee or something nearby.”
“Okay.” She looks confident, but sounds nervous.
“It’s going to be fine,” I tell her.
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re the one leaving. I have zero experience with kids. What if I fuck it up?”
“You’re not going to fuck it up. You’re a natural with her, which is the only reason I feel comfortable leaving.” I don’t admit to her how much I prefer this situation over the nanny I’d hired. She’d looked so good on paper and her references had been fantastic. Now I’m back to square one, waiting to hear back from the placement agency. And in the meantime, I’ve got Petra.
She pauses. “I need to get back to work, but let me know when it’s time to leave for ballet. Oh,” she says as if she’s just thought of something else, “and after dinner tonight I need to run out to the shops for some pajamas.”
Confused, I ask, “You can’t just wear whatever pajamas you brought?”
“Uhh.” She pauses, then stands a little straighter. “Normally I sleep naked.”
And now I’m busy telling my dick to calm the hell down and stop picturing her in my guest room, just on the other side of my bedroom wall, naked. I should have put her in the nanny’s bedroom on the opposite side of the apartment, the part I never really go into. But I wanted her to feel welcome, and to have access to the solarium that she was so obviously impressed by the other night. The fact that both of our bedrooms have walls of glass and doors that lead right into it is something I have to remind myself not to think about. It would be too easy to step out of my bedroom and right into hers.
“You’re welcome to some of my T-shirts and boxers if you want.”
She smiles. “Already trying to get me into your underwear, eh?”
“Jesus, Petra,” I say because now I’m definitely getting hard. “You can’t say shit like that. We’re not teenagers anymore.”
“Right,” she says, and the word is clipped. “You made that clear back then. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten.”
I was wondering how long it would take her to bring that up. Every word was a fucking lie, but I can’t tell her that.
“I’ll let you know when it’s time to leave,” I say, turning and walking down the hall toward my bedroom before she can see the bulge growing in the front of my jeans.
I shut my bedroom door behind me and lean back against it. Fuck. Having her here is already more difficult than I imagined. It’s easy between us when Stella is around, but it seems like every time I’m alone with her, there’s an undercurrent of sexual tension. I didn’t really think through the fact that she’d be here during the day while Stella was in school. And shit, that long maxi dress she was wearing was super low-cut. Why does she have to have such fantastic tits?
I unbutton and unzip my jeans, because it’s getting uncomfortable in there, then I let them drop to the ground. I’m halfway across the room, heading toward the bathroom in nothing but my underwear and T-shirt, when I glance through the glass on the opposite side of my bedroom and notice Petra sitting at the table in the solarium with her laptop in front of her and a plate of sliced apples next to her. Her back is to me, thankfully, but as I slip into the bathroom unnoticed, I realize that this whole situation has just gotten real.
I thought I let go of these feelings I had for her years ago, and it’s taken less than a week of seeing her intermittently to have them all come rushing back. I’m a grown man now and I could have any woman I want, so why am I fantasizing about the only woman I can’t have?
Water droplets from the shower are still clinging to my hair and my chest, and I have a towel wrapped around my waist as I walk back into my bedroom. Petra’s standing at the wrought iron table in the solarium, putting her laptop, a notebook, and her phone into a pile and then sliding them into her bag. I manage to get over to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors unnoticed, but the minute I start pulling the curtains closed, her head snaps up and her eyes focus on that towel, then slide slowly up my body. She’s checking me out and there’s absolutely no shame on her face when she locks eyes with me and raises an eyebrow.
I’m so tempted to accept her challenge, to march out there and show her exactly how it could be between us. I’m about to reach for the door handle when I remember that this isn’t about me and Petra. It’s about Stella. And sleeping with Petra would only complicate matters. Instead, I slide one of the heavy linen curtains in front of me and reach over to pull the other one closed too.
We lost our first game, two nights ago, and tonight we’re tied 2-2 in overtime. Which means we have five minutes to win it, or they do, in this sudden death period.
