Fair Play (26 page)

He heard some chuckles but ignored them. Theresa, meanwhile, was slowly turning red, her normally beautiful face—a face he had tenderly cradled in his hands just two nights before—twitching with mounting humiliation.

“I am not crazy, Michael,” she hissed up at him through clenched teeth.

“No?” He stopped pacing and rounded in on her. “You're not? What's the word you would use to describe someone who swoons in your arms one minute and two days later tells you they can't see you?”

“Confused,” Theresa tossed back angrily.

“Confused.” Michael rocked on his heels, mulling this over. “Hmm. Someone who does that to you once might be called confused. But twice?” He shook his head. “Sorry.
Confused
is not the word that comes to mind. Try cruel. Try crazy.”

“I never meant to be cruel, Michael. Honestly.”

“I don't give a damn what you did or didn't mean, Theresa.” He snorted. “I thought the concussion I suffered last week left my brain scrambled. But you know what? That was
nothing
compared to the mind games you've been playing with me. You don't want to see me?” Michael shrugged. “No problem. I need you like I need an effing hole in the head. We can deal with each other on a purely professional basis. Otherwise, I don't want to see you, I don't want to hear from you, I don't want to know you.
Capisce?
”

Theresa nodded shakily.

“Glad we understand each other.” Nothing left to say, he stalked off in the direction of the locker room. His eavesdropping teammates remained clustered around the doorway, watching wide-eyed as he approached them. “What the hell are you bozos looking at?” he snarled, shoving past them.

No one answered.

 

 

Back in the
locker room, Michael's heart was still pounding. He took a few deep calming breaths, working to ignore the irrational feeling that everyone was staring. Now that he'd unloaded, all he wanted to do was hit the shower and get the hell out of Met Gar as quickly as possible, the better to get his head back on straight before tonight's game. But no sooner had he made it to his locker than van Dorn came slinking over, his smug face incandescent with scorn.

“Girl trouble, huh?”

Michael's mouth twitched.
Ignore him,
he told himself, humming a happy tune in his head in an effort to distract himself.
Don't get into it with the little prick.

“What, she come down here to ditch you?” van Dorn needled.

“Vaffanculo,
eh?” Michael returned, refusing to even make eye contact.

“Riiiight. Whatever the fuck that means in Wopspeak.” Van Dorn took a step closer, giving Michael a knowing, fraternal nudge in the ribs. “That girl in the players' lounge—you know, the one you were just yelling at? Isn't she the chick who sucked off Lubov? Too bad we're not playing his team again this season. You two could compare notes.”

Michael wasn't sure what happened next. One minute he was staring at his shampoo bottle and humming. The next his right fist was connecting with van Dorn's jaw, sending him sprawling backwards over the bench. If van Dorn had any intention of fighting back, it was never realized. Michael was on him so fast, punching him so furiously, that it took three guys to tear him away.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?”

Kevin Gill's voice boomed through the locker room, rendering it instantly silent. Still being restrained by his teammates, Michael spat on the floor and looked away, knowing all the captain had to see was van Dorn's bloodied lip and rapidly swelling eye and he'd know what had gone down, though not necessarily why.

“Gentlemen?” Kevin went to van Dorn first, helping him up onto the bench. “Get him a towel,” he commanded no one in particular. A clean white towel appeared, courtesy of Tim Halifax, which van Dorn pressed to his mouth.

“What happened?” Kevin demanded.

“Nothing,” van Dorn replied blankly.

“Dante.” Kevin's voice rang with disapproval. “You want to tell me what the hell happened here?”

“Nothing,” Michael replied, glaring down at van Dorn in disgust as he folded his arms angrily across his chest. The locker room was dead silent as he, along with everyone else, waited to hear what Kevin had to say. The captain seemed to be taking care to make eye contact with both Michael and van Dorn as he spoke.

