One Last Shot: Chapter 19

I wait for his response, but it doesn’t come. The bubble appears to show that he’s typing, then disappears again. Multiple times. I wait. And wait.

This whole day has felt juvenile beyond measure. Leaving without saying goodbye, then ignoring my texts? I knew he wouldn’t call to say goodnight to Stella because of the game. But for both of his away games last week, he at least texted me midday with a video he’d filmed to say goodnight, so I was able to show it to her before bedtime. Today, nothing. And now he’s upset that she wanted to send him a picture to make him happy? I’m pissed off on her behalf, in addition to being mad about how he’s ignored me.

I hit the button on screen to call him, and I’m surprised when he picks up on the first ring.

“What?”

The one-word greeting further inflames my temper. “What the hell is going on, Aleksandr?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” he says. The cool, indifferent tone that carries across the phone surprises me.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about, much less why you’re upset.”

“What makes you think I’m upset?” His voice couldn’t be flatter, more devoid of emotion, if he were a robot.

“Besides the fact that you left without saying goodbye, ignored my messages today, and didn’t even send Stella a goodnight message?” Not to mention his WTF response to the photo of Stella and me.

He pauses for a beat. “I forgot about the goodnight message for Stella. Today was really busy.”

“Fair enough. But why are you ignoring me?” I hate that I have to ask this question. It feels childish, as though we’re still teenagers who haven’t figured out how to communicate with each other, instead of adults in a sexual relationship. Part of the reason I never sleep with anyone more than once is that way I don’t have to partake in these cat and mouse games. Breaking my rules for him was obviously a mistake.

“Why don’t you ask Charlie?”

Now it’s my turn to pause. “How do you know about Charley?”

“Accidentally overheard you on the phone with him before I left.”

Several things click into place with the use of that pronoun. “Aleksandr, Charley is a woman.”

I can hear his breath hitch and can envision his eyebrows dipping as he works through this new piece of information. “Wait, you’re in another relationship with a woman?”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips. “A professional one, yes.”

“Please explain.” The words are flat, a demand instead of a request.

I consider that my contract prohibits me from sharing details of the show with anyone but immediate family. I shared that information with Jackson because she’s essentially a sister to me, rationalizing that she’d be the only one that I’d tell. But Aleksandr is actually the only person my contract would technically permit me to tell about this, because we’re legally married.

“I really wish we were having this conversation in person,” I say, shifting to set my laptop on the bed next to me so I can lean further back into the pillows, letting them engulf me when I wish I was in his arms instead.

No response, just the sound of his breathing.

“I need to emphasize that everything I’m telling you right now is completely confidential. The only reason I’m able to even tell you is because we’re married.”

“Noted,” he says.

“I need you to tell me that you will keep this information to yourself and not tell a single other person.”

“What if it’s something the lawyer we’re meeting with this week needs to know?” he asks.

“She will need to know, and we’ll tell her.”

A small grunt escapes on the other end of the phone. “So this is relevant to me adopting Stella, then. When were you going to share this with me?”

I probably should have already told him, but I’d been so wrapped up in how things were changing between us, trying to figure out what our evolving relationship meant, that I didn’t want to throw something else into the mix. He knew I was leaving, what difference did it make if it were for this show or for the business I’d been painstakingly growing for the past few years?

“I would have told you before we met with the lawyer,” I assure him.

“Okay, so?” he prompts.

“I’m moving to LA. I’m going to be hosting a show, like a 60 Minutes-type talk show that interviews women who have overcome great obstacles to redefine success in their field. It’s called And Yet We Rise and we start filming in two weeks. This morning I was on the phone with my producer, Charley, finalizing some details about the start of the show.”

There’s a pause on his end as I imagine he needs a moment to absorb this information.

“Is this why you’ve been so insistent that you can’t stay?”

“Yes.”

“So, where does that leave us?” He sounds like he’s just lost something he worked his whole life for. Totally defeated. Which is ridiculous, because we’ve been sleeping together for less than a week. And before that, we hadn’t seen each other in fourteen years.

“I don’t know. I’ve worked my whole life for an opportunity like this.” Everything I do is about lifting up and empowering women—from the friends I keep, to the women I hire, to the types of events I plan. “This is my chance to really promote female voices, to help show young girls that women can overcome any obstacle, achieve anything they set their mind to. I want that kind of a show to exist in this world. I want something that women can watch with their daughters. Something that doesn’t focus on all the misogyny, but instead focuses on the beauty of the female experience.”

My phone buzzes in my hand as I speak, and Aleksandr’s name flashes across the screen with a video call.

“I needed to see you,” he says when I answer. He’s sitting in a chair in a hotel room, beige curtains hanging behind him. His thick, dark hair is wet and a few pieces curl down into his face. “There was so much passion in your voice just now. I need to know what you look like when you’re talking about something you’re so committed to.”

I glance at my video in the corner of the screen. I’m in a T-shirt, no makeup, and my hair is clipped back so it would stay out of my face when I was working. I watch a faint pink flush infiltrate my cheeks. I don’t fucking blush. What the hell is this?

“Sometimes I get a bit carried away.”

