Fair Play (41 page)

“Good luck, Ulf,” Michael returned warmly.

Van Dorn, standing behind Michael, was dumbfounded. “You two know each other?”

“We were in juniors together. We go way back.”

van Dorn blinked uncomprehendingly. “But . . .”

“The game comes first, Paul,” Michael explained to him. “The game
always
comes first.”

 

 

“Everybody doing okay? You have enough to eat and drink?”

Circulating the banquet room at Dante's, Michael wanted to make sure all his teammates and their wives were having a good time. Ever since he'd returned to New York, it was an end-of-season tradition for the Blades to finish up with a meal at Dante's. Coming off the ice after their defeat with Ottawa, no one wanted to discuss the depressing prospect of returning the next day to clean out their lockers and say their good-byes for the summer. Instead, they talked about how they couldn't wait to get to Brooklyn to stuff themselves with pasta. Michael had forewarned Anthony they might be coming the next night if they lost the game, so Anthony was prepared for the onslaught. Even so, he complained loudly when they all walked in. Michael knew it was all guff. If there was one thing Anthony loved, it was cooking for an appreciative audience.

Satisfied that the first table of players and their families were all happy with their meals, Michael moved on, pausing behind Abby Gill with a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Your lasagne okay?”

Abby rolled her eyes in mock ecstasy, tapping her fork on the edge of her plate. “I want this recipe.”

“I don't know,” Michael teased good-naturedly. “It's a family secret. You might have to sell one of the kids to my brother.”

“Done,” said Kevin. Everyone at the table laughed as he pulled up an empty chair. “Mikey, why don't you sit down and enjoy yourself?”

“In a minute,” he promised.

He checked with the next table, and the next, always getting the same answer. The food was great. They had enough to drink. Why didn't he sit his butt down and relax?

Finally, he took their advice. Sliding into the empty chair beside Paul van Dorn, he tucked into Anthony's famous lasagne with mushrooms and ham, listening intently to the debate being waged over whether a certain sports-caster's toupee was tacky or convincing. Van Dorn turned to him.

“You're brother's a great cook, Mike.”

Michael smiled. “I'll tell him you said so.”

Van Dorn shook his head disgustedly. “I can't believe that deflection went wide.”

“Let it go,” Michael advised. “Season's over. You'll drive yourself nuts if you dwell on that stuff.”

“I guess.” Van Dorn pushed a half-eaten piece of ravioli around his plate. “So, will you stick around the city for the summer?”

“On and off.” Van Dorn's attempt at making small talk touched Michael. “I've got a place on the Jersey shore I try to get to as much as possible. You?”

Van Dorn looked forlorn. “I don't know. I guess I'll head up to my family's summer place in Sharon and figure out what to do from there.”

“Well, some of the guys sometimes come down to the shore. If you ever want to come down, or use the house on a weekend I'm not, feel free.”

Van Dorn flushed, grateful. “Thanks, Mike.”

“Glad to see you two
putzes
are finally bonding.”

Michael and van Dorn both turned to see Ty standing behind them, beer stein in hand.

“How's it going, coach?” Michael asked jovially.

“Tell your brother that anytime he wants to drop off an order of scungilli at my house, he should feel free.” He took a sip of beer. “It's important you two get along. You're going to be spending a lot of time together next year.”

Michael's pulse spiked. “Coach?”

“I'm giving you back your spot on the third line, moving Paul here to right wing full-time. You two worked well together out on the ice.”

Michael turned back to the table, stunned. His old position back on the third line . . .
Madonn'.

“Coach?”

Ty, walking away, turned back.

“Thank you,” said Michael humbly.

Ty nodded and continued on to his table. But Michael was transfixed. In his mind's eye he was already imagining next season. He saw himself whipping the puck to center Barry Fontaine and Fontaine scoring . . . saw himself hustling towards the net on a breakaway, the red light above the goal flashing on after he'd gone five hole and scored.

“Michael?”

