Fair Play (18 page)

“Good-bye,” said Theresa loudly, smiling as she pushed him out the door. She turned back to Janna, beaming. “See? See how nice Reese is?”

When Janna simply nodded, Theresa knew she was holding her tongue, but didn't care. Let Janna think what she wanted.
She
knew what a wonderful person Reese was, and if Janna chose to believe otherwise, that was
her
problem. Once Janna spent time with Reese and saw what a sensitive, intelligent man he was, she'd give up her pathetic campaigning for Michael Dante.

“Want a chocolate?” she asked.

 

 

The mood in
the Blades locker room was more pumped up than usual as the players began dressing for their game. They were playing Dallas, who were leading the Western Conference. It would be a real test for the team, and the sellout crowd would be especially stoked.

Fastening his lucky shoulder pads with the same old lucky skate laces he'd used for five years, Michael mused on his new superstitions. Not only had he managed to retrieve the gemstone, but it was in his locker, hidden in the pocket of his pants.
Who knows?
he thought, sitting down on the bench to affix his shin guards next.
Maybe it will bring luck on the ice as well.

His metaphysical reverie was broken not by backup goalie Denny O'Malley cranking up the pre-game music to an almost deafening level—though that was annoying—but by a preppie thorn in his side.

“You sure you're up to playing tonight?” van Dorn asked. “I thought you might have thrown your back out over the weekend, attempting to get it on with that girl from the party.”

Michael ignored him and continued dressing.

“No answer,” van Dorn observed aloud. “Hmm. Maybe he doesn't have his hearing aid turned on.”

Pissed but self-controlled, Michael regarded his nemesis pitifully. “Do yourself a favor. You're in the pros now. Start acting like it.”

“Right on, Mikey,” said defenseman Barry Fontaine, whose locker was beside Michael's.

Embarrassed, van Dorn sneered and walked away.

“Still gunnin' for ya spot, eh?” asked Barry.

“Guess so,” said Michael. Slipping on his padded pants and tying down his sweater, Michael found himself getting worked up. With van Dorn breathing down his neck, Anthony breaking his balls and Theresa screwing with his head, it was a miracle he hadn't landed in a mental hospital. He could fully imagine himself behind bars after murdering van Dorn with his bare hands.
Arrogant little shit.
Did he really think insults were going to rattle him? Mr. Ivy League obviously hadn't heard the kind of trash talk dished out on the ice in the minors. Lacing up his skates, he vowed that from now on, nothing the little twerp said would get under his skin.

On the ice, Michael transformed his anger into aggression. On his first shift, he nailed one of Dallas's defensemen in the corner with a punishing body check. On his second shift he broke up a cross-ice pass that could have easily turned into an odd man rush against the Blades. His energy wasn't lost on Ty, who gave him more ice time during the second and third periods than he'd seen in a year, double-shifting his line. Inspired, Michael made another great defensive play, stealing the puck and flipping a perfect saucer pass to Kevin Gill, who was just off the bench. Gill went in alone and scored the game winner.

After the final horn, as the team gathered around goalie Pierre LaRouche, Michael finally allowed himself to relax. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so high, so invincible. He'd played the entire game “in the zone” and was named one of the “Stars of the Game,” along with LaRouche and second-line center Thad Meyers. He reveled in the adulation of the Blades fans, especially those way up in the blue seats chanting “Mikey D, Mikey D,” when he stepped back out onto the ice after the game.

These were his people. God, he loved New Yorkers.

In the locker room afterwards, he basked in the compliments of his teammates: “You were on fire out there, Mike!” Gilly shouted. “Over the hill my ass!” yelled fellow vet Nick Roberts. Their appreciation was made all the more sweet knowing that Golden Boy heard every word of it.

Emerging from his shower relaxed, yet still energized, Michael found himself being flagged over to the coach's office by Ty.

“You played a helluva game out there tonight, Mike.”

“Thanks, coach.”