“Never apologize for your dreams, Petra,” he says. “And definitely don’t keep them a secret. Dreams are for sharing, for chasing, for achieving.”

“I’m a little surprised you’re being so supportive,” I tell him.

“Why is that?” he asks, and even through the phone I can tell his eyes are searching my face, trying to understand me.

“Because it means I can’t stay in New York and help you with Stella. It makes everything harder for you.”

“What kind of a selfish bastard would I be if I tried to crush your dreams to achieve my own ends?”

I don’t know what’s happening to me. My whole body feels like it’s melting from the inside out, like my heart has exploded and is oozing lava through my veins, disintegrating me from within. I expect that my skin will turn to ash at any minute, but it doesn’t. It’s just covered with a thin coat of sweat.

“You aren’t saying anything,” he murmurs.

I want to kiss his face, to hold it in my hands and run my lips over his forehead, his eyes, his nose, and his cheeks, ending with his mouth.

“I’m not sure . . .” I trail off, trying to find the right words, “that I’ve ever felt so seen.”

“Are you crying?”

“No,” I say, noting how watery my eyes are. I don’t cry. Especially not over a man. But those words were the most honest, most touching thing anyone has ever said to me. “I just didn’t expect you to be so supportive.”

“I know what it’s like to have dreams you’ve worked your whole life for.”

“Did you ever believe you’d be this successful?” I ask.

“I always believed it, which is why it happened.”

I love that he doesn’t fake humility. He doesn’t say “I got lucky” or some bullshit like that. He’s worked hard for everything he’s achieved, and I’m glad he’s owning it.

“What about you?” he asks.

“I feel like my life has been me constantly reinventing myself, going from skiing, to modeling, to event planning, and now hosting this show. None of those things seem to have anything to do with the other, but I’ve let the things I’m passionate about dictate my path. I’ve worked hard for every one of those opportunities, networked my ass off to meet the right people and to be the right person in return. But the show did kind of fall into my lap.” I explain how I met Charley and how she hounded me until I agreed to audition.

“Did it fall into your lap? Or did all that networking finally pay off?”

“A bit of both, I guess.” I shrug.

“Don’t do that,” he says, his voice soft. “Don’t act like you don’t deserve this opportunity.”

I’m not sure I do. “I’m having a bit of impostor syndrome is all. I feel like this is the kind of role that should go to someone more experienced, and I’m still not entirely sure why Charley wants me.” It feels good to voice what I’ve been keeping in my head all along. I’d never admit to anyone else that I’m scared.

“She obviously sees something in you and knows you’re right for this role. Trust her experience. Trust the process and don’t sell yourself short. Yeah, you’ve never done this before. But you’d never skied competitively, or modeled, or planned a huge event—until you did. Everyone starts somewhere, Petra.”

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, we could be,” 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 a supermodel.’”

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 are not awkward, 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? He is one 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.”

“Some are.” She shrugs. “But like most women, hockey players come in all shapes and sizes. The important thing is how agile you are on skates, how much stamina you have, and that you’re not afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” I ask.

“Anything. The puck, the other players, getting knocked on your”—her eyes track to Stella—“butt.”

I’d say Avery’s body is average. She’s probably five foot six and one hundred and thirty pounds, with smaller breasts and a slim waist. She does seem athletic, but the thought of her being checked up against the boards or knocked over on the ice is alarming.

“Do you still play?” I ask.

“No, but I teach a learn to skate hockey program specifically for girls on Sunday mornings.”

“Really?” Stella says, taking her eyes off the game for the first time since it came on. “I want to take lessons with you!”

“Don’t you already know how to skate?” I ask her. I’ve seen figure skates in her closet.

“Yeah, but only with those white skates for girls. I want to learn how to be fast on hockey skates. I want to skate like Dyadya.”

Emily and Avery look at me, and I mouth Uncle so they know she’s talking about Aleksandr.

“I want to surprise him,” Stella adds. “Petra, will you help me surprise him?”

I want so badly to say yes. To tell her we’ll set up times for her to have lessons with Avery while her uncle is out of town, so that when his season is over, she can surprise him with her new skating abilities. I want to take her to buy new skates, be there for her lessons, see the surprise on Sasha’s face when he sees her in hockey skates. But I can’t.

“I wish I could, honey. But you know I’m leaving in a couple days, right?”

The hopeful look on her face falls, and it’s replaced by a look that tells me I’ve just crushed her hopes and dreams. It about breaks my cold, dead heart because it’s real and raw and I hate disappointing her like this.

“But,” I continue, “how about I take you to buy a pair of skates after school tomorrow, and I’ll set it up with Raina so she can take you to some lessons with Avery. Then maybe we can surprise your uncle when I come back in a few weeks?”

Stella nods her agreement but doesn’t say anything. Then she gets up from her seat next to Emily on the couch and crosses to my chair, curling up in my lap with her arms wrapped around my neck and her head on my chest.

Over her head, I look at Avery. “Can we arrange that?”

“Of course,” she says, but even she looks sad. Emily looks disappointed. I feel like shit. This is officially the worse playoff viewing party ever.