The first few minutes are intense. No one scores, and there are no penalties. It’s like everyone is behaving themselves—especially me—because neither team wants to see the other have a power play.
As I pass the puck to Robinson and skate around one of their forwards, Coach pulls our goalie and sends in another attacker. It’s frowned upon to do this in regular season where you lose the possibility of a point for your loss in overtime, but in the playoffs there’s no disadvantage. Either we win or we lose, and our shot of scoring is better with six attackers and no goaltender. Unfortunately, Philly’s chance of scoring is also better with us not having a goaltender.
Robinson passes it back to me, but I don’t have a shot on goal and it’s a relief to be able to pass it to our extra player, Ulcheck, who’s right where I need him to be. He takes the shot but the goaltender blocks it and the puck ends up back with Robinson, who passes it to Ulcheck again. One of Philly’s defensemen slaps the puck away and I skate with everything I have to get back toward the goal and help our defensemen block their attackers. With no goalie in the net, we can’t afford them to get too close to our goal. Unfortunately, Philly’s three forwards are in control of the puck and all advancing on our two defenders. Robinson and Ulcheck are already getting in the mix, so I skate around behind our defenders. I hear the shot even though I don’t see it happen, and I dive across the goal as I turn to see if I can figure out where the puck is. It’s hard to miss, coming straight at me a little higher than where my body is. I raise my arm, hoping I can block it. The puck connects solidly with my right shoulder, wedging itself between my shoulder and chest pads, then bouncing off. I go skidding across the ice on my left side, but I see Robinson has control of the puck. Coach has already sent in another center and is pulling me, so I skate to our bench.
I’m greeted with cheers and slaps on the back and all manner of celebration, but my eyes are already back on the ice, watching for our opportunity to score. It comes when Philly’s players are moving like a machine toward our goal and our left wing grabs the puck and breaks away toward their goal. His shot is sloppy but still, miraculously, gets past their goalie.
Coach puts in a whole new team, including a goalie, and we manage to hang on for the last thirty seconds to win Game 2. It’s a win, though I much prefer a wider margin on the scoreboard. This was too close, on the heels of a loss. We have to be better than this if we hope to advance.
I walk into the press conference ten minutes later, my NY hat pulled low over my forehead and a scowl on my face. I hate these pointless media appearances. The press wants face time with us, but there’s very little we can say about the game that won’t risk giving away some strategy that might help us in future games.
I take my seat in front of my nameplate, hoping they ask Robinson most of the questions. Of course, they don’t. The first question is about why I’m scowling after a win.
“I prefer winning by a wider margin.”
“You spent a lot of time in the penalty box tonight,” a young reporter says. I’ve seen him a lot this season, but he’s still pretty green. “You were playing like you were mad.”
I stare back at him, my face expressionless. “That wasn’t a question.”
“Are you mad about something?” His question suggests that there might be something going on with the team that has me pissed off, as if I’d tell him if there were.
I’m mad that the woman I’ve spent my entire life obsessing over is living in the bedroom next door to mine and I can’t touch her. I’m mad that her comment about trying to get her in my underwear keeps rattling around my head, haunting me while I’m trying not to think about her. I’m mad that Stella likes her so much, even while I’m grateful for their developing relationship, because it doesn’t seem like Petra will stick.
“Don’t confuse aggression with anger,” I tell the reporter. “I’m just out there playing the game the best I know how.”
“You’re rarely in the penalty box,” the reporter chirps, “which is why tonight seemed notable.”
I shrug. He’s right, I’m known for my self-control and tonight I had a hard time keeping myself in check. “Anyone have an actual question?” I crack a smile so the media will think I’m joking with them. I’m not.
They ask more questions about the game, about what our approach will be as we move into Game 3 in a couple days. Our responses are tight-lipped—“score more goals” and “play better”—and then we’re being ushered out so the next players can come in.
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.