“I don't give a damn about what started this, okay? What I care about is the team. You two just undermined everything we're trying to create here. I won't have it. And neither should you.” He looked to the other players. “Just in case it has slipped some of your minds, let me remind you all: What goes on in this locker room stays in this locker room. I don't want to open the paper tomorrow and read about a fight between two members of the New York Blades. Am I making myself clear?”

The team muttered its understanding. When Kevin's gaze flicked specifically to Michael, he jerked his head in an approximation of answering yes. There was small comfort when Kevin did the same with van Dorn, whose response was to simply stare down at the floor.

“Good. I'm glad we're all on the same page. Now let's get some rest. We have an important game tonight.”

It seemed to Michael as if no one moved or spoke for the longest time. They all appeared rooted to the spot, embarrassed not only by the reprimand but by what had caused it. Irritated by the lingering silence, Michael picked up his shampoo bottle and soap and headed for the showers, eager for the release hot water beating down on his body would bring.

 

 

That afternoon, while back at his apartment “resting,” as if he could, Michael thought about Theresa. He was upset with himself for losing control. But what the hell did she expect? She'd ambushed him at work, for Chrissakes. Ambushed him on the heels of a Saturday night spent dancing in his arms. Not only had she caught him unaware, but at the worst possible time. His entire morning had been one long, unmitigated disaster from start to finish.

Maybe he should call and apologize for wailing on her that way? No. He'd meant what he said. He just wished he hadn't expressed it so colorfully.

His mind flashed on the news item she'd shoved beneath his nose. Two stupid sentences in a gossip column and their romance was over before it even really began. It was astounding, the more so when he considered what she did for a living. Shit, half the time
she
was the person feeding this kind of junk to the media just to get her clients' names in print! He was no shrink, but he knew fear when he saw it, and Theresa was afraid—of herself, of what other people thought, of getting close, of her own fucking shadow.

Maybe he'd done them both a favor by reading her the riot act, because now she could go get her head shrunk or whatever the hell it was she wanted to do to help herself, and he could concentrate on hockey and the restaurant, period. What had happened between them was actually
positive,
then.

Yeah. Right.

 

 

It was getting
dark when he arrived at Met Gar at four-thirty for the Blades game against Toronto. His teammates, even those closest to him, regarded him cautiously, as if one false look might set him off. Their unease made him realize the damage he'd done.

Tradition held that after the pre-game warm-up, the team returned to the locker room to learn the lineup and listen to whatever words of wisdom and inspiration Ty cared to share. Tonight, Ty's notes for the team were few: Watch out for the long center ice passes Toronto is famous for; don't let up on the forecheck. He didn't say a word about the fight. Michael worried that Ty might keep him off the ice, but he was to resume his usual spot on the third line, relegating van Dorn to his former status as thorn in his side and permanent threat.

He waited until Ty had finished before asking if he might say something to the team. The sense of shock rippling through the warm locker room was palpable.

“Go ahead,” Ty urged.

Acutely aware that all eyes were on him, Michael paused to collect himself before he opened his mouth. He wanted to make sure he had the words straight in his head. When he was finally ready, he drew a deep breath of air. Then he started talking.

“One of the things I love about being a professional hockey player, apart from the money, of course”—that brought a few laughs, easing his nerves—“is that it brings together twenty guys who might not have anything else in common apart from their love of hockey. Guys who might even hate each other's guts. But when they get out on the ice, they'll risk their necks for each other.”

He swallowed, surprised at how quickly his mouth had become dry. “I owe all of you an apology. I was wrong. It won't happen again.”

The room was silent. Then, one by one, they each took their sticks and began tapping them on the floor as a show of support as Michael walked toward van Dorn and extended his hand. The younger player looked momentarily stunned before returning the gesture, the two enemies stiffly shaking hands as the tapping continued. Michael felt a huge weight lift from him as he strolled back to his locker to put his helmet on. He might not have handled things well with Theresa, but at least he had repaired what damage he could here. For that, he was grateful.