We watch the rest of the first period, and when it ends with New York in the lead by one goal, I take Stella to bed. She’s tired and emotional and gives me a long hug. “I really wish you didn’t have to go,” she says.

I pause for a moment, resisting the urge to give her the reply that I’d normally make in circumstances like these. Instead of telling her I have obligations and explaining how work comes first, I tell her the truth. “I wish I could stay too. But I can’t.”

To her credit, she doesn’t beg me to stay or even ask why. She accepts my leaving as inevitable, which only makes me feel that much worse. I promised myself I wasn’t going to let her get too close because I didn’t want to hurt her by leaving. I didn’t want her to have to experience losing another person she cared about. And I’ve failed at that too.

When I return to the living room, Emily has taken her hair out of the braids and she and Avery have their heads together looking at Avery’s phone. I love seeing them getting to know each other because I love connecting people like this, building a web of friends. And that’s what this would be, if I were staying in New York.

If someone had asked me a few months ago what “having it all” meant to me, I’d have described my life: a wonderful group of best friends, a successful business I’d built myself, and a contract to host a show that was about to begin filming. Now, standing in this sitting room, I feel like “having it all” could look very different: married to Sasha, adopting Stella, building a new group of friends here, moving my business back to New York.

No, this isn’t the life you’ve chosen. You’re already too far down the first path, backtracking would be ridiculous. You don’t want to be married. You don’t want kids. And you’re about to become a household name when your show airs. You’ve built the life you wanted, now it’s time to enjoy it.

“This is when he surprised me with a trip to St. Thomas at Christmas. It’s when I knew for sure that he felt the same way I did.” The look on her face is so tender, so full of love, that it makes my heart hurt. I remember what it was like to feel that way, but it only ever led to heartbreak and humiliation for me.

The life you’ve built is so much better than what any man could offer you, I remind myself.

Emily’s smile is huge and genuine when she tells Avery, “You two are very cute together.”

“I’m still kind of pinching myself that it’s all real. I mean, initially I thought he was a total asshole.”

Ah, the allure of the asshole. I know that well. Hopefully, Tom turns out to truly be a good person, unlike my last boyfriend.

Avery looks at me as I sit near them. “Oh no, what’s that look?” she asks.

I school my face into a neutral expression. “What look?”

“The look you got when I said I initially thought Tom was a total asshole?”

“Oh”—I shrug it off—“nothing. It just made me remember the last guy I dated, who turned out to be the worst when I thought he was one of the good guys.”

“He really was the worst,” Emily says with a wry little laugh.

“Oh no, what happened?” Avery asks, her concern evident in her voice. I can tell she has a big heart, and I hope for her sake that Tom guards it like it deserves to be protected.

“Well, he ended up in jail, so . . .” I never tell anyone this story. Emily knows, because she was involved, as were a few other women we used to model with. It’s a well-known story in the industry, but outside of that, the only other person I’ve ever told is Jackson.

“He was our agent,” Emily supplies when I stop talking. “And he was literally stealing from us—creating fake contracts that undersold what the companies we were modeling for were actually paying us so he could pocket the difference. He did this for years, to six of the models he represented. He and Petra happened to be in a relationship, so it was even worse that she was one of the women he was stealing from.”

“Oh, wow,” Avery breathes. “How did you find out?”

“I started to suspect something shady was going on, so I hired a private investigator who wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.”

“What does that even mean?” Avery asks.

“I needed her to gather evidence, and I didn’t care how she got it. Was there breaking and entering involved? Did she somehow pick her way into his safe? I don’t know, and I don’t care. She got me what I needed.”

“Sounds like an utter badass to me,” Avery smiles.

Alicia was a badass and a saint. Some people come into our lives just when we need them, and Alicia was that person for me. A chance meeting at a party and my fascination with her career choice led us to exchange numbers. I never thought I’d need to hire her, but I was so glad I had her in my contact list when I needed her.

“In a lot of ways,” I tell Avery, “she saved me.”

“You saved yourself, Petra,” Emily insists. “You’re the one who hired her, and when he was prosecuted, you testified against him.”

“You had to testify against your boyfriend in court?” Avery gasps as she turns her head toward me.

“Hell no. He wasn’t my boyfriend anymore at that point,” I tell her. “I cut him loose the minute I had the evidence I needed to turn over to the DA. The worst part was realizing that I’d internalized a lot of things he’d said to me, like that I’d get paid more if I lost a few pounds. He was trying to make it look like I wasn’t earning as much as I deserved by some deficit of my own doing, when really I was being paid fairly and he was just making excuses to cover that he was stealing from me.”

“Wow, Petra. I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Avery says. “And you, too, Emily.”

“It wasn’t as bad for me, for obvious reasons,” Emily tells her. “But this is why Petra generally hates men.”

What Emily doesn’t know—actually, what no one knows—is that Ryan was the last in a string of men who did me wrong. She sees him as the thousand pound weight that broke the camel’s back, when really he was just the final straw.

“That which doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger,” I quip. That little saying got me through a lot of heartache, and has helped me rebuild my life time and time again.

“I can’t really imagine anyone being stronger than you,” Emily says. “For real.” Her words are supportive, but her smile is sad, so I direct our attention back to the game now that the commercial break is over.