Fair Play (32 page)

“From?”

“I don't know.”

“True intimacy, maybe?”

Theresa's gaze fell to the floor. The suggestion shook her, because she suspected it was true. Here she'd been telling herself she wanted to bring her relationship with Reese to another level, but did she, really? If she were able to make her fantasy match reality, would her confusion disappear? Would she be happy then? She longed to sort it all out, really she did, but she wondered if she had the energy to deal with everything that needed to be dealt with.

It was exhausting, not to mention terrifying.

She wanted to say as much. But when she lifted her gaze, Dr. Gardner gently informed her that her time was up. She'd have to wrestle her demons alone for another week.

Crunch time. The ball-busting end of the regular season.

Like most players, Michael loved and loathed it. It was time to prove what you could do out on the ice, but the pressure to perform was intense. With less than a week left in the regular season, the Blades were clinging to a berth in the playoffs. If they won two of their next three games, they'd clinch a spot. If they lost, they'd be cleaning out their lockers and wishing each other a good summer even though it was only April. In order to be completely ready for the playoffs, Michael needed more ice time than he was currently getting on the fourth line.

He needed to talk to Ty.

He waited until practice was over and his teammates were drifting out to the parking lot in groups of two's and three's to drive back to the city. Ty, who usually left the practice rink with Gilly, was on the phone in his office when Michael popped his head in the door.

Feet up on the desk, Ty motioned “come in,” asking whoever was on the phone to hold while he covered the mouthpiece. “What's up?”

“I need to talk to you about something,” Michael explained.

Ty checked his watch. “I'm going to Maggie's Grill to grab some lunch. Want to join me?”

Michael shrugged easily. “Sure.”

“Meet you there in fifteen minutes.” With that, Ty resumed his phone conversation. Judging from his tone of voice, whoever was on the other end was giving him a hard time.

 

 

Michael had never
been to Maggie's. It was a post-practice tradition for Ty to eat there with Kevin Gill, but Kevin, out with back spasms, had missed practice. Michael didn't mind being second choice. Entering the dark-paneled grill filled with happy, chatting locals, he was struck by how much he noticed about restaurants now: the layout of the dining room, the appearance and attentiveness of the wait staff, the design of the menu. Crazy, but these were the kind of things keeping him up at night. Dante's grand reopening was two days away, and every minute he wasn't practicing or playing hockey, he was in Bensonhurst with his surly brother, getting ready for what he hoped would be a night to remember.

Over one hundred invitations had gone out, many to prominent food critics. Theresa warned him they might not show up. Even so, Michael was hopeful they would garner a review, especially since the “Mangia” special had recently aired on the Food Network and the restaurant was being deluged by calls. Danny Aiello and James Gandolfini had promised they'd come, thrilling Theresa since it might get them mentioned in the entertainment mags. She'd arranged for a photographer to be on hand. Michael was hemorrhaging money for all this PR but he didn't care. If it put Dante's on the map, it was worth it.

Seated at “Ty's table,” he waited for the man himself to show, surprised to find he was feeling nervous. When Ty finally appeared, ten minutes late, Michael noticed the way he casually waded through the dining room, exchanging pleasantries with diners who clearly knew him as a regular and as a New York sports celebrity. It seemed everyone who dined there loved him.

“Sorry I'm late,” Ty apologized, pulling up a chair. “It took me forever to get off the phone.”

“You didn't sound too happy,” Michael observed.

Ty frowned. “It was Capesi, trying to talk me into some interview for
Sports Illustrated
on coaching styles.”

“Are you gonna do it?”

“My ass,” Ty griped. “I'd rather lop off my left ball than sit down to an interview.” He flashed a chagrined smile. “Can't blame the guy for trying to do his job, though.”

A pert waitress appeared, wanting to know where Kevin was.

“Back spasms,” Ty murmured with a grimace. He motioned toward Michael. “This is Michael Dante, Ginger. He plays for the Blades as well.”

Ginger smiled, friendly. “Hello, Michael.” Her gaze bounced back and forth between both men. “Do you know what you want for lunch?”

Michael looked to Ty for guidance. “What do you recommend?”

Ty sank back in his chair. “Everyone raves about the burger and onion rings but if you ask me, it's the grilled salmon that takes the prize.”

“Grilled salmon, then,” Michael said. “And onion rings.”

Ginger scribbled on her pad. “Two grilled salmons.” She tapped Ty's shoulder with her pencil. “The usual salad?” Ty nodded. “And to drink?” she concluded.

“Two Heinekens,” Ty answered, eyes catching Michael's to make sure that was acceptable.

Michael nodded.

“You got it,” said Ginger, walking away.

Anxiety mounting, Michael glanced around the dining room. “Nice place,” he said with an approving nod.

“Yeah, it is. So, what's on your mind?” Ty asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.

Since Ty never beat around the bush, Michael decided to return the favor.

“What do I have to do to get more ice time?”

Ty said nothing as he reached for the bread basket at the center of the table. “Go on.”

“You know me,” Michael declared simply, glad when Ginger quickly reappeared with their beers. It gave him something to occupy his hands, which he tended to wave around when he was speaking, especially if the subject matter made him emotional, which this did. “You know what kind of a player I am. For me to really be my best, I need ice time. That's not happening on the fourth line.”

Ty took a long, slow sip of his brew. “You haven't been having the greatest year.”

“I know that,” Michael admitted. “The concussion was a setback.”

“It wasn't just the concussion,” Ty continued bluntly, breaking off a crust of hard, seeded bread.

