Chapter 11 #2
“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 the third period. I glance at the clock and see that we have slightly more than five minutes left to win it, or they do.
The next 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.
I don’t think Coach would take this risk in the regular season, but in the playoffs he doesn’t want to risk a long, sudden-death overtime period.
In these last few minutes, our shot of scoring is better with six players 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 earlier 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.