He winked at Michael. “You must have been inspired, huh?”

Michael laughed ruefully, vigorously toweling his head. “Pissed off was more like it.”

“Things not going well with Theresa?” Ty asked.

“Things aren't going, period.”

“Want to talk?” Ty offered.

Michael hesitated. It embarrassed him, spilling his guts to Ty, especially after already talking to Kevin. Whenever he'd had “girl trouble” in the past, he'd been able to figure things out on his own. But this was different. This wasn't just any woman, this was The One. “You sure?” he double-checked, stalling. “Don't you have to talk to the media?”

“A few minutes wait won't kill them. Go on.”

As briefly as he could, Michael filled Ty in, emphasizing how he had followed Kevin's advice on wooing, but omitting his visit to Gemma. He couldn't believe he was telling all this to his coach, but what the hell. Good advice often came from unexpected places. When he told Ty about Theresa's brother asking him over for dessert, Ty's response was immediate.

“You're going, right?”

“I said yes, but . . .” Michael frowned uneasily.

“But what?”

“I'm worried about looking pathetic, you know?”

“You won't look pathetic,” Ty assured him. “You'll look determined.”

“Yeah?” Michael wasn't so sure.

“Yeah. Look: Why are you in the NHL?”

“What?”

“Why are you in the NHL?” Ty repeated patiently. “Why are you in the pros when so many other guys with more natural ability never made it out of the minors?”

Pride burgeoned in Michael's chest. “Because I don't give up.”

“That's right. You're a warrior, Michael. You do whatever it takes. That's what you have to do with Theresa.”

Michael nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess you're right.” It was comforting to hear his coach echo the revelation he himself had had in church the previous weekend. In the end, it all boiled down to determination, didn't it? Determination to win the game. Determination to get the girl.

And faith. He couldn't forget about that.

But there was still something gnawing at him.

“Why did she let me kiss her, then freak out when I asked her out for coffee?”

“I think Theresa might have a lot of issues around intimacy after what happened,” Ty said carefully, his gaze seeming to penetrate Michael's in an effort to make sure he knew what was being referred to. “I wouldn't take it personally.”

“It's kind of hard not to.”

“I know, but you have to realize that she's probably scared shitless by the thought of being vulnerable to you in any way. Go slow. Be patient.”

“I can do that.”

“Then go for it,” Ty encouraged. He picked up his sports jacket and swung it up onto his shoulder. “Anything else?”

“You could give me more ice time from now on,” Michael joshed.

“Keep playing like tonight and I will. Have a good night, Mikey.”

“You, too, Ty.”

 

 

“I have an
idea,” Theresa said enthusiastically. “Why don't we go out back and play wiffle ball until your mom calls us for dessert?” Though she loved spending time with Vicki and Little Phil, watching the same movie over and over was not her idea of fun. Hitting the remote, she stopped the video.

“Cool,” said Little Phil. He was off the couch in a shot. Vicki didn't look so sure.

“What's the matter, sweetie?” Theresa asked.

“Philly's gonna hit me with the bat.”

“Philly will not hit you with the bat, I promise,” Theresa said, rising from the couch and extending a hand to her niece. Together they walked through to the kitchen, where Theresa's mother and sister-in-law were busy loading the dishwasher and getting out the tableware for dessert.

“We're going to go in the back for a while,” Theresa announced.

“Sure, anything to get out of KP patrol,” Debbie teased.

“It's good for her to play with children,” Theresa's mother declared.

“As opposed to burning them at the stake like I usually do?” Theresa offered.

“We'll call you for dessert,” Theresa's mother continued, deliberately ignoring Theresa's comment. “What's Daddy doing? Is he still asleep?”

Theresa peered back through the kitchen doorway to look at her father, who was indeed asleep on the far end of the couch. Watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, Theresa's own breath hitched. He had once been such a robust man. But now he was little more than a shell, his skin gray, his body stooped and failing.
He's dying from the cancer,
she thought. The truth of it made her throat close to the size of a pinhole.
Not yet, God, please,
she prayed.