Janna's voice snapped him out of it. Sheepish, he stood, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Hey, Jan. Sorry I haven't had a chance to come to your table yet. I was eating my dinner.”

“Hockey player and maître d'. You're a talented man,” Janna quipped.

“I'm just a hockey player, thank you very much.”

“A good one, too.” She tugged distractedly at one of her earrings. “So, where's your girlfriend? I was hoping to meet her.”

“She's out of town,” flew out of Michael's mouth, prompting immediate regret.
That was your chance to say you'd broken up. What the hell is wrong with you?

Janna looked sympathetic. “That's too bad.” She sipped her drink, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Theresa and
her
boyfriend just broke up, you know.”

“You mean the Invisible Man?” Michael replied, trying not to sound angry. “Nice, the way he showed up for the wake and funeral.”

Janna's mouth tilted down into a frown. “I know. I'm so glad she dumped him. She could do so much better, don't you agree?”

There was no mistaking the not-so-subtle subtext in Janna's voice.

Michael nodded. “I do agree.”

“Well, you go finish your dinner.” Janna smiled. “And the next time your girlfriend's in town, let's all get-together.”

Michael swallowed hard. “Sounds great.”

Watching Janna return to her place beside Ty, Michael wondered,
Does she know the girlfriend story is bull? Is she baiting me? Why can't women just be direct? Hell, for that matter, why can't I? Shit.

So Theresa was free. Now what? He knew the answer before his brain even had a chance to fully formulate it.

He would talk to Gemma.

“I've got a bone to pick with you.”

Michael's voice was stern yet affectionate as he approached Gemma, who was sitting behind the counter at the Golden Bough. It was Saturday morning, but he'd been up and about for a while. He had stopped by Met Gar to clear out his locker and say good-bye to teammates leaving New York for the summer. Then he'd headed up to the Blades practice facility in Armonk, to pick up the rest of his stuff there. By the time he made it back down to the Village, he'd been obsessing about Theresa for three hours. He was relieved to see Gemma's shop wasn't crowded.

“That's a nice way to greet your favorite cousin.” Gemma smiled.

Michael slipped behind the counter and after a quick peck to her cheek, perched on the stool beside hers. “I'm not sure you're my favorite anymore.”

“No? What did I do?”

“Those candles you gave me? The moonrock?”

“Moon
stone,
” Gemma corrected.

“Whatever. You gave the same things to Anthony!”

Gemma shrugged, unruffled, while her eyes carefully followed a skulking teen in black Goth gear. “You were both seeking to attract love.”

“But I thought that stuff was a special prescription you cooked up just for
me
.”

Gemma cast him a sidelong glance. “I never said that.”

“True.” Michael sighed, his eyes on the teen now as well. If he needed proof he was getting old, this kid was it. Black nail polish, black eyeliner, spiked hair—how the hell could this kid's parents let him walk out of the house like that? “Kids today,” he muttered.

Gemma laughed. “You sound just like your father.”

“Yeah? Well, I'm starting to think he had a point.”

Sensing he was being watched, the Goth slunk out of the shop.

Gemma breathed a sigh of relief, turning to Michael. “I was so sure he was going to steal that dragon flagon.”

“Yeah, everyone needs one of those,” Michael observed.

Gemma pinched him then said, “You didn't come here to bitch about candles.”

“No, I didn't,” Michael confessed. He hesitated.

Gemma peered at him, her gaze concentrated. “Theresa?”

Michael nodded. He felt pathetic.

“She's jealous of you,” Gemma announced. “Her aura was pulsing red at the reopening.”

Michael swallowed, not wanting to dwell on the idea of Theresa pulsing in any way. “You got your cosmic wires crossed. She wasn't jealous of me,” he informed his cousin miserably. “She was jealous of
you.
Anthony told her you were my girlfriend.”

Gemma drew back, baffled. “Why?”

“To make her jealous.”

“Well, it worked.”

“Yeah, but now there's a problem.”