Michael looked away. This was harder than he thought. “I know I've been distracted, and I know my play has been erratic. But we've been through two playoff runs together. You know that in the playoffs, I'll do whatever it takes.”

Ty seemed to be considering Michael's words carefully as he swallowed down a chunk of bread. His brown eyes were probing, direct. “What are you asking for, Mike?”

“I want back on the third line.”

Michael tried not to be deflated by Ty's lack of immediate response. He waited with mounting unease as Ty stared at him through narrowed eyes, assessing him. Finally, after an interminably awkward silence, Ty spoke. His voice was grim.

“I know you're a pro; that's never been in doubt. If you really want back on the third line, you have to forget about your broken heart and your restaurant, and concentrate on hockey. Every spare second you have, you're out at Dante's. I heard you on the cell phone in the locker room the other day ordering flowers for the reopening.”

Michael jolted with embarrassment. “So?”

“It's a distraction you can't afford.” Frustrated, Ty leaned toward him, his voice one notch above a passionate hiss. “April's here, Mikey. You need to
live
hockey. You have to eat it and breathe it. It has to be the only thing you think about. The only thing you
dream
about.”

“Right,” Michael muttered, fighting mounting restlessness. Everyone in the league knew Ty's “Live, eat and breathe” hockey speech by heart. It was the NHL equivalent of the Gettysburg Address. Michael wasn't sure he could sit through it again. Yet he knew without the kind of singularity of focus Ty insisted upon, there was no hope of winning the Cup. And, apparently, no hope for him to regain his place on the third line. He was about to tell Ty he was well aware of what he needed to do, but Ty wasn't done talking.

“It's do or die time, Michael. Not just for the team, but for you personally.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Ty, pausing politely as Ginger deposited their meals in front of them, “that you need to decide whether you want to be a professional hockey player or a restaurateur. You can't do both.” He cut into his salmon, the intense expression on his face momentarily melting away as he put a forkful in his mouth, clearly relishing it. He waved his fork at Michael. “Try it. It's fantastic.”

Though Michael's appetite had vanished, he forced himself to eat a piece of fish. Ty was right. It was good. It could have used some rosemary, though. He gave Ty the thumbs up.

Spearing a forkful of salad, Ty continued, “Look, I was once where you are now, okay?”

Michael's curiosity was piqued. “How so?”

“Two years ago, when we won that second Cup, I was at the top of my game. But I had also fallen in love with Janna. I had to make a decision: keep playing hockey or have a personal life.” He downed another mouthful of beer before continuing his extemporization. “Some guys can do both. Look at Kevin: He's got a wonderful wife and kids,
and
he's a great hockey player. But me? I could never split my concentration like that. And unless I'm wrong, neither can you. You need to focus on one thing, either hockey or the restaurant. You can't do both.”

Michael sighed, acquiescent. “I hear you,” he murmured, knowing that Ty had spoken the truth.

“Good,” Ty said. His furrowed brows finally relaxed, indicating to Michael that the serious part of their discussion was over.

They talked golf over the rest of the meal, but Michael's mind was elsewhere: on his level of play, and, unavoidably, on the restaurant. He cursed himself for being an idiot. He should have waited until
after
the reopening to have this discussion with Ty. Now he would spend the next few days stressing about both. He scolded himself as his appetite slowly returned.
You can juggle both for just forty-eight hours more, can't you?
Confident he could, he dug into his lunch.

His teammates were right. The onion rings were amazing.

Standing in the
middle of Dante's expanded dining room an hour before the grand reopening, Michael felt as though he'd taken speed as adrenaline sizzled through his system like demon electricity. He was tense and snappish. He wanted everything, from the placement of the flower arrangements to the final check of basic china and silver-ware, to be done better, faster,
now.
He could hear the wait staff bitching about him behind his back, but he didn't care. He wanted this night to go off without a hitch. He wanted it to be perfect.

And if that meant riding their asses, so be it.

His nerves weren't helped by his family.

Anthony, never calm under pressure, had become preternaturally silent. He reminded Michael of a volcano whose benign surface belied chaos and destruction roiling beneath. And then there were the rest of them, calling his cell phone every five minutes to question his seating arrangements. Nonna Maria and Aunt Gavina weren't speaking. Gemma wanted to sit with Nonna, but Gemma's mother, Aunt Connie, was afraid Gemma would wear a pentacle and give Nonna a stroke. So now Gemma and her mother weren't speaking. Plus, cousin Robbie wanted to know if he could bring his Honduran girlfriend, and Uncle Jimmy needed a special chair for his back. On and on it went until Michael wished he'd been raised in an orphanage.

A poor day at practice didn't help, either. Hard as he tried to concentrate, he was distracted, his mind going over lists of last minute preparations when it should have been focused on the drills. Ty saw it, too. Michael tried not to feel abashed, but it was hard. He was fucking up and he knew it. He comforted himself with the fact it was just temporary.

After tonight he'd be back on track, hockeywise.

Finally, there was Theresa. His guts twisted in abject misery when she came strolling into the restaurant. Dressed in black from head to toe with ankle high stiletto boots and a sharp red leather bag that made Michael think of his own heart, she was a vision of urban sophistication and aplomb. She soon made it clear that as the publicist, she was running the show. She was so smart and witty, gorgeous and spirited—and she didn't want a thing to do with him. Instead, she'd chosen Little Lord Fauntleroy, who thankfully appeared to be MIA. Every time Michael saw her, he felt a stab of regret over the way things had played out. Worst was the pain of remembering how magical it felt when he was able to break through her defenses and get her to laugh or smile. So beautiful. So scared.