Collecting herself, she turned back to her mother. “Still sleeping,” she reported.

Her mother glanced up at the clock. “Remind me I have to give him his pills at nine.”

“I will.” She peered down at her niece, smiling. “Ready to go?”

“Yup.”

Vicki skipped out the back door and down the back steps, running to join her brother in the yard. Theresa followed at a slower pace, watching them. She couldn't believe how big they were. Wasn't it just yesterday she was visiting them in the hospital? She remembered their tiny pink faces were serene with contentment as she held them tightly in her arms, then lifted them to her nose and inhaled deeply, intoxicated by their pure, innocent baby smell. Tears threatened and she shook them away. Jesus, what was wrong with her? It felt like anything could set her off these days. Reese, her father, the kids . . . maybe she was having a nervous breakdown.

“Okay, you two,” she called, joining them. “I'll pitch and you can take turns hitting. Phil, clock your sister with that bat and you're a dead man, got it?”

“Yeah,” Phil muttered.

Both kids complained of the cold, but Theresa wasn't having any of it. It wasn't cold at all; they were just so used to sitting slack-jawed in front of the TV they'd forgotten the joys of brisk, invigorating exercise. When she had kids, she'd sure as hell make sure they got some fresh air once in a while.

Theresa felt the bottom of her stomach drop. It had always been
if,
not
when.
Yet looking at Vicki and Phil, who were busy now squabbling over who would get to hit first, Theresa was overcome with a hollow feeling inside.
Where is this coming from?
she puzzled, frightened by how real and deep the feelings of longing were. Yes, she'd always dreamed of getting married, but kids had always been an abstract concept. Clearly, this was somehow related to Reese. Or—

Genuinely unsettled now, she focused her energies on being an aunt. Her brother stuck his head out the back door and called the three of them in for dessert. Walking back towards the house, she was actually looking forward to losing herself in adult conversation.

But when she entered the dining room she found Michael Dante sitting there.

He was surrounded by her family, all smiling like cats who had swallowed canaries.

“Let me guess,” she sighed. “You were walking by and decided to stop in.”

“I invited him,” her brother confessed.

“Look, Terry, Michael brought cannolis from Dante's for dessert,” her mother interjected, clearly hoping to forestall World War Three from erupting between her two children.

“Gee, cannolis. Well, that makes it all right, then,” Theresa said sarcastically.

“Who wants coffee?” Debbie asked with false cheer.

“I'll have some,” Michael said politely, holding his cup aloft. His eyes sought Theresa's but she refused to look at him.

Coffee poured, Michael engaged in small talk, to which Theresa's family eagerly responded. She couldn't get over how much they liked him. The beatific smile on her mother's face when she looked at him . . . And her father!
Madonn'
, telling him things about other relatives he hardly ever talked about outside the circle of the immediate family. How could they do this to her?
Good old, stupid Theresa, doesn't know when a man is good for her. Let's invite Michael over without her knowing and see if she finally gets it.
After the tenth or eleventh time her brother referred to Michael as “Mikey D,” her last frazzled nerve gave way.

“Will you stop calling him that?” she snapped. “He's not one of the Back Street Boys, for Chrissakes.”

“That's his nickname,” Phil said defensively. He looked to Michael for confirmation. “Am I right or am I right?”

“You're right,” Michael said tepidly.

“It's moronic,” Theresa insisted.

“What?” her brother jeered at her. “You can come up with something better?”

Theresa laughed ominously. “You don't want me to go down that road, okay?”

“Go down it,” Phil challenged.

“Drop it,
cidrule,
” their father commanded.

Theresa rose and started clearing the table. Well aware she couldn't avoid Michael forever, she followed him out to his car when he left, knowing that behind the lace curtains in Phil and Debbie's front window, her whole family was watching them talk.