Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ALEKSANDR
It’s been almost three weeks since Petra left and I’ve only talked to her three fucking times. Her lack of availability is driving me crazy. Every conversation is the same: I’m so busy, I don’t know when things are going to let up, I miss you but I don’t have time for you.
At least she figured out the exhaustion issue.
After collapsing at work, they sent her straight to the ER, where she was diagnosed with severe anemia.
They gave her iron intravenously and prescribed iron supplements which she promises she’s taking regularly.
The doctor said it might take as long as a month or two for her to start feeling back to normal, but she insists that just a few days later, she’s already feeling much better.
Even though I know she’s truly busy, and even though I know her exhaustion was a real thing, I can’t help but wonder if she’s holding me at a distance because her feelings are changing.
As the driver navigates his way through Hollywood, I check my phone again for my instructions and hope she’s going to be excited to see me.
I know how she feels about surprises, and I just hope she’s not pissed off at my presence here.
But after we won our second round of playoffs in Game 5, I found myself with a free weekend.
I’d already scheduled Raina to stay with Stella for the weekend because I thought I’d still be in St. Louis and so instead of flying home to New York, I flew to LA.
God, I hope she isn’t mad. It’s too late now, because the driver is pulling up to the studio gate and giving them my information. She’s going to have no clue this is coming, no clue it would even be possible for me to visit her on set. I had to be backdoor sneaky to make this happen.
I watch the nearly identical white buildings pass as we drive through the lot, thinking back to the first conversation we had after she’d arrived in LA.
She’d been telling me about her first day on set, where she jokingly said she’d met the president of my fan club—a girl named Jolene—who’d recognized Petra from our playoff game against Philadelphia where the cameras had caught us with our eyes locked on each other.
Apparently Jolene was gushing with effusive praise about me as a hockey player, and was a bit star struck that Petra knew me.
Jolene was an uncommon enough name that when I asked Tom to have his people find her, he was able to get back to me with a name and phone number in about fifteen minutes.
From there, it was easy enough to call and convince her to help me surprise Petra.
She got my name on whatever lists were necessary, and is meeting me to take me backstage so I can watch the show as it’s filmed.
I could not have emphasized the need for secrecy more than I did, so I just hope she’s kept her mouth shut.
She insisted that all she wanted in exchange for helping me was an autograph, so I pray that she’s holding true to her word and isn’t going to sell the story of my surprise visit to some gossip rag.
Each building we pass is marked with a large black painted number and a sign that indicates which show is currently filming on that set.
Finally we arrive at Petra’s show, And Yet We Rise, and a woman with long auburn hair is standing outside looking at her phone.
When the car door shuts behind me, her head snaps up and a huge smile spreads across her face.
“You made it,” she calls out as she takes a few steps toward me.
“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.
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.
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.