She hated needing
to be here. The soothing, familiar cadence of Dr. Gardner's voice should have put her at ease. Instead, she was tense as her old therapist asked her why she was back.
Isn't it obvious?
she longed to scream. Theresa leaned forward to keep from sinking into the plush recesses of Dr. Gardner's couch. “I'm here because I'm a mess,” she declared, shocked at how quickly tears threatened.

“How so?” Dr. Gardner wanted to know. A stout, motherly woman with a taste for tweeds, her face was open, yet impassive. Theresa wondered if she ever secretly wished her clients would just shut up and get a grip.

“I . . .” Theresa halted. Where to begin? With Michael's pursuit and her initial refusals? Her post-Rainbow Room meltdown? The business? Her dad's cancer? Her continuing attraction to Reese, who was due back in New York in two weeks' time? Flummoxed, she waited for a definitive answer to present itself.

Dr. Gardner also waited.

No prompting. No helpful clues about where to start.

Theresa decided to start with Michael's upbraiding.
I'm not going to cry,
she told herself, but the minute she started to speak, her eyes began watering. Before she knew it she was jamming tissues to her dripping nose. “I'm sorry,” she whispered as she told the therapist what had happened. Her narration was punctuated with unavoidable sniffles and sporadic silences.

Throughout it all, Dr. Gardner smiled benignly with her trademark detachment that always amazed Theresa. Eventually she asked, “What upsets you the most about your run-in with Michael?”

Theresa bowed her head, the crumpled tissue in her hand reduced to the size of a pellet as she crushed it repeatedly while mulling the question over. “That his anger at me was completely justified.” She wiped her nose on her hand thoughtfully. “And that I didn't think before I acted.”

Dr. Gardner looked intrigued. “What do you mean?”

Theresa shifted on the couch. “I shouldn't have charged down there and thrown the newspaper in his face. I should have thought about how I wanted to talk to him about it.”

Dr. Gardner's voice was gentle. “So, why do you think you did that?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you think you saw the news item as a way to get out of your relationship?”

“Why would I want to do that?” Theresa answered too quickly. Even as the words shot from her lips, she knew Dr. Gardner had hit on something. The newly forming knot in her shoulders told her so. So did the headache coming on behind her right eye, sharp and hot as a fire-cracker. Tensing, she mounted a defense.

“If Michael had let me get a word in edgewise, or had listened carefully to what I was saying, he would have noticed I said ‘I can't go out with you
right now.
' Not ‘I can't see you ever again.'”

Dr. Gardner folded her hands in her lap. “You were trying to convey to him that your rejection was just temporary?”

“Yes.”

“And you expected that when this current crisis blew over, he would be there waiting for you?”

Theresa said nothing. She didn't want to admit that yes, that was exactly what she'd been thinking, unstable, unfair bitch that she was. Dr. Gardner must have been reading her mind, because her next question was “Does that seem fair to you?”

“No,” Theresa admitted reluctantly in a voice just above a whisper. The pain in her head was getting worse. She closed her eyes, hoping the momentary plunge into darkness might help. When she opened them, Dr. Gardner was looking at her curiously.

“Do you care about Michael?”

“Yes.” Her response was immediate and rang true. There was relief in that, in this one brief spasm of clarity.

“Then why do you think you keep sending him mixed messages?”

Theresa reached for a new, fresh tissue as her eyes began seeping again, sending the Rothko print behind Dr. Gardner's head into even softer focus. “Because . . . I'm frightened.”

“Of—?”

“Getting too close.”

“Because—?”

This time Theresa let the tears come full force. They were hot and nasty, leaving a trail of salty streaks that ran down her cheeks and fell in fat, indelicate drops off her chin. She told Dr. Gardner about the shadow, and the sleepless, nightmare-filled nights. About her family and how they loved her too much, so much that she often felt she wanted to get away from them. She talked until the blink of her eyelids felt like sandpaper against her eyes, until there were no words left to say. When she was done, Dr. Gardner had one question left to ask her.