A customer interrupted them. Michael waited until the store was empty before continuing. “Theresa was dating someone else then, so I was glad Anthony told her I had a girlfriend. But now she's free.”

“So?”

“I want to ask her out, except it will mean telling her Anthony lied.”

“Why? Just tell her you broke up with your girlfriend.”

Michael shifted his weight uncomfortably on the stool. “And what happens if she and I get back together, and we're all at a family gathering, and she finds out you're my cousin? What do we do then?”

“Hmmm.” Gemma looked stumped. “I guess you have to tell her the truth.”

“She's going to think I'm a loser,” Michael lamented, “lying about having a girlfriend just to make her jealous.”

“Maybe. Or she might be flattered.”

“So what you're saying is, it could go either way?” Michael contemplated this. “I could tell her the truth and she might think I'm a loser, or I could tell her the truth and she could be flattered.”

“Why are you making that face, Michael?”

“What face?”

“The face a moron makes when he's concentrating
really, really
hard.” Gemma shook his arm. “This is not brain surgery, Mikey. Tell her the truth. She might think it's pathetic but
still
be flattered. Ever think of that?”

No, he hadn't. He was obsessing about Theresa thinking he was a loser. Hadn't she thought he was a loser the whole time he was pursuing her, using everything from biscotti to Bocelli to woo her? It hadn't bothered him then. Difference was, he hadn't lied to her. That was the crux of the problem here. The lie.

“What if she can't deal with my lying to her?”

“Michael, look.” Frustration was creeping into Gemma's voice. “The woman cares about you. If she didn't, she wouldn't have gotten jealous.” Gemma hopped down off her stool to change the music she was playing. The keening sound of bagpipes now filled the store. “Just tell her the truth, Mikey.”

“Can we see what the cards say?” he asked shyly.

Gemma clucked her tongue affectionately. “You're unbelievable, you know that?”

“Not unbelievable enough. We lost.”

“I told Anthony you would months ago,” Gemma replied. “I had a dream about it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Michael was skeptical. If his dreams ever came true, he'd be married to Sela Ward
and
Melina Karakaredes at the same time and he'd be able to fly. “So why didn't you tell me? It would have saved me a lot of heartache.”

“It would have influenced your play,” Gemma said breezily, as she pulled her tarot cards out from under the counter and handed them to Michael. “By the way, tell Anthony he owes me fifty bucks.”

Michael's mouth fell open, insulted. “You bet against us?”

“Just shuffle the cards and concentrate on a question.”

Michael peered down at the worn cards in the palm of his hand, thinking hard.
Will Theresa forgive me for lying to her and take me back?
He repeated the question aloud, then shuffled the deck seven times, since July was his birth month. Quelling anticipation, he turned over the top card. It was a picture of six guys holding swords, and it was upside down. His eyes darted to Gemma. She looked vaguely green around the gills. Michael's shoulders sank.

“What?”

“Well, it's not great, but it's not totally horrible,” she began.

“Just tell me.”

“Six of swords reversed means—
can mean
—a stalemate. It means there won't be an immediate solution to present problems.”

“Great.” Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. The incense smell in the shop, his own plummeting mood and the wailing of the bagpipes were all making him feel on the verge of a headache.

“Let's try again,” Gemma urged, handing him the deck.

Too tense now to dream up a new question, Michael posed the same one. This time the card he turned over was one of two figures beneath a blazing hot sun. It, too, was reversed.

“Hmmm.” Gemma sounded uneasy.

“Let me guess. I'm going to walk out of here and get hit by a garbage truck.”

“Not quite,” said Gemma, studying the card. “But it does indicate a clouded future.” She lifted her eyes to her cousin's. “Loneliness.”

“Great,” Michael repeated dully. “I'm glad I came here today. You've really lifted my spirits.”

“Hey, you're the one who wanted to read the cards.” Gathering them up, she slipped them back into their purple velvet bag and returned them to the space beneath the counter. “You're just having a bad day, giving off negative energy that's affecting the reading. That